summary: players are gonna play, and you donât want to be tied down, even if a handsome footballer is constantly blowing up your phone.
warnings: yn is not exactly likeable and does things she shouldnât. sheâs also a liar. so not everything she says sheâs done is true. she just wants controversy to push people away. also jude is kinda pathetic in this. yum.
authorâs note: i wanted a break from the pinkiverse and anon sent in an ask that inspired me!
liked by messybitch1, messybitch2 and 256,829 others
ham1ltonshaderoom: yn yln spotted leaving the home of actor timotheĂŠ chalamet amongst split rumours with socialite kylie jenner. do you believe that she was there for what she claims was to âsupport a friendâ? thoughts?
video linked in bio đ
view all comments
yourusername: posting this after i smiled at you. BITCH!
-> user1: girl why were you there. i canât defend you
-> yourusername: fucking him đ¤ˇđ˝ââď¸
user2: yn yln you are a danger to public relations teams everywhere
user3: kylie girl donât open instagram today
-> user4: this bitch said she was providing emotional support. horizontally. đđđ
user5: i hate girls like this!! what happened to girl code??
â yourusername: so i canât even be nice to people anymore? damn.
user6: SHEâS INNOCENT FREE HER
-> user7: like even if she DID fuck him, heâs apparently single. so who cares?!
user8: ynâs publicist is somewhere chain smoking rn
user9: yn yln dating rumours always come with flash photography and zero shame
user10: she really collects actors like infinity stones
user11: STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN!!!
-> user12: just saw him⌠youâll be aight xx
user13: she moves like sheâs allergic to being alone
user14: she acts single because nobody claims her longer than a press cycle
user15: yâall mean asf because youâre all jealous
liked by damn, everyonemessyasf, and 982,681 others
ham1ltonshaderoom: footballâs golden boy jude bellingham the latest victim of playgirl yn yln? đ
the actress was spotted getting very comfortable with a mystery man that fans are convinced is jude, just days after he was caught liking her instagram post captioned âfeels so good doinâ me đśâ
yn, who has been linked to more fine men than a gq cover shoot, has not confirmed or denied anything â which usually means sheâs about to tell us they were âjust talkingâ and technically, technically, sheâs single.
thoughts on this potential power couple ham1ltons?
view all comments
user1: one thing abt yn yln is she gon keep a hot man at her side
user2: her pussy got black magic or something?!
-> user3: like let us in on the secret!!!!!!!!!
user4: iâm sorry but this is a gorgeous couple. annoyingly gorgeous.
user5: yâall calling him a victim like he didnât walk there with his own legs. he knows who she is!!!
user6: this blurry ass picture is not proof of anything but i believe it with my whole chest
user7: sheâs a whore!!!! a bad role model for women everywhere!!!!
-> user8: man on her arm, no man on your armâŚ.
user9: sheâs so unserious because you know if asked sheâll say âwe were discussing footballâ
-> user10: horizontally
user11: yn yln has dated, allegedly dated, or spiritually damaged every man iâve ever fancied
-> user12: CRUSH ON ME NEXT ME NEXT PLEASE
user13: i hate girls like this but also i would be girls like this if i could
user14: if i was jude and yn hugged me like that iâd post walking too. iâd post running. iâd post hiking.
user15: sheâs hideous!! idk what they all see in her
-> user16: me when i lie
user17: yn ylnâs only consistent role is being seen with somebodyâs man
user18: she dates like sheâs trying to make a spotify wrapped
user19: she wants people to talk so bad and then acts confused when they do
-> user20: and ur talking⌠đ
yourusername: this is ai.
-> ham1ltonshaderoom: there is video footage from different angles
or: max verstappen meets a sim racer and they figure out they fit well together quite quickly
featuring: max verstappen x f!simracer!reader
content warnings: nothing bad really?? this exists in a nonexistent time period that references real life events but by no means is actually accurate to them so enjoy that
authorâs note: ty to the anon for sending this in :) and thank you to all of the other anons as well, i promise i have seen them and will be doing the best i can to fulfill some of them!!! i have not forgotten!
[simyn posted a photo!]
liked by jastookes, simynracing, ynupdates, simucube, and others
simyn nobody here knows im simyn
[comments]
jastookes: missing your pretty face đĽ°
⤡simyn: i miss you more </3
⤡user2: see yn being besties with jasmine tookes tells me that sheâs literally model-pretty, we will just never know
⤡user61: she eats without showing her face i donât think we could handle a face reveal
ynupdates: yn when is the next raceeee
⤡simyn: thursday, 3pm CET (sorry for all of my americans, iâm overseas the next few weeks!)
simucube: We canât wait for the next race! liked by author
user21: simyn x max verstappen sim race WHEN
⤡user9: didnât know i needed this crossover until now omg
⤡user10: i think maxâs team is racing in the same race as yn on thursday!!! thatâs what they posted on their instagram
⤡user21: OMGGGGG
[secretyn posted a photo!]
liked by jastookes, alexandramalenaleclerc, rebeccadonaldson, lando, and others
secretyn having lots of fun traveling and iâm being soooo normal about racing max verstappenâs team tonight
[comments]
jastookes: youâre so normal babe donât even worry
lando: wow the two biggest racing nerds i know are finally racing each other
⤡secretyn: maybe weâll bond over beating your ass so many times
⤡lando: ur literally so mean to me
alexandramalenaleclerc: youâre gonna kill it! liked by author
[simyn posted to their story!]
[simyn posted a photo!]
liked by ynupdates, lando, verstappensimracing, jastookes, and others
simyn P1 đ
a valiant effort from everyone else that participated in tonightâs race, you certainly didnât make it easy on me đ
tagged: simcube, verstappensimracing
[comments]
verstappensimracing: Amazing race, YN!!!!! The whole team had a blast! đĽ liked by author
⤡simyn: it was so much fun racing all of the guys! maybe next time iâll give you a head start đ
⤡verstappensimracing: Dani says a five second head start will make it even!
⤡simyn: i might have to negotiate that number with my teamâŚ
⤡dani_juncadella: 10 seconds works as well. Maybe even a pit lane start for you? Just to give us a fighting chance
⤡simyn: has anyone ever told you youâre bad at negotiating, dani?
⤡lukecraneofficial: Yes, daily
maxverstappen1: You absolutely killed it tonight, great job! liked by author
⤡simyn: thanks max!!! i had so much fun racing you and the team! liked by maxverstappen1
[maxverstappen1 started following simyn]
[simyn started following maxverstappen1]
[redbullracing sent you a message!]
redbullracing: Hi, YN! We were wondering if youâd like to come out to Austria for the race next week? Weâd love to give you the full experience again, and obviously we wonât film or post any content without your permission but weâd love to get some interactions between you and the drivers. We hope you can join us as weâd love to have you in the paddock again, itâs always a pleasure to see you!
simyn: I would absolutely love to come back! I always have a wonderful time with you guys, especially on your home turf. If you want to send details to my team, Iâll share the contact info in a separate message. You should be able to sort out all of the content details with them and then we can all go over it together in person as well. Thank you so much!! đ
simyn: shared a contact with you
[simyn posted a photo!]
liked by redbullracing, jastookes, maxverstappen1, and others
simyn đ đŞ˝
thank you to redbull for inviting me out to the ring again, i had an absolute blast 𼰠and thank you to max for being a wonderful tour guide on and off the track đŤśđŤśđŤś
redbullring: The ring has never looked so good! Thanks for coming out this week, YN âşď¸ liked by author
redbullracing: On a scale of 1-5 how was your tour guide? Heâs new to the position and has a lot of room to improve
⤡simyn: 5/5 stars đ! But just checking, do the tour guides typically let the guests drive the cars too? I thought hot lap guests were passengers only.
⤡redbullracing: The new tour guide has been released from his position in light of recent developmentsâŚ
⤡maxverstappen1: Did I just get fired??
⤡maxverstappen1: snitch simyn
⤡simyn: maybe itâs best you were fired if youâre calling your guests names đ¤¨
⤡redbullracing: can someone call HR and Legal please
user31: Everybody Shut Up Now. This Is All Iâm Gonna Talk About For The Next Week.
user20: max got his ass kicked by yn in one race and said omgggg what if we kissed đđźđđź
⤡user4: she was invited by redbull not max
⤡user20: okay and? i guarantee redbull wants to kiss her too
user92: okay but the plane pics are kinda sexy all womenâs top gun remake starring yn when
⤡user3: sheâs not flying the plane sheâs literally getting in and out of it
⤡simyn: i do fly this plane :)! i got my pilotâs license when i was 19 and this is a 6 seater beechcraft baron that i often rent from a private hangar near me
⤡user92: SO THE TOP GUN REMAKE IS HAPPENING WHEN
⤡simyn: tom cruise hit me up!!!!
user11: sorry but does anyone want to know what she means by max being a tour guide on and off the track⌠what were they doing off the track
⤡user6: i think she just means literally lol. they did hot laps at the track and she also was in a promo shot on the redbull ringâs page at the actual factory building so iâm sure they filmed content there too
⤡user26: they explored each otherâs bodies
⤡user79: two types of people here
[secretyn started following maxverstappen1]
[maxverstappen1 started following secretyn]
[secretyn posted a photo!]
liked by maxverstappen1, jastookes, lando, and others
secretyn the theme is international date night
[comments]
maxverstappen1: you told me you were on your sim and couldnât text back but you posted this ???
⤡secretyn: maybe iâm just that good at driving
⤡maxverstappen1: đ¤¨
⤡secretyn: maybe i dnfâd in the first 5 laps because i got distracted on instagram
⤡maxverstappen1: thatâs what i thought
lando: AND NO ONE WAS GONNA TELL ME ABOUT THIS???????
lando: IM LITERALLY U GUYSâS BEST FRIEND AND I GET THE SAME HARD LAUNCH AS EVERYONE ELSE LIKE SOME PEASANT???
⤡maxverstappen1: best friend is a stretch
⤡lando: iâll kill everyone in this house
⤡secretyn: lando omfg
⤡maxverstappen1: did you want us to ask permission. should i have asked for her hand
⤡lando: make all the jokes you want but i know where both of you live and i can hold a grudge for a LONG time
⤡jastookes: breaking news lando norris arrested on counts of stalking and conspiracy to murder
⤡lando: at least i know iâd look good in an orange jumpsuit
[simyn posted a photo!]
liked by jastookes, ynupdates, maxverstappen1, and others
simyn new studies show young woman evolved into car due to lack of other hobbies or skills, scientists baffled at her ability to still dress decently
[comments]
jastookes: what do the studies say about the young woman going out with her friends
⤡simyn: while it will temporarily improve quality of life, the car evolution is inevitable and terminal
⤡simyn: studies also suggest that it would greatly improve her longevity if her friends paid for her drinksâŚ
⤡maxverstappen1: what scientist is doing this study
⤡simyn: literally mind your business
user84: i donât know who i need to sacrifice to witness max and ynâs daily interactions but if theyâre this ridiculous on social media then i know theyâre insufferable irl
⤡jastookes: Youâd be right!
⤡simyn: blocked
user31: Address MeâŚ
⤡simyn: ?
⤡user31: thereâs a verstappen shaped elephant in the room i fear
⤡simyn: iâve never met him or really interacted with him before but i hear heâs a really big fan of mine so thatâs super sweet!!! đ hope he gets his chance in the sim racing spotlight soon! #supportsmallcreators
⤡maxverstappen1: on my couch with my cat saying this
⤡simyn: i need him to talk about this on the jeremy renner app so that the whole world knows formula 1 driver max verstappen is a stalker
⤡maxverstappen1: WHY WOULD YOU TAG ACTUAL GOVERNMENT ACCOUNTS
⤡simyn: #yolo
user62: girl there's literally a picture of him in this post
⤡simyn: no that's franz hermann
user11: idk how iâm supposed to just admire her pictures when sheâs actively engaging in foreplay with max verstappen in these comments
⤡user80: we're also supposed to be ignoring the fact that she posted a picture of him not at an f1 race or a sponsor event but in his nßrburgring suit .
⤡user10: rue when was this
⤡user95: DID EVERYONE MISS THE FACT THAT SHE'S LITERALLY IN MAX'S HOME RIGHT NOW OR WHAT
user40: there's no soft launching this relationship i fear, you had max flexing on twitter he's cooked
[maxverstappen1 posted a photo!]
liked by simyn, redbullracing, jastookes, lando, verstappensimracing, and others
maxverstappen1 Pretty exciting weekend
tagged: verstappencom, simyn
[comments]
verstappencom: Never a dull moment! liked by author
lando: text me back rn
⤡maxverstappen1: ? I donât know you
⤡lando: ENOUGH
user29: he tryna ignore it
user7: IT REALLY WAS YN OMFG I DIDNT BELIEVE TWITTER
user47: IS EVERYTHING A JOKE TO YOU PEOPLE THIS IS LIKE 15 9/11s
⤡user5: itâs like 200 9/11s honestly
simyn: Next year Iâm joining the team for NĂźrburgring! liked by author & verstappencom
⤡lando: TEXT ME BACK
⤡simyn: oh no thank you đ
⤡lando: iâm gonna crash out
⤡jastookes: iâm on landoâs side this time iâm gonna kill you both
⤡simyn: đđťââď¸
lukecraneofficial: This couldâve been an email
⤡dani_juncadella: This shouldâve been an HR meeting
⤡verstappensimracing: the HR department is on fire
⤡maxverstappen1: all of you are fired how about that
⤡lukecraneofficial: thank GOD đđť
⤡user82: when they sit down in 10 years to do the âworking for verstappen industries: a modern day horror storyâ documentary
⤡dani_juncadella: When we lose, Max beats us with a crowbar
⤡chrislulham20: Max holds a gun to my head when Iâm in the sim because he says I need to feel the pressure of the race
⤡simyn: after i beat him in our first race together he messaged me and told me to kms
⤡maxverstappen1: fuck all of you
⤡verstappensimracing: HR quit
user21: the plot was lost so horribly in these comments i canât process anything
[simyn posted a photo!]
liked by maxverstappen1, jastookes, lando, verstappensimracing, lukecraneofficial, and others
summary: taking on the legal work for the bear was supposed to be temporary. falling for the chef who keeps feeding you definitely wasn't part of the contract.
warnings: 18+, mdni, strangers to co-workers to lovers, reader is smaller/short than carmen, reader has hair long enough for a ponytail and claw clip, carmen is so soft and doesn't know what to do with himself half the time, obvious richie favoritism (fav character sue me), reader CANNOT cook (lol me fr), no use of y/n
word count: 11.8k (dear lord)
a/n: trying out something new! i've been looking to branch out from topgun fics, so im dipping my toe in by writing for carmy! loved this show since the first season! also, this is so self-indulgent as a bad cook and polisci student lol! hope you all enjoy!
masterlist
On Saturdays, you stayed in your apartment. Especially this time of year, when the leaves start to change color, and the wind picks up and bites just a bit harsher. But today, you venture from your apartment, your sanctuary, your recharge from forms and requests, to instead visit a restaurant on the north side of Chicago.
You weren't quite sure what to expect. Pete had come to your office late yesterday afternoon, asking if you could do him a favor. You had agreed, thinking it had to do something with the latest case you were working on or the new client that dropped by. What you didn't expect was for him to show you the mountains of manila folders with only one word etched on the front of them, Bear.
Ever since moving to Chicago, Pete had been a mentor of sorts. At first, it was firm assigned. He always had his door open when you had questions about the workings of the company or the complexities of a case. You found yourself sending him about 15 emails a day, and they were always followed up with a smiley face emoji and way too many exclamation points for a grown man to use.
But beyond that, he had welcomed you into his home and made an effort to really welcome you to Chicago. After mentioning to him one day during lunch that you still hadn't been able to cook something for yourself, despite being in the city for three weeks already, he had insisted that you join him and his wife for dinner that weekend.
You had shown up with a bottle of wine and were met with a round stomach. Nevertheless, Natalie had laughed and hugged you tightly as you apologized profusely for the bad gift choice.
"I wouldn't ask if I knew you couldn't handle it. It's just that Natalie's about to pop, and I need to devote my energy towards caring for her," he explained as you sifted through the miscellaneous documents.
So now, you stood outside the establishment, double-checking the address, then triple-checking, before opening the door.
"I swear to everything holy, Cousin! Hold the fucking table straight!"
"I am, jagoff! Fix your fucking eyes!"
"Dumbass, it's crooked! Look!"
"It's not! Your fucking head is crooked, screwed it on the wrong way this morning."
"Oh, fuck you!"
"Fuck you!"
Just as you were about to sneak back out the way you came, you saw Natalie's familiar face.
"Idiots! You're gonna scare her off."
Both men whip around to face you. You held out a hand and waved, sending them both a small smile.
The older man grins back at you, "Oh shit, sweetheart, didn't even hear you. Quiet as a mouse coming in."
The younger one just scoffs at the older man, but his eyes don't leave your form. You feel your tummy jump as his electric blue eyes drag over your body and land on your face. You think he might say something. But as Natalie comes to gather you in her arms, he doesn't say a word.
The older man's gaze flickers over to the younger one, and it seems like the smile on his face widens tenfold, from what you can't quite put your finger on yet.
"Richard Jerimovich, but everyone just calls me Richie," he tells you, sticking out a hand. His grip is surprisingly gentle and firm, all in the same breath. Still, you give him a small smile and offer your name.
Expectantly, you look towards the curly-haired brunette, but he just looks at you blankly.
As Richie barks out a laugh, again, at something you don't quite know, but Natalie cuts in swiftly.
"I gave everyone a brief introduction as to who you are and what you'll be helping with, so no need for niceties just yet. I want to show you the belly of the beast," she tells you as you just nod and let her guide you through the mess of a restaurant.
As she pushes open the swinging doors to the back of the building, you swear you catch the two men going at it again.
"Holy fuck!"
"Shut the fuck up, Cousin."
"Holy fuck! Are you a fucking teenage boy, Bear?"
"Shut up!"
"Got something staining on the front of your pants, y'know."
But a huff from Natalie brings you back into reality. With a creak, the door to a back office opens up, and you almost gasp at the condition of the place.
"I know, but everything has its place. Mikey had his system, and we all work around it," she says, almost sensing the anxious thoughts circling your head.
After hearing her reasoning, though, your heart pulls, and you hum. Pete had told you about his passing. It wasn't exactly office talk, but he said he needed to give you a crash course before today. Michael was the first thing he told you about.
Pulling out a chair, she beckons you to sit. Once you do, she plops a stack of papers in your lap.
"Petey is working on I.R.95 forms for The Bear now, and told me he's almost finished. But we need to have these," she says, finger coming down to point at the title of the paper, "I.R. 114 forms done by the end of next week."
You nod, he had told you most of this already, and you had made a color-coded list of what to tackle with corresponding due date, but you sat and let her explain it to you a second time.
"And the city keeps giving us the run around with these," Natalie continues, placing another stack of paper in your lap. The chair squeaks under the weight.
You thumb through the pages, mostly to confirm what you're looking at, but the action makes the woman across from you twitch.
"I know it's a lot," she says, almost like she's sorry for you, like you hadn't already agreed.
"No, it's okay, Natalie," you say, trying to ease some stress. Still, her shoulders almost reach her ears as you read along the pages of documents.
After giving you a few minutes, she moves. Getting up from her seat, Natalie's hand braces on the wall, stomach sticking out like a reminder. "I'll go get Carmen and Richie. They said they wanted to be here when we talked about hours."
With that, she leaves you in the office. It's quiet once she shuts the door, but you can feel the buzz of the building regardless. The kind of place with an energy that tells others it never sleeps.
Looking around, you see bits and pieces of the Berzatto's life. Mismatched pens in a glass cup. Thumb-tacked pictures hang from shelves. Colorful sticky notes cover one wall while the other is completely bare. It's scatterbrained, but still makes you smile.
Carmen must be the younger man from when you came in earlier. He looked a bit like Natalie, you think. Has the same rosy cheeks and pink lips. But just as soon as the thought of his soft-looking lips arrives, you push it away. The swing of the door aids this.
Sure enough, the young man and Richie come in tow with Natalie. Richie braces against the lip of the desk while Carmen leans up against the doorway so as not to crowd you in the small office. When you look at him, he's already watching you. Your eyes dart back towards your lap, pretending to read over the documents once more.
"We can't afford more than 3 hours a week. Pete told me your rate, but I just want to make sure that $500 an hour is still okay?" she asks you, handing you another document, this time with a pen for a signature.
"And we want to say thank you," Richie says, a genuine smile on his face.
You look between the family in front of you and then back at the loose contract, brows pitched in focus at the words.
"Did Pete not tell you?" you question, voice small, this time looking solely at Natalie.
"Did you up your rate? Oh, God. I guess we did have that conversation a few weeks ago. I shouldn't have assumed, I'm sorry," she apologizes, already grabbing the form out of your hand as you just look at her open-mouthed.
"No, no, Natalie. I told him I'd work pro bono. And I thought we could set a base of ten hours a week? I mean, sometimes I might get busier, but I can make up for it later. As long as that's okay for you guys?"
The office is silent for a minute. You worry that you overstepped, suggesting more hours than they came to you with.
"You're serious?" This time it's Carmy who speaks.
You just nod, not able to find the words as you look at him.
"You're an angel. Like an actual angel sent down from heaven," Natalie breathes out as you laugh a bit at her dramatics. "But, sweetheart, I can't take advantage of you like that."
"No, I want to. You and Pete have been so welcoming to me. Please let me do this for you guys," you tell her.
"You're sure?" she asks hesitantly, but you can see the small smile on her face at the thought.
You smile and hum, happy to take something off her and Pete's plate as they get ready for their daughter's birth.
"I fucking love this girl!" Richie whoops, hands clapping together as Natalie laughs at his antics.
"Thank you," Carmen follows. If you hadn't already been looking at him, you would've missed it. But instead, you just smile at him, your eyes unable to maintain contact for long.
ŕŞââ´
Your Saturday mornings were now spent at The Bear. After settling the most urgent concerns and going over some brief paperwork questions you had, the four of you landed on Saturday mornings being the day you came into the office to work. It was only a few hours; the rest of your work would be done throughout the week, but still, it was nice to run things by the family before moving forward.
It was early, but Natalie assured you that Carmen was going to be here to help you get settled. Balancing your keys, phone, and drink carrier, you pushed open the back door of the restaurant.
Sure enough, the kitchen was quiet, no clanging of tools heard at this hour, only the typing of keys and thwacking of stacks of paper being shuffled around.
"Hi, Carmen," you say quietly while standing at the outskirts of the office. Immediately, he rises to his feet, chair kicking out behind him.
"Hey, hi. Good morning," he replies, going to help you with your bag and the drinks in your hand.
"Oh, thanks." You smile at him as he just nods.
As you sit, you slide a coffee his way. When he gives you an inquisitive look, you laugh a bit.
"Natalie says you never sleep, figured you might want one. It's from my favorite cafe in the city," you explain, fiddling with your fingers. When he just stares at you, like he did last week, you continue, "Honey Lavender, it's supposed to be relaxing."
"Honey lavender," he repeats, turning the cup in his hands like he's trying to figure out if you've handed him coffee or perfume.
"It tastes better than it sounds," you defend with a laugh. "Promise."
He peels back the lid carefully, steam curling up into his face. You can smell the mix of coffee and sweetness from across from him.
You watch him as he dips into the drink to take his first sip, eyes tracking his lips as they wrap around the white rim of the cup and then to his throat as he swallows.
"It's good," he affirms, but still sounds surprised by what he's saying.
Your shoulders immediately relax.
"It'sâŚsweet."
"It is," you reply, laughing a bit at the observation.
"I don't usually drink sweet coffee."
"I know."
His eyebrows lift at this. "You know?"
"You look like someone who drinks coffee just for the caffeine."
He stares at you another second before rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
"You really are a lawyer, huh?"
You laugh loud enough that it echoes around the empty kitchen.
For a split second, he just watches you.
It's a nice laugh, he thinks. Easy and light. The kind that fills a room instead of demanding attention from it. Carmen realizes he's staring when you clear your throat.
"SoâŚ" you gesture toward the mountain of folders. "Forms?"
He exhales dramatically. "Forms."
Opening the first folder, you immediately organize the papers into neat little stacks. Within minutes, sticky notes begin appearing everywhere. He watches as you pull stack after stack from your bag, almost like a never-ending clown scarf.
"You color-code everything?" he asks, hands rubbing the waxy paper of the cup as he watches you.
"Hm?" You look up at him briefly, hands thumbing different documents at lightning speed.
"The sticky notes."
"Oh." You glance down like you hadn't even realized you were doing it.
"You remember what every color means?" he asks, eyes dancing around the desk as he takes everything in.
"Blue is city permits."
He nods. "Yellow?"
"Insurance."
"Green?" he tests, smile now creeping up on his face.
"Anything Pete forgot to tell me," you tell him, bringing up the thin stack of sticky notes, laughing. "He forgets a lot."
"He really does," Carmen chuckles as you smile at him once more.
You continue like this for a while more, silence falling over you both again. But it isn't awkward. If anything it's comfortable, different.
Carmen watches as you bend over a packet of licensing paperwork, lips moving ever so slightly while you read. The gloss is still there, but slightly smudged. He can see the remnants on your coffee cup, the plum color intrigues him more than it should.
He notices you tuck your hair behind your ear every few minutes. It keeps falling out of the pearly-looking claw clip that's holding your hair in its place. He thinks it's the same one you sported last week.
You chew the inside of your cheek whenever something doesn't make sense. The way your brows fold over on themselves and you huff a bit is one of the cutest things Carmen has ever seen.
You scribble tiny stars next to things you need to revisit. Along with green stick notes. Every time you place one down, he laughs a bit to himself.
He doesn't know why he notices any of it. He just does. It's like he can't tear his eyes away from you. Your fingers, your lips, your hair.
"You've got nice handwriting." The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.
You look up, almost like you don't believe him. "Thanks."
He immediately regrets speaking, Richie was right, he was acting like a teenager. "I just meanâ"
"No," you smile, hands waving away his explanation. "I've justâŚnever been complimented on my handwriting before."
"It's organized," he offers and you laugh again. Carmen wants to make you laugh over and over again.
"My professors used to call it aggressive."
"Aggressive handwriting?" he raises his brows and you nod.
"I press too hard."
When he glances down at the paper, sure enough, the words look as if they are bound to the page. Every letter looks deliberate. Like it belongs exactly where it is. It's nothing like the scribbles in his notebook or the reminders he leaves himself.
"Professors? From law school?"
You hum without looking up. "NYU. Good program, good professors, just a little judgy."
That gets his attention. New York. "You move here recently?"
You spit out your grad date and shrug absentmindedly.
He nods slowly. "I, uh, lived in New York, too. Around the same time actually."
At this, you stop working, hands pausing and furrow on your brow disappearing as you look at the man. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"What part?"
"Manhattan."
Your eyes widen. "No way."
"What?" he asks, smile on his face, like he can't wait to find out what you're going to say next.
"I lived in Midtown," you explain, hands now fully dropping the documents and coming to tuck your hair behind both of your ears again.
Carmen watches your movements, mirroring you as he places the now empty coffee cup down on the table. "I was living downtown."
You both sit there for a second, letting the information brew.
"So we probably crossed paths."
"Probably," he hums.
"Same city."
"Same months."
"And we both ended up in Chicago. How funny," you say, scrunching your nose a bit, a movement that Carmen files away immediately.
"That is kind of funny." That's all he says for the moment, but he can feel himself twitch as memories start coursing back.
The memories of New York always felt too loud. Too many people counting on him, too many waiting for him to fail. Not enough time to really perfect his craft, not enough time to settle into the way of the city. Never enough patience for those around him, patience wasn't something Carmen even knew for himself.
The feeling of Chicago, his home, was so unfamiliar and new in this light. The new challenges every week at The Bear keep him on his toes. Remnants of Mikey around every corner. New people in his life he never would've reached for.
But somehow that stream of conciousness pauses as you sit across from him. Something inside him calms as you go back to flicking through the forms, pressing your pen too hard against the paper, and sticky noting everything within sight.
He notices you've been working for almost three hours without touching anything besides coffee. Carmen wonders if it's a habit. Something built into you from long hours studying for law school or just a quirk you picked up recently.
Without saying a word, he disappears into the kitchen.
You barely notice he's left your side, too entrenched in the mountains of questions you now have for Pete and Carmen, until the smell reaches you.
Butter.
Pepper.
Something warm and familiar.
Carmen is carrying two plates as he enters your space again.
"What's this?" you ask, perking up to look at what he's prepared.
"Breakfast."
"Oh. Carmen, you didn't have toâ"
He waves you off, placing the food in front of you. "You forgot to eat."
You blink. First looking at him and then the food.
"You've been here since seven."
You look down at your watch and sure enough it's almost ten. "Oh gosh, I didn't even notice."
"I know." He hands you a fork and gestures for you to dig in.
The omelet looks impossibly soft, folded around herbs and cheeses you're sure you can't pronounce. The smell is unlike anything you've been around in months, take-out and frozen meals that would surely earn you a scolding if the chef next to you knew.
Oh, and the taste. The taste.
When you go to take the first bite, you eyes shut. The flavors hit you almost instantaneously, some a bit subtle and some punching forward.
"Oh."
He studies your reaction, food on his plate untouched. "Good?"
You laugh quietly as you nod, chewing and swallowing so you can talk to Carmen. "I don't think I can ever eat my own cooking again."
Something in his chest loosens at this. You've settled into the seat now, spine not as rigidly straight and shoulder dropping. Carmen notices it all.
Good, he thinks. He wonders if you'd like a Croque Madame or Eggs Benedict next week.
ŕŞââ´
Carmen is sitting in the office skimming over some notes you left. Mostly it's just arrows asking for his signature, the occasional exclamation point or question mark. But still, he finds himself rubbing a thumb over the lettering, lingering on pages a little too long.
"No, we submitted those," Natalie says from his side.
He perks up a bit at this, turning to face her with a puzzled look on his face as she just shrugs and listens to the voice on the other end of the call.
Quickly, she grabs a legal pad, one that you had left in the office "just in case". Hands scramble for a pen, and she begins writing furiously.
Now Carmen drops the forms he was looking at and focuses solely on her.
What the fuck? He mouths at his sister as she shoots him a glare.
"Can you tell me what section again?" Natalie asks as Carmen's anxiety begins to heighten.
She hums at another thing the voice says and immediately drops the pen. Her hand flies towards her forehead, smacking it before it makes its way down the side of her jaw.
Carmen stands now, bending down to look at his sister closer and try to catch what the man on the phone is saying.
"Okay. Yes, I understand," she finalizes, lowering the phone and dropping it back into the receiver.
"What? What was that?" Carmen twitches. When she gives him a pitiful look, his heart sinks.
"They're saying the occupancy amendment wasn't attached."
"The fuck does that mean?" he asks, a permanent scowl now on his face.
"I don't know, I don't know. But it's not good," she replies, hands coming to slam down on the desk as she pushes her chair back and away from the desk.
The ruckus gets the attention of Richie and Neil, both of them popping their heads into the small space.
"Whoa, what's going on?" Richie laughs out.
"Fucking occupancy amendment! Fuck!" Natalie groans as the three men share a worried look.
"What's that mean? Is it bad?" Neil questions innocently as Natalie just nods.
"The guy, he said it could affect the opening. Says that the paperwork we submitted last week is invalid. We'll have to get another inspection." Her head is now in her hands, fingers digging in the blonde locks.
"What? The inspection place schedules 2 months out," Carmen barks out, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
"Sugar is Bear being for real? 2 months?" Richie asks, amusement gone from his face now.
"At minimum. Maybe 4 months," she replies, head still dropped.
"4 months?" Carmen almost yells, voice booming in the small office.
"And he said it invalidates our liquor license," she drops on them, sending another wave of panic through the men.
"No fucking alcohol?" Again, Carmen urges as he looks at his sister.
"No alcohol," she repeats.
"No one's going to want to eat with no wine," Neil observes out loud as everyone deadpans at him.
"No shit. Holy fuck, we're screwed. Uncle's gonna fucking kill me." Carmen chokes out, hand coming to brace on his chest.
The four of them sit in silence for a minute. Then another. It feels like this is the end. The end of the dream. The end of this place. The end of whatever Mikey might've wanted or hoped for.
"Call her," Carmen finally speaks. He doesn't even say your name, but Natalie's already searching for your contact in her phone.
When you don't pick up the first time, Carmen sighs. The next time, he bites his lip hard. The fifth time, he almost cries.
"She's probably with a client," Natalie offers, but it does nothing to stop the energy they all seem to be sharing.
"It's only three," Richie says and it feels like a bomb goes off in the office.
"Try again," Carmen urges.
"What if she's in court?" Neil argues back.
"Fuck," Carmen yells out, pushing his hands into his eyes.
"It's two fucking hours. We can do two hours."
Around 30 minutes into their waiting game, people start to filter into The Bear for the weekly dinner.
It only takes Sydney asking why Neil looks like he's about to cry to push Natalie into an over-detailed and overly dramatic rant about the douche bag she talked to on the phone.
Around the 50-minute mark, Richie is hunched over the laptop in the office. Carmen at his side, reading over his shoulder.
"What the fuck is estoppel?"
Nobody answers.
He keeps reading, hoping that something will jump out and spark some recognition. "Pursuant?"
Again, the kitchen is silent.
"Who writes like this?" he huffs, hands coming out to flip off the laptop.
"Lawyers," Carmen responds dryly. "I hate lawyers."
Sydney laughs at this. "I don't."
Richie squints over at her. "You don't know any lawyers."
She just raises her brows, giving the men a knowing stare.
Carmen nods, not quite willing to give in to what she's implying just yet. Still, he grumbles, "I like one lawyer."
ŕŞââ´
The sound of clicking gets Carmen's attention.
"Hi," you say, rounding the corner, meeting everyone as they all work on their latest creation.
Like Natalie said, you look like you were coming straight from the office. Something about it has Carmen taking a deep breath.
On Saturdays, you came into The Bear wearing beat-up sneakers, jeans, and old sweaters. It wasn't like you weren't putting effort into what you wore or how you looked, but Carmen could tell you opted to be in comfier attire when you worked here.
Now, you were standing in front of him, charcoal pencil skirt, white button-down blouse, and black heels. Your hair was pulled away from your face in a tight ponytail, something that was also different from Saturdays when you let it fall freely from your claw clip.
You looked like a lawyer.
"Sorry, we just finished up at court, or else I would've gotten here earlier," you apologize.
Natalie moves to hug you, and you let out an 'umph' as she does so. "Thank God."
"I got six missed calls," you laugh as she just squeezes you tighter. Your eyes meet Carmen's, and you share a look that would normally make him smile, but he can't right now. His eyes are still trained on you. The slightly worn look of your lipstick and the softness of your exposed legs making him freeze.
"Sorry," she says, finally letting you go.
"No, no, what's wrong?" you say, smiling still.
As Natalie starts explaining, occasionally looking to Carmen, he can't bring himself to move.
Richie notices and leans over. "You okay there, Cousin?"
The men share a look. Richie's is considerably lighter. Brows dancing and grin spreading across his face. Carmen is noticeably pissed. Eyes intense, and lips pursed.
"Did you forget how blinking works?"
Carmen glares harder, if it's even possible.
Richie grins wider, if it's even possible.
"Having a little wetâ"
"Shut the fuck up." Carmen snaps, hand coming to slap Richie on the chest, but the action just makes the man laugh.
You and Natalie move to the office, both going back and forth about what the man said exactly to her earlier on the phone.
Carmen follows, hot on your heels.
Soon, though, you're settled in the office, and Natalie is dialing the number. Just as he thinks you're about to put it up to your ear, you press a button, a green light illuminating on the old phone, now on speakerphone.
Carmen's never heard you like this. Usually, your voice is dipped in honey, never sharp and tactful like it is now. Even when you introduce yourself, the words are like spitfire from your tongue.
He feels Richie's elbow nudge him and fights the urge to roll his eyes at the attention.
First, you talk with the man about the missing forms.
"It was submitted on September fourteenth," you say definitively.
"We have no record of that submission, ma'am," the man spits back, like it's a game. You smile at that.
"I have confirmation."
The line is silent for a bit before you continue.
"Would you like the confirmation number?" you ask, sickly sweet.
After the man confirms that he has the form, he continues, "This still complicates things with you alochol permit. We won't be able to issue you the permit until a month after asked date. It's a city ordinance."
"Could you point me toward the ordinance you're referring to?" you ask, like you already know the answer.
Clicking on the other line is heard, and you're scarily steady.
"Just takes a minute," the voice comes through.
"No, that's alright," you cut in immediately. "I'll wait."
By now, everyone has abandoned their stations and is camped outside the doorway. Carmen can't blame them.
"I actually can't seem toâ"
"Oh, that's okay. I have it here," you speak. "It should be page thirty-seven, second paragraph."
The line is quiet again. It's a minute too long for anyone's liking but you just sit and smile.
Again, you speak into the receiver. "I can read it if that's easier."
Carmen's brows shoot up at this. His hand comes up to cover his mouth, a smile forming.
Carmen's heard you laugh. You've been at The Bear enough Saturdays now that he knows how to get you to smile and double over from just his words.
He's heard you ramble about permits. He remembers the day he set down a T.G. 15 form in front of you, and you practically vibrated with excitement, telling him it was your favorite due to how the subsections and clauses were organized.
He's heard you apologize when you interrupt someone. Too many times, he's told you to stop saying sorry, especially around him. "You got nothing to be sorry about, sweet girl." You barely spoke a word to him for five minutes after that, blush raging on your face.
But he's never heard this.
Every sentence lands exactly where you intend it to. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No nervous laugh. No fiddling with your rings. You don't rush to fill the silence. Instead, you wait. Patient and knowing.
It's incredible.
"I understand," you follow as the man on the line recalls the information. "But, respectfully, that's not what subsection C says."
Richie and Neil high-five at this. Carmen shakes his head, doesn't hide his small smile.
"Yeah, bitch. Subsection C," Richie whispers, mic-dropping, making Sydney and Marcus laugh quietly.
"Yes, I'm looking at the municipal code right now." Your voice is steady. It's the first time Carmen looks at you and really fears being on the receiving end of a lecture from you. He's sure your curt words would be much more effective than his temper tantrums.
"Get his ass," Richie speaks lowly again.
"Ma'am, I just don't think you understand how this applies in this situation." The man on the phone sounds utterly miserable, but still determined to make everyone's life a living hell.
Carmen sees you straighten up at this, your jaw ticks once, and he sucks in a breath at the sight.
"Could you hold while I read it aloud? Just so we both understand how it applies here."
Everyone around the office just stares.
Richie mouths, holy shit, and Carmen just huffs and laughs, like he can't believe you.
"Read him the whole book," the man says, just a bit too loud this time, though, earning a glare from Natalie.
"Richie," Sydney whispers.
He shrugs, "I'm supporting Counsel."
Carmen almost laughs at that.
"My mistake, I'll get that filed right away for you. There shouldn't be any delays."
"Oh."
You pause and smile.
"Wonderful. So we're all set?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Thank you so much! Have a great day." You place the phone back in the receiver.
Carmen watches as your shoulders drop, and you smile at everyone. Not the fake smile you were giving the city guy, but a Saturday smile. The one he knows.
And the office space explodes.
"I knew it! Those dicks didn't fucking file shit right. Fuck yeah!" Richie yells out.
Sugar practically weeps, eyes closing and back finally sinking into the chair.
Sydney high-fives Marcus, both of them starting to recall moments of the conversation like a live play-by-play.
Carmen just looks at you. His entire nervous system has finally unclenched. Your eyes meet his, and you smile; this time he smiles back. "Thank you," he says simply.
"So⌠can you yell at my landlord?" Marcus asks, a smile on his face as he crosses his fingers.
You laugh at this, "I can't yell at everybody."
"You should, sweetheart. Fuck that was great." Richie pumps his fists in the air, earning another laugh from you.
"I got three parking tickets."
"Neil," Sydney scoffs, a smile on her face as she looks at the man.
"What? I'm just saying."
You look at Carmen again and just smile brightly, like you can't hide how you're feeling.
You begin to grab your phone off the desk and pluck your bag off the floor.
"Where are you going?" Natalie asks, her hand coming to still your movements.
"âŚHome?" you say, whispering like it's the wrong answer.
"It's family," Richie tells you, like it's obvious.
You blink. "What?"
"Dinner. Family dinner. You gotta stay," the man explains as you nod. "Right, cousin?"
"Yeah," Carmen breathes, not taking another second to think about what he's saying. "Stay, please,"
As you all move into the dining room, something shifts. Richie already has a chair pulled out for you, the one on Carmen's right-hand side. Marcus sets down your plate, tilting it just the right way for presentation. Tina slides silverware in front of you, undoing the napkin herself and helping you drape it across your lap. Ebra grabs you a soda, cracking open the seal for you.
They make room.
And somehow that realization makes something in Carmen's chest settle.
ŕŞââ´
You got the call early this morning about the first round of permits. Everything had been submitted perfectly, allowing you to move on to the next round of paperwork. It was a long time coming, with Pete being the one to start everything 3 months back.
Now you balanced a box of assorted pastries from Frost, a cafe Carmen had offhandedly mentioned last week, ready to share them and celebrate.
Gosh, Carmen was going to be so happy. He'd been so stressed recently. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed while cutting miscellaneous vegetables or how he stared down at the workshopped menu, face twisting and setting in a grimace. You wonder if he'll send you a smile when you break the news or say something in that sweet, soft voice again. You hope that he relaxes a bit after this, lets go of this piece of the puzzle.
Pushing open the backdoor, you bite your lip in excitement. But quickly, your face drops.
"Come on, Marcus!"
You freeze at Carmen's voice. His hands are raised and you can see a vein straining on the back of his neck.
"You have to taste it!" Carmen yells. He slides the dish across the workstation. It would've slammed and shattered onto the floor if Marcus hadn't caught it.
"I did," the man insists.
Carmen groans at this. "No, taste it!"
"I did!" he fights back.
"Then what? You'd send that shit out?"
"Chefâ"
"No. No excuses!"
Silence falls over the kitchen. It's not the usual response to Carmen's yelling. Usually, Sydney will step in and defend whoever's being chewed out. Tina will tell him to breathe, to take a step back. Richie might be yelling back.
But now, it's quiet. And no one is looking at him.
He tracks their eyes and sees them go over his figure, behind him.
Carmen doesn't let up at this, though. "Chef, answer me."
"Cousin..." Richie breathes out.
"What?" Carmen barks.
Now it's Sydney's turn to cringe. "Turn around."
He does.
And you're standing there, pink box cradled against your body and big eyes looking right at him.
But still, you smile at him. "Hi."
And Carmen feels sick. A wave of nausea and shame rolls through him at record time.
"IâI got the permits," you speak again.
The kitchen is still silent. Carmen swears he hears his heartbeat in his ears, the thumping making him want to clutch a hand to his chest.
"They got approved, just this morning," you continue like nothing. But Carmen sees the way your fingers strain against the box and the way you rock forward on your heels.
You saw him. The real him. The version of himself he tried so hard to keep away from you. Loud, impatient, temperamental. Fuck.
Sydney breaks the standstill energy in the room, dropping her knife and wiping her hands on her apron. She grabs your arm and leads you to the office.
Carmen hears you both as you go, the words distant even in the small kitchen.
"That's great," Sydney tells you.
"I know! Just this morning, too. Perfect news to start the day," your warm voice says. But Carmen just looks in the direction of where you had gone, not able to enjoy the news as much as you had hoped.
"She thinks I'm a psycho," he says as Richie comes up beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
"She didn't look scared," Richie tells him, but it only makes the ache in his chest grow wider.
"Cousin. I scared her."
"No. You just embarrassed yourself."
He looks at the older man, dread evident on his features. "Thanks," he deadpans as Richie just claps him on the back once more.
Natalie appears a few minutes after you settle into the office, Sydney still sitting with you as you talk about next steps.
"I can't believe they finally passed everything through," Natalie grins as she leans back in her chair, tummy sticking out.
You hum, but look out into the hallway, hoping that maybe Carmen will come to celebrate with you.
"He'll be okay," Sydney says, snapping you out of your trance.
"Carmen?" you question dumbly as the two women share a look.
Natalie nods. "He just gets... passionate."
Sydney laughs at that. "One way to describe it."
"Like a wet cat," Natalie adds.
The comparison of a cat clawing its way out of a tub to the image of Carmen in the kitchen earlier makes you all laugh.
You had grown accustomed to people yelling in your line of work. Partners, bosses, clients. You were beginning to understand what it was really like to work in a kitchen though.
While Saturdays were usually full of paperwork, breakfast served by Carmen, and honey lavender coffee, you were starting to see the other side of things as The Bear got closer and closer to opening.
No wonder Carmen was so stressed all the time.
You had caught yourself sneaking glances at him too often these past few weeks. The bags under his eyes and the way he rolled his neck every half-hour didn't go unnoticed. Still, he was here. Working hard for everyone around him. You admired that.
On the other side of the restaurant, Carmen's hands shake. He tries applying the glaze, but keeps getting the portioning wrong, silverware clinking on the porcelain alerting everyone.
He huffs, placing the utensils down and planting them flat on the station in front of him.
"Chef?" he says to the man in front of him, and Marcus immediately looks towards him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."
Marcus blinks, then grins.
"Don't worry about it. Can't believe I forgot the peach glaze," he laughs.
Carmen sighs, but doesn't feel any lighter.
"Go," Marcus urges, voice quiet, like their teenagers talking in the back of the classroom.
"Nah," Carmen says, going to pick up the brush once more and trying to ignore the ache in his chest.
"Come on, man. She was so excited."
They share a look, and Carmen can't help but laugh at the goofy face Marcus is giving him.
"Yeah, okay."
Carmen makes his way back to the office, knuckle wrapping on the door frame as she looks up from the laptop.
"Hey," he tests, and you smile immediately, like nothing had even happened.
"Hi," you say again, lightness still in your voice, but you're a bit quieter now.
"Congrats," Carmen states simply.
You laugh at that, gesturing for him to come sit with you. "Thank you."
He does, but can't quite look at you.
"Are you okay, Carmy?" you ask, and Carmen almost loses it. He knew you heard Richie call him Bear and Natalie call him Carmy, but you had never tried anything other than Carmen. The sound of the nickname coming from you made his cheeks flush.
But it wasn't just that. The three words that came before also had his mind reeling. Are you okay. Fuck, it kills him. You caught him yelling, losing it on Marcus, and now you were asking if he was okay?
He clears his throat. "Yes, sorry."
You tilt your head at this, and Carmen has half the mind to take your cheeks in between his palms just to feel the softness, the sweetness that you exude.
"For what?"
"The yelling. My yelling." He feels his chest tighten all over again at the recollection.
"You're working," you say simply, and before Carmen can open his mouth, you continue. "You should see me during cross-examinations."
You giggle a bit at this, and Carmen looks at you like a dog that was just given a bone.
"Really?" he asks, a smile playing on his features now. He can't imagine you losing it on someone, but he'd paid to see you lay into someone like they do in those old-timey court drama movies.
"Oh yeah," you tell him, biting your lip as he laughs.
You look at each other for a minute. Carmen feels the weight in his chest leave when he sees the smile on your features. He can't believe this. Can't believe you.
He's about to apologize again, you can tell by the way his hands fidget.
Gently, you cut him off. "I just... I don't like seeing you stressed."
Carmen's eyes bore into you at this. He feels something crawl up his throat.
Before he can let it take control, he hums and sucks his teeth.
"Thank you again. And good work," he states, gathering himself from the office chair, getting ready to head out to the kitchen again.
Your heart skips a beat at the praise, and you just nod as he leaves.
You watch him disappear back into the kitchen before finally looking down at the permits again. The words blur for a second. You smile despite yourself.
ŕŞââ´
You decide around lunchtime to stay late and work on organizing yourself for the next few weeks. With the permits submitted and accepted, you were moving on to stage two, acquiring all the contracts needed for the menu and daily operations.
You had sat with Carmen for a large chunk of time, going over potential vendors who could give you the best quality and best price. With the few names he gave, you made sure to draft a few key points for the upcoming contracts.
But when the lights in the kitchen cut in half, you look up from your laptop for the first time in what seems like hours.
Packing everything up into your bag and rubbing your eyes, you can feel the exhaustion setting in. By the time you step into the hallway, everyone's stations are clean, and the only sound that can be heard is drilling with the occasional 'fuck!' from Neil.
Carmen rounds the corner and takes you in. You're noticeably softer than you were this morning, makeup a little worn and smudged, and more strands of hair frame your face than usual. Still, he pauses and takes a breath when he sees you.
You look tired. And somehow, you look even prettier than you did this morning.
"You heading out?" he asks, and you nod immediately.
Still, you supply him with a small, "yeah." Carmen can see the sleep dipping into your features from the long day.
He gestures for you to follow him out the back, and you do. He can hear you padding behind him, and it brings a small smile to his face.
As soon as he pushes open the door, the winter wind of Chicago greets you. Carmen watches as you shiver, and before you can protest, he's shrugging off his jacket.
"Oh, Carmenâ" you start, but he just drapes the thick material over your shoulders.
"Take it," he says simply, tugging the collar up to your neck to protect you from the breeze. His fingers graze your cheek, and Carmen can't help but think about how soft you feel.
And it's hard to say no. The jacket is warm, and it smells just like him. Smoke, generic laundry detergent, and surprisingly cardamom. The blend makes you relax as you inhale it.
Carmen watches as you settle into the fabric. It swallows you, and he can admit that the sight does something to his stomach.
He scratches the back of his neck before speaking, arms bare now, only the tight white T-shirt against his figure. "About today. I didn't⌠I didn't want you to see that. But thank you for what you said."
Softening at his words, you can see the lingering stress in his figure, the day having took it's toll on him. "I have tough days too," you tell him, completely honest.
He nods at this, but you see the way his fingers flex against his thighs.
"I don't think any less of you, Carmen," you continue, hands itching to reach out from the confines of the big pockets to take his in your grasp.
The man looks at you once more, but this time, it's like he's been destroyed by your words. Carmen's eyes are a bit glassy, and his hands are shaking now. But instead of sadness, you find relief in his expression. Like something had been settled within him.
A car hisses through wet streets, momentarily bringing you out of the moment. The dewy and cold air amplifies the noise in the otherwise silent moment.
But neither of you moves. Instead, you just watch the other.
Your nose is pink from the cold. Carmen sees the way it scrunches every few seconds, like you did in the office a few weeks ago. He had been waiting to see it again.
His jacket hangs off your shoulders. The piece of clothing looks good on you, looks like it belongs. He can't even fathom ever wearing it again.
And, God, the way you look at him with those impossibly soft eyes. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Carmen can see their fullness under the harsh lights of the parking lot lampposts.
He's leaning forward before he realizes he's decided to.
And you don't move away.
Your eyes flicker down to his lips. A bit chapped, but still a pretty pink. It's enough for him bend down, to meet you halfway.
You can feel his hot breath on your cheeks, and you let your eyes begin to flutter shut.
"Carmy!"
The back door flies open.
"Carmy!" Neil's voice practically echoes into the space between you as you jump apart.
Your heart races at the sudden intrusion, like you had been caught doing something you weren't supposed to do.
Besides you, Carmen sighs before answering. "âŚYeah?" Carmen's voice cracks as he peels his eyes away from you and to interruption in front of the doorway.
Before Neil can answer, you're handing Carmen back his jacket and turning on your heels.
"Goodnight!" you call out, waving at the pair, not quite able to face Carmen as he sends you a devastating look.
"Night, Counsel!" Neil cheers back.
But Carmen can't get himself to say anything back. The jacket, even though only been in your possession for less than 10 minutes, smells like you.
Lavender.
The scent makes him reel. He closes his eyes for just a second.
"You coming?" Neil asks.
Carmen opens them again and nods, watching as you pull out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the street. "Yeah."
ŕŞââ´
By now, arriving at The Bear had become routine. You'd push through the back door. Marcus would wave without looking up. Tina would already be sliding your coffee across the counter. Neil would yell hello from somewhere you couldn't see. Ebra would quietly ask if you had time for "one legal question."
And Carmen.
Carmen was almost always waiting with a plate.
"Try this."
Every Saturday. Without fail.
When you dug into the dish and tasted whatever he had given you, you'd always hum. Carmen seemed to enjoy this, a half smile on his face as you chewed.
So when he isn't there, you notice immediately. You glance around the kitchen, expecting him to appear from the walk-in. Venturing farther into the restaurant, you reach the front. Maybe he was here, helping with whatever furniture had arrived.
"Where's Carmen?" you ask Richie, who'd been rearranging chairs with all the grace of a forklift.
A grin spreads across his face as he pauses to face you. "Oh, sweetheart."
You blink. "What?" At this, he comes closer to you, like he's about to share a secret.
He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "JustâŚ"
Another laugh comes out of the man. Less contained this time.
"He's fixing his hair."
You stare. "What?"
Richie's grin somehow grows at your expression.
"Been in and outta the bathroom for fifteen fuckin' minutes," he half-whispers.
"Carmen?" you ask with a furrowed brow.
"Mhm," he hums, as if he's proud to share this tidbit with you. "You called Sugar sayin' you were five minutes away."
You feel warmth creep into your cheeks at the recollection. "I did."
"And suddenly this asshole discovers mirrors."
"Richie."
"Oh, yeah." Richie leans closer like he's sharing classified information. "Been wetting it down."
You try, really try, not to smile. "He what?"
"Wetting it down. Shakin' it out. Lookin' at himself." Richie mimes fluffing curls in front of an imaginary mirror. "'Does this look okay?'" He switches into a surprisingly accurate Carmy impression.
Your jaw drops at this, unable to imagine this version of Carmen.
Another fake mirror check. "'Maybe if Iânah.'"
You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Richie."
"I'm tellin' you." He throws both hands into the air. "Fifteen minutes."
"Cousin!" The shout echoes through the restaurant, and you find yourself bringing a hand to cover your grin.
Richie doesn't even flinch. "What?" he yells back.
"Shut the fuck up!"
"I ain't say nothin'!"
"You literally are!"
You laugh, facing away from Carmen enters the space. Richie joins you, laughing into his elbow, disguising it as a cough.
When you look up, you can't help but notice how Carmen's curls sit suspiciously well today.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as Richie keeps giggling to himself. You've opted to just smile at the man.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He turns in the direction of the office. As you walk next to him, your shoulder brushes his.
Quietly, you murmur, "I like your hair."
Carmen stops walking for half a second. His ears turn bright red.
Behind him, Richie catches your eye. He points triumphantly at Carmen, then at his own hair. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing again.
ŕŞââ´
The text you sent Carmen last night, telling him you wouldn't be in until noon, had him a bit worried. Usually, whenever you texted, you left little emojis or smiley faces at the end of every sentence. But this text had come in at 1:48 AM and was unaccompanied by any yellow faces.
Maybe you went out last night, Carmen tries to reason. Although that thought doesn't send him much comfort. The idea of you drinking and swapping stories with someone at a bar until 1 in the morning didn't sit well with him, especially since he had never seen you like that.
You'd never mentioned a partner. And you had talked about your friends quite a bit. So maybe you were out with them, let time run away from you. But Carmen remembers you saying that most of them were still out in New York. His friend's theory came to a crumbling halt.
Maybe you were sick. Caught something at work earlier that week and just needed a bit of extra rest this morning. 7 AM was a brutal wake-up time even without a runny nose and pounding headache. Maybe you were curled up in your apartment, chills running through your body as you curled up in that patchwork hoodie you had sported a few weeks ago.
But this also makes him frown. The thought of you suffering alone in the snowy Chicago winter with a sore throat and no one to help you warm up with some blankets.
"Jeff, you good?" Tina asks from beside him, effectively snapping Carmen out of his trance.
"Yeah, sorry. Thanks, Chef," Carmen says with a small voice as he gets back to whisking the mixture in front of him.
Well, whether it was a cold or a hangover, Carmen would have something prepared for you as soon as you walked in the door. Maybe chicken noodle soup, although that seemed a little on the nose. Something like a wrap could be good, full of superfoods and veggies to help you recharge. But who wants kale when they feel like they're about to throw up?
"Chef, can you take over?" he asks Tina, abandoning his station and moving through the kitchen to collect items for your meal.
She just nods and sends Sydney a look, both women easily catching on to what was making Carmen so distracted today.
ŕŞââ´
Trying to be quiet as you enter the building, you pad into the office, not bothering to make your rounds and say hello to everyone.
But as soon as you settle into the squeaky office chair, there's a knock on the door.
"Come in," you call, voice a little hoarse.
Just as you suspected, Carmen comes into the space. He holds a bowl in one hand, big palm underneath it, making the dish look minuscule. And in the other is a plate, fingers gently holding the porcelain.
"Hey," he says simply, placing the food down in front of you.
"Hey," you parrot, hoping to fall back into your easy routine.
You take a minute to look at it and sigh deeply. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. A childhood favorite you mentioned to the man offhandedly more than a month ago.
"Figure you might be under the weather. Just making sure you get something to eat," Carmen explains when you don't speak. His actions meant to comfort you, ease some part of your body.
But his words seem to have the opposite effect as he watches your eyes get teary. When the first tear slips down your cheek and the pout in your lips starts to tremble, Carmen freezes.
It takes him a few seconds to catch up and see what's happening.
"You okay?"
The question only makes the tears fall faster as your body starts to shake.
"Sorry," you manage to get out. "I'm sorry." Wiping furiously at your cheeks.
Wide eyed, Carmen sucks in a breath. He knows he should comfort you, be fucking normal. But he just stands there, not wanting to crowd you.
When your breathing becomes clipped, all the thoughts of awkwardness leave his brain.
Carmen wraps his arms around your shoulders, bringing you close to his body. He feels your hands grasp at his white T-shirt as they find their way around his waist. The position is a bit awkward, but Carmen wouldn't dare move from his spot until you let go.
He feels his neck begin to get wet as your body wracks against him. The sounds that slip through your lips, little whimpers and harsh sighs, nearly make him cry. At a particularly heartbreaking noise, his hand comes up to the back of your head, cradling it and stroking your hair lightly.
You stay like that for what must be 10 minutes. Carmen doesn't try talking again, just lets you hang off of him and bury yourself further into his chest. He feels your hands start to loosen their grip and your breathing return to normal, and it's only then that he pulls back a little bit to take a look at you.
Your eyes are red-rimmed, and your lips are still a little wobbly. He ticks his jaw at the sight of your wet cheeks, his thumb coming up to wipe them gently. It had been weeks since he felt their softness.
"What's going on, sweet girl?" he tries again.
When you sigh again, Carmen thinks he might've made the wrong choice by asking another question. But instead, you look at him for the first time that day, and Carmen's heart breaks all over again.
"I lost." Your voice is raw, and if he wasn't so close, nearly pressed up against you, he would've missed it.
"Your case? McDowell?" He recalls the name from a few weeks ago, but he almost wishes he didn't, as it sends another set of tears down your face. This time, his thumb is there to catch them before they drip down your cheek.
"Mhm," you tremble in his hold.
"I'm sorry," he says, eyes never leaving yours. "I know you worked really hard on that."
This makes you laugh, but Carmen can tell it's bitter.
"He yelled at me after. Told me I was incompetent. Not cut out for this."
Your words make Carmen's hands tighten their hold on you.
Your breath hitches as you continue, "I keep thinking he's right."
"No," he says immediately.
"Carmy," you start, but a squeeze to your shoulder, you quiet again.
"They're wrong," Carmen speaks definitively. "I've seen you work."
"That's easy stuff," you mumble, leaning into his touch more and more.
"You come in here every Saturday with, likeâŚ" He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of folders on your desk. "A million forms."
Now your head rests on his chest again, and you can hear his heart thump wildly as he talks.
"You know every deadline. Every permit. Every whatever the fuck those city codes are."
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches.
"You argue with people on the phone, and they apologize to you."
Another tiny laugh escapes you.
He chuckles at that. "Nothing about anything you do is easy. He's wrong."
You nod at his words, but a few tears still slip past.
"C'mere," he says softer. You melt into his hold as the last few tears soak his shirt, hands coming back around you.
As soon as the sobs subside, Carmen pulls your chair with one strong arm up to the desk again.
"Eat," he tells you. The bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese is considerably colder now, but you can still smell the butter on the bread and the fresh pepper garnishing the soup.
Picking up the sandwich, you take a bite and smile for the first time today.
"You always feed me," you tell him, teasing lit in your voice that makes Carmen happy.
"You're always hungry," Carmen responds without thinking. When you send him an amused look, he immediately backtracks. "No, that'sâ that's not what I meant. You just, you're just always ready to eat."
"Wow," you smile as Carmen's face turns beet red.
"No, no," he waves his hands, laughing a bit. "That came out wrong."
"Yeah, thanks, Carmen," you laugh openly now.
"I justâ Sugar told me, after the first few weeks, you can't cook," he offers, but you just send him another look.
"Now you're insulting my cooking," you deadpan, but Carmen can see a faint smile on your lips.
"That's not what I mean." Carmen can't help but laugh as you shake your head and take another bite. "I just want you to eat. Want you to take care of yourself."
"Are you keeping tabs on me?" you ask and Carmen just shrugs.
"No," he says too quickly. But it wasn't true.
The entire time Carmen had known you, he had been noticing. He notices how, after you drink coffee in the morning, you get a little jittery and can't stop tapping your feet for at least an hour. He notices when you're about to run out of sticky notes, finding himself browsing on Amazon for the particular kind you like, having them ready for the next time you come in. He notices how you always pause before eating whatever he sets in front of you. Your eyes bounce all over the plate, taking everything in before you take a bite.
It was only after the third week of honey lavender lattes that Carmen realized, you don't eat much.
"They're all like that," Natalie told him one night as they cleaned up the office. "Pete barely remembered to drink water when he was in the running for partner."
"Jesus," Carmen sighed. He didn't like the idea of you running on fumes alone.
"Yeah, but she's especially bad. Pete and I try to have her over every other week for dinner when she told him she only buys frozen meals."
"You're joking," Carmen cringes at the thought.
But his sister just shakes her head. "Nope. Just doesn't really have the time or energy to cook."
"Maybe," he tells you, scratching awkwardly at his neck.
"Thank you." Your voice is small, but Carmen nods at the words, staying at your side until you finish eating.
ŕŞââ´
It's Sunday. After yesterday's late lunch at The Bear and crying into Carmen's chest, he had sent you home without a second thought. Today, though, you spent the day cleaning around your apartment, something that was always soothing and let you feel like you were in control again.
Toweling off from a much-deserved shower, you heard a knock at your door.
Barefoot and still wrapped in your worn but soft towel, you pad down the hallway to look out the peephole of your apartment. Maybe it was Mrs. Crawford needing to borrow some sugar, or maybe it was a delivery man.
What you didn't expect to see was Carmen standing in the hallway of your building, grocery bags at his side.
Carmen hears the clicking of a chain, and a few seconds later, your door opens.
"Hi," you say with a smile. But Carmen can only focus on the way your hair drips down your shoulder and your pretty bare face. It's the most skin he's ever seen from you, the towel not doing much to cover your dewy skin.
He sees the small scar across your left knee and is curious about how you got it. Then his eyes find the small freckles and beauty marks littered up from your arms to your shoulders and chest. He wants to count all of them. And your hair, it's always so put together, but now the ends are curled a bit from the water, and Carmen wonders how you wear it outside of work.
"Hey," he finally manages. "I was at the farmers market⌠bought too much."
You look at the six completely full grocery bags in his hands and just smile. "Right," you say, beckoning him inside your place.
As Carmen slips off his shoes, he takes in the simplicity yet warmth of the apartment. Little candles everywhere, too many lamps to count, fun patterned carpets. It's so you in the best way.
You try to reach for some of the bags, but Carmen dodges you and plants them on your kitchen island in one go. You try not to look at his muscles straining, but you can't help it. The navy blue tee around his figure is new for you, as you've only ever seen him in white.
"So, what'd you get me, Chef?" you tease.
Carmen blushes at the name, never having heard it from your mouth but liking it instantly.
"Some fruits and vegetables, sourdough bread, local honey and jam, and some pasta," he tells you as you sift through the canvas bags.
As you reach to grab the honey, your towel begins to slip down your frame. Quickly, your hand comes up to catch it.
"Ohâ"
You look to Carmen, smiling at the moment, but immediately his eyes shoot straight to the ceiling.
"Sorry," he spits out.
"Why are you apologizing?"
His ears turn bright red. "I don't know."
He can hear you chuckle lightly, but it only increases the blush that's spreading across his face.
"I'm gonna go change, be right back." And with that, you're padding down the hallway as Carmen tries to regain some sense of properness.
He begins to unpack all of the goods, laying them out around the kitchen. As he sets down the fresh basil plant near the sink, he feels your touch on his arm. Turning, he faces you and drinks you in. You're in a pajama set now. A blue tank top and capri pants decorated with white flowers and strawberries. It's adorable. You're adorable.
"Carmen, this is..." You look around the kitchen at everything he's brought over.
"Yeah?" he asks, reveling in your touch, at being so close to you.
"This isn't groceries. This is meal planning," you laugh out.
"Maybe," he says, just like he had yesterday. "But you said you eat frozen dinners."
His face twists as the words come out, like the thought of it personally offends him.
You laugh. A real Saturday laugh. Something that Carmen was missing yesterday.
"That doesn't mean I'm going to know what to do with all this."
"Well, what are you doing now? I could teach you a dish," he suggests and you find yourself nodding instantly.
"Yes, yeah. I just," you pause and close your eyes for a minute. "I'm really bad."
"I doubt it."
But Carmen is eating his words no less than 15 minutes into this endeavor. First, he tasks you with cutting up half an onion. When you begin dicing, the knife slips from your hand and lands on the floor, an inch away from his foot.
He moves you over to the pasta instead. Just stirring occasionally. But when he turns his back for two seconds, the water is boiling over and he's manhandling you out of the way to turn down the stove.
Carmen thinks you can handle the bread. All you have to do is watch the toaster. The bread gets a bit stuck, and just as he's about to jostle the machine, you reach to get it out with a fork. A metal fork. Carmen grasps your wrist firmly before you can even get the prongs near it.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes out.
"It would've been fine," you argue.
"No. No, you would've been electrocuted."
Finally, he sets you down in front of the sauce. Everything is already done, and the pot is just a low simmer, still he tells you to stir.
"You're so different here."
You look over at him as he begins to plate the now finished pasta. "What?"
"At work, you're so sure. You walk into a room, and everybody listens."
You shrug. "I know what I'm doing there. This," you gesture to the kitchen around you, "is terrifying."
Carmen laughs at that, and you share a smile with him.
"It's weird," you start, looking back down at the saucepan.
"What?" he hums, full attention on you.
"I don't really know how to stop," you admit. Suddenly, the music from your old radio and the open window ushering in the sounds of the city fall away. "I wake up thinking about work. I go to sleep thinking about work. Sometimes I don't even realize I've skipped dinner until I'm brushing my teeth."
You laugh at that last part, but Carmen just purses his lips.
"It's exhausting," you sigh. "But it's also the only thing I'm really good at."
The words feel too familiar for Carmen. He sees the way your shoulders roll, and your posture straightens as the words sink in. "Yeah."
He doesn't know what to say, how to tell you that he understands. He doesn't want to think about it too hard.
"Me too," is what he finally settles on after a few seconds of silence. "I don't really know who I am if I'm not cooking." The confession hangs in the air, and you're back to looking at him, even if it's for a brief second, recognition flashing across your face.
The sauce spits and you yelp.
Sauce lands on your shirt, your cheeks, your nose. And you can't help but start laughing. Even as it still bubbles up from beside you.
Carmen is quick to move across the kitchen and turn off the stove. You attempt to wipe away what's reached your face, but your hands are also compromised, only making the redness smear more across your features.
Carmen watches you for a second, just smiling. Really smiling.
Reaching for a towel, he wipes your hands firmly, but gently. Stepping closer, he focuses on your face now.
"Hold on."
You freeze at his voice; it's low and steady as he take you face into his grasp.
His thumb brushes your cheek first. Then the bridge of your nose. All the sauce is wiped off now. But Carmen doesn't let go of your face, fingers lingering on your features.
You watch his blue eyes become consumed by his dark pupils. And again, your eyes dart down to his lips.
The air around you is heavy, charged. But when his lips part to suck in a quick breath, you lean forward, closing the distance.
His lips are soft, just like you thought they would be. But you don't linger when you feel him still against you.
Pulling away, you laugh nervously.
Carmen looks at you, and you can't quite tell what he's thinking.
"I think..." he starts, hand coming up to cup your cheek, settling you a bit. "You taste like tomatoes."
You laugh, really laugh at this. Carmen laughs with you and you can't help but admire the way his eyes crinkle shut when he throws his head back a bit.
"Yeah?" you tease.
"Mhm," he smiles, thumb stroking your cheek gently. And you can't stop looking at him. The way his curls fall, the intensity of his stare, the faint blush on his cheeks. It draws you in.
Carmen almost moves to pinch himself. He can't believe he's standing in your kitchen, holding you so close. He's thought about what it would feel like to kiss you, but once you had moved to press your lips against his own, he froze.
Now he wants more.
"Come 'ere," he says softly.
For a second time, your lips lock, and this time he's pressing into you. It's longer. More certain. Like he's found something in you that he doesn't want to let go of.
When you finally pull apart, the pasta has gone cold, but neither of you seems to mind.
"Guess we're eating lukewarm pasta," you murmur, smiling a bit, still feeling the lingering heat of his kiss.
"Yeah," he says softly, smiling back at you. "We'll warm it back up."
Summary: grief doesnât ask permission before it moves ⌠and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that shouldâve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person whoâs still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: youâre going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
âDean, honey,â his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. âAre you holding up?â
He looks to his left. His motherâs eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
âIâm fine, Mom,â Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
âYou donât have to be fine,â his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. âNot today. Not for a long time.â
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isnât fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar Universityâs star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesnât make sense in his brain. Itâs a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesnât know how to do this. He doesnât know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
âHey,â a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
âYou see her yet?â Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. âNo. Have you?â
âJoanna walked in a few minutes ago,â Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. âShe said they were right behind her. Beauâs dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. Itâs ⌠itâs bad, man.â
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
âDude, sheâs my twin. You canât look at her like that,â Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Maloneâs
âLike what?â Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. âIâm looking at her like sheâs hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.â
âI am hoarding them,â you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. âAnd if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, Iâll stab you with this plastic fork. Iâm not playing around.â
âFierce. I like it,â Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
âStop flirting with my sister,â Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. âSeriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.â
âIâm not flirting,â Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. âIâm just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.â
âYouâre a pig,â you tell him, though youâre trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. âAnd for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. Heâs all talk.â
âI am definitely not all talk,â Dean says, winking at you.
âGross,â Beau deadpans. âBoth of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.â
âYou wouldnât dare,â you gasp.
âTry me,â Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You donât look at him. You donât look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like itâs the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beauâs bright light. Dean tunes it all out. Itâs all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. Itâs just a stupid, senseless accident.
âAnd now,â the pastor says softly, stepping back. âBeauâs sister has asked to say a few words.â
Deanâs head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You donât look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
âHi,â you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
âIâm ⌠Iâm Beauâs sister,â you start, your voice trembling. âHis twin sister.â
You stop, swallowing hard.
âMost of you know Beau as the quarterback,â you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. âYou know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.â
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
âBut thatâs just ⌠thatâs just the stuff he let everyone see,â you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. âBeau was ⌠he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.â
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Deanâs.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
âHe was the most fiercely protective person Iâve ever known,â you say, holding Deanâs gaze. âIf I was sad, he wouldnât just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.â
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
âWe went to Wisconsin for my grandmaâs birthday,â you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Deanâs jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.Â
âMy dad was driving,â you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
âIt was snowing,â you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. âA deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.â
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
âTake your time, sweetheart,â the pastor says gently from behind you.
âNo,â you say, shaking your head rapidly. âNo. You donât understand.â
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
âI stayed behind,â you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. âMy grandma ⌠she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.â
âY/N,â Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
âIf I hadnât stayed,â you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. âI would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. Itâs my seat.â
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
âBeau took my seat,â you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. âHe sat in the passenger seat because I wasnât there.â
Dean is already moving. He doesnât consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
âY/N, honey, please,â your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
âIt should have been me!â You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like itâs the only thing keeping you from floating away. âThe impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!â
âOh my god,â Deanâs mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
âI want to trade!â You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. âPlease, God, let me trade! Iâll take his place! Itâs supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!â
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
âY/N!â Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
âIâve got her,â Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. âGive her air. Back up.â
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
âY/N,â Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. âLook at me. Hey. Look at me.â
You thrash against him weakly. âNo! No, Dean, itâs my fault! Itâs my fault!â
âIt is not your fault,â he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. âDo you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.â
âI want him back!â You scream against Deanâs chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. âDean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.â
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesnât care who sees him crying. He doesnât care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
âI know, baby,â Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. âI know. Iâm right here. Iâve got you.â
âI canât breathe,â you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. âDean, I canât breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.â
âFollow my breathing,â he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. âIn and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.â
âI canât live without him,â you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Deanâs heart. âI donât know how to be a person without him.â
âYou donât have to figure it out today,â Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. âYou just have to breathe right now. Thatâs all you have to do. Just breathe for me.â
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
âHe would have hated this,â you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Deanâs collarbone. âHe would have hated everyone looking at us.â
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. âYeah. He wouldâve called us dramatic.â
âHe wouldâve thrown a football at your head,â you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
âAnd told me to stop holding his sister,â Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. âDonât let go, Dean. Please donât let go.â
âIâm not going anywhere,â Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than heâs meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
âIâm right here,â Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. âIâm right here, and Iâm not leaving. I swear to god, Iâve got you.â
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just ⌠moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesnât want to. He hasnât wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he canât. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Deanâs jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You havenât been to class all week.
âHey, Dean?â
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
âWhatâs up, Lacey?â Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
âItâs about Y/N,â Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if sheâs sharing state secrets. âHave you talked to her? Seen her?â
âNo,â Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. âI texted her a few times, but she hasnât answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was ⌠it was a lot.â
âI know,â Lacey says sympathetically. âBut she hasnât shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didnât answer. Iâm just ⌠Iâm worried about her, Dean. She shouldnât be alone right now.â
âSheâs not answering her door?â Dean asks, standing up sharply.
âNo,â Lacey shakes her head. âAnd her roommate moved into her boyfriendâs frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.â
âFuck,â Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. âOkay. Thanks, Lacey. Iâll handle it.â
He doesnât wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isnât just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
âY/N? Itâs Dean. Open up.â
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. âCome on, I know youâre in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.â
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
âY/N?â Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
âNo, no, no,â Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. âY/N! Hey!â
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
âJesus Christ,â Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. âYou scared the absolute shit out of me.â
But you donât respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you arenât looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
âHey,â Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. âIâm right here. Iâm right here.â
You donât blink. You donât acknowledge him.
Deanâs heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. Heâs been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasnât for you â if it wasnât for the desperate need to make sure you were okay â he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldnât know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he canât. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
âI know,â Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. Youâve lost weight. In just a week, youâve withered away. âI know it hurts. I know it feels like you canât breathe.â
You blink slowly, but you donât speak.
âI miss him too,â Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesnât bother wiping it away. âGod, I miss him so much I feel like Iâm dying. But youâre not dying. Iâm not going to let you.â
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
âAlright,â Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. âPartyâs over. You canât rot in this bed forever.â
You donât protest. You donât do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
âCome on,â he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. âYou need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I donât think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.â
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. âWhoa, okay. Easy. I got you.â
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
âWhat do we want to wear?â Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. âSweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.â
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
âOkay, here,â Dean says gently. He crouches down. âStep in.â
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. Itâs intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
Itâs a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beauâs hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. Itâs raw, bleeding desperation.
âOkay,â Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. âOkay. Raise your arms.â
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment itâs on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
âLetâs go,â he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Maloneâs is packed. Itâs prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so youâre tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesnât sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
âHey, Dean,â a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. âWhat can I get you guys?â
âTwo waters,â Dean says, not looking at the menu. âAnd an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.â
âYou got it,â she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beauâs hoodie.
âYouâre going to eat,â Dean states. Itâs not a question. âAnd youâre going to drink the entire milkshake. Iâm not leaving until you do.â
You donât respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Deanâs blood turns to absolute ice.
âHey,â Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. âTake a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and Iâll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.â
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You havenât moved. You didnât even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
âAlright,â Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
âOpen,â he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
âY/N, look at me,â Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
âI know everything tastes like ash right now,â Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. âI know you donât care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.â
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
âGood girl,â Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. âDrink.â
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesnât touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someoneâs gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
âIâm tired,â you whisper. Itâs the first time youâve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Deanâs heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
âI know,â he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. âI know, baby. Iâve got you.â
âHeâs gone,â you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. âDean, heâs really gone.â
âYeah,â Dean says, his own throat burning. âHe is.â
âWhat are we supposed to do?â You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. âHow do we do this?â
âI donât know,â Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. âI have no fucking clue. But weâre going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.â
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes itâs the truest thing heâs ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
Itâs eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You donât want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
âRise and shine, sweetheart,â a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beauâs oversized hoodie down over your hands.
âGo away, Dean,â you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
âNot a chance,â Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. Heâs already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
âI brought a peace offering,â he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. âWhat is that?â
âIcy, caffeinated heaven,â Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. âVenti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.â
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
âI donât want it,â you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
âBullshit,â Dean counters smoothly. âSit up, Y/N.â
âDean, please,â you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. âI just want to sleep.â
âYou slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,â Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. âYouâre getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.â
âIâm dropping that class,â you mutter into the pillow.
âNo, youâre not.â
Before you can protest, Deanâs hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
âDrink,â he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
âThere we go,â Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. âNow, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that donât have a stain on the knee.â
âThese are my depression sweatpants,â you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
âTheyâre a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,â Dean deadpans. âUp. Now. Or Iâll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.â
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isnât going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
âFine,â you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. âYouâre a tyrant.â
âIâm a visionary,â Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. âTen minutes, Y/N. Iâm timing you.â
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You havenât been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like youâre walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beauâs hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
âJust breathe,â Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. âYouâre doing great.â
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. Heâs a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
âAlright, settle down,â Higgins barks, turning on the projector. âLast week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheimâs concept of anomie?â
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
âMiss Maxwell,â Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. âPerhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a personâs life?â
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
âYou know this,â Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. âYou explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.â
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
âAnomie,â you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. âItâs ⌠itâs a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.â
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
âExactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,â Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. âNow, to apply this to modern institutional structures âŚâ
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesnât let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Deanâs car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
âWhere are we going?â You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
âMy place,â Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
âDean, I just want to go to bed,â you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
âYouâve been in bed for a week,â Dean counters. âItâs bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I donât bring you, heâll hold back my portion.â
âI donât want to see people,â you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
âThey arenât people, theyâre just our idiot friends,â Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. âThey know what happened. Nobodyâs going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.â
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
âWeâre here!â Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
âIn the kitchen!â A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Loganâs phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
Thereâs a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. âHey, Y/N.â
âHey,â you manage to say, your voice quiet.
âGood, youâre here,â Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. âTell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. Heâs being deliberately ignorant.â
âItâs a piece of meat surrounded by bread,â Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. âBy definition, itâs a sandwich.â
âItâs a tube of mystery meat in a bun!â Logan protests, throwing his arms up. âA bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, youâd be pissed!â
âI would be thrilled, actually,â Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. âHotdogs are elite.â
âYouâre all idiots,â you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. âSee? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.â
The tension you didnât even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They arenât treating you like a piece of fragile glass. Theyâre just treating you like ⌠you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most youâve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. Itâs dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
âAlright, hand over the remote,â Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
âWe were watching the game,â Garrett protests from the recliner.
âWeâre watching something else,â Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
âDude, really?â Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. âItâs Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?â
âShut up, Logan,â Dean says comfortably, hitting play. âThis is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.â
âYou just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,â Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
âExactly,â Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. Itâs loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
âWait,â Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. âWhy is she mad? Didnât she invite the other lady to the party?â
âShe invited her as a formality,â Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. âShe didnât actually expect her to show up. Itâs a power move.â
âThatâs so passive-aggressive,â Garrett mutters, shaking his head. âJust drop the gloves and fight it out.â
âYou canât body-check someone at a charity gala, G,â Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesnât say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Deanâs shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne â cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean â filling your senses. Itâs so safe. Itâs the safest youâve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you donât wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
âIâve got you,â Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beauâs hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows thatâs what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. Itâs a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Deanâs breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You donât know where you are. You donât know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Deanâs room. You remember the diner. You remember Tuckerâs chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Deanâs bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isnât. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You donât want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
Heâs gone. Heâs really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
âDean,â you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldnât wake him. He has done so much for you today â he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
âIâm awake,â Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
âWhatâs wrong?â He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. âAre you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?â
âNo,â you say quickly, your voice trembling. âNo, Iâm ⌠Iâm okay. Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to wake you.â
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so heâs looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
âDonât ever apologize for waking me up,â he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. âNever. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?â
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesnât press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
âI woke up,â you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, âand for three seconds, I forgot.â
Deanâs hand stills against your cheek.
âI forgot he was dead,â you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. âI thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then ⌠and then I remembered.â
âYeah,â Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
âIt happens every time,â you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. âEvery time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I donât know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I canât do it.â
âHey. Look at me,â Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. âLook at me, Y/N.â
You open your wet eyes.
Deanâs face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
âIt happens to me too,â Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. âI wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.â
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Deanâs wrist.
âItâs not fair,â you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. âItâs not fucking fair, Dean.â
âI know,â he says, his voice breaking.
âHe was twenty-two!â You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You donât care who hears you. You donât care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. âHe was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!â
âHe was,â Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesnât bother wiping it away.
âWhy him?â You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. âWhy did it have to be him? Why couldnât it have been ⌠I donât know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?â
âStop,â Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. âStop doing that to yourself. You canât play the what if game. Itâll eat you alive.â
âI want to trade,â you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. âIâd give anything. Iâd give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.â
âDonât say that,â Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. âDonât ever fucking say that, Y/N. I canât lose you too. I canât.â
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Deanâs back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
âYouâre right,â Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. âIt isnât fair. Itâs the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.â
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. âIt really does.â
âIâm so angry,â Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. âIâm so fucking angry at the world. Iâm angry at the snow. Iâm angry at that stupid deer. Iâm angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didnât just end.â
âMe too,â you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. âI hate them all right now.â
âWe can hate them together,â Dean says without missing a beat. âWeâll be terrible, bitter people. Weâll throw things at happy couples. Weâll key cars. Whatever you want.â
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air youâve taken in a week.
Deanâs face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
âListen to me,â Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. âI know I canât fix this. I know I canât bring him back, and I know I canât make it stop hurting.â
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
âBut you are not doing this alone,â Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. âYou hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if thatâs what you need. I donât care if itâs three in the morning and you need to scream, or if itâs middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.â
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. Itâs not a platitude. Itâs not empty comfort. Itâs a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
âOkay,â you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
âAnd you have me,â you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. âI know youâre hurting too, Dean. You donât have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.â
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
âI promise,â he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesnât disappear. You know it wonât. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Itâs a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you arenât carrying it alone anymore.
âGo back to sleep, Y/N,â Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. âIâve got you. Iâm right here.â
âDonât let go,â you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
âNever,â Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesnât slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. Itâs a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
âHeâs staring again,â Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
âHeâs just making sure I didnât leave to get nachos without him,â you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. âRight. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.â
âShut up,â you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
âIâm just saying,â Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. âItâs been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.â
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. âItâs complicated, Lacey. Weâre just ⌠weâre surviving together. We lost Beau.â
âI know,â Laceyâs voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. âAnd Iâm not minimizing that. But youâre allowed to live, too. Youâre allowed to be happy.â
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You havenât touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didnât have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
âYou donât have to do it,â Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
âBut I love it,â you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. âI love tumbling. I love the girls. I just canât look at that field.â
âSo tumble somewhere else,â Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. âBriar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.â
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. âYou read flyers?â
âOnly when they involve girls in spandex,â he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Heâs wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
âHey,â he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. âDid you see my assist in the third?â
âI did,â you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. âIt was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.â
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. âThat was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.â
âRight. Very stealthy,â you laugh.
âCome on,â Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. Itâs a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. âTucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we donât hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit heâs adopted.â
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
âThe king has arrived!â Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
âAnd he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,â Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
âI know big words,â Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. âPhotosynthesis. Boom.â
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
âThanks, Tuck,â you say, grabbing a fork.
âEat up,â Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. âYou got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.â
âWait, the meet is Saturday?â Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. âWhat time?â
âTwo oâclock,â you answer through a mouthful of food.
âIâm in,â Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. âI love watching you throw people in the air. Itâs violent. I respect it.â
âWeâre all going,â Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. âWe donât have a game until next weekend.â
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They donât walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Deanâs eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriendâs dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
âI think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,â Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
âHe deserved it,â you say, resting your head back against the cushion. âHe bumped my kart into the lava on Bowserâs Castle. I hold grudges.â
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
âYouâre tense,â he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
âAcro practice was brutal yesterday,â you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. âWeâre working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.â
Deanâs hands pause. âYou got dropped?â
âOnto a mat,â you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. âItâs fine, Dean. Itâs part of the sport.â
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way youâve grown to recognize instantly. âTell your bases to stop dropping you, or Iâm going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.â
âPlease donât,â you laugh softly. âA polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.â
âItâs highly effective,â Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesnât consume you anymore. It doesnât stop you from breathing.
âThank you,â you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Deanâs hands slow down. âFor what?â
âFor this,â you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. âFor making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For ⌠just not letting me drown.â
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so heâs facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
âI didnât do it as a favor, Y/N,â Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. âI did it because I wanted to. Because youâre important to me.â
âI know,â you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
âDo you?â Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. Itâs been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
âDean,â you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
âIâve been trying to be good,â Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. âIâve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.â
âYou are,â you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
âBut I want more,â Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he canât hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. âGod, Y/N. I look at you, and itâs all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I donât want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, clichĂŠ dates. I want to kiss you so badly Iâm losing my mind.â
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize itâs not trauma at all. It hasnât been for a long time.
âThen kiss me,â you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesnât hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. Itâs incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. Itâs messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
âWow,â you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
âY/N, listen to me,â Dean says, his voice completely level. âI need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.â
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. âOkay.â
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. âI didnât do this because Iâm sad. I didnât do this because Iâm confusing grief with something else, or because youâre Beauâs sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.â
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
âI did this because I like you,â Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. âI like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldnât have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person Iâve ever met.â
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they arenât tears of grief.
âIâm not trying to replace him,â Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. âI know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If youâll have me.â
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isnât holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. Heâs holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
âIâm not doing this out of grief, either,â you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. âYou didnât just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know Iâm going to see you.â
A breath shuddering out of Deanâs chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
âI like you,â you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. âIâve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.â
Deanâs trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. âWell, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.â
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. âAnd the arrogance ruins the moment.â
âI havenât ruined anything,â Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
âIâm going to take you on a date,â he murmurs. âA real one. Iâm going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.â
âI look forward to it,â you whisper back.
âGood,â Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you donât think about what you lost. You donât think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
âHold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.â
Your motherâs hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
âMom, itâs fine,â you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. âItâs just going to blow around in the wind anyway.â
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. âI know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.â
âShe looks like a giant bat,â Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. âA very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.â
âIgnore your sister,â your dad says, walking into the room. Heâs been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. âYou look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.â
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. âThanks, Dad.â
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
âDelivery for the graduate!â A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
âDean, honey!â Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. âYou look so handsome.â
âThank you, Mrs. Maxwell,â Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. âI clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.â
âYour hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,â Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
âJealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,â Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
âHey,â he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
âHey,â you whisper back.
âYou doing okay?â He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
âIâm okay,â you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. âItâs heavy. But Iâm okay.â
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. âIâm right beside you today. Every step.â
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
âBefore we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,â the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, âBriar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.â
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
âBeau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,â the president continues. âHe was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.â
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
âToday, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,â the president announces. âAccepting on his behalf is his sister.â
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isnât polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you arenât sure they will hold you.
âYouâve got this,â Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. âCongratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.â
âThank you,â you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beauâs diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You donât even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesnât say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
âIâve got you,â Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. âIâm right here.â
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beauâs diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
âDean Di Laurentis,â the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the presidentâs hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
âThatâs our boy!â Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Deanâs voice cutting through the crowd.
âYeah, baby! Thatâs my girl!â
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Deanâs parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
âIâm just saying,â Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Deanâs father, âif youâre a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?â
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. âThat is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.â
âSee? Iâm practically a lawyer,â Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
âYou failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,â Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
âEthics are subjective,â Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Deanâs mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
âThis is nice,â you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. âYeah? Not too overwhelming?â
âNo,â you say truthfully, looking around the table. âItâs exactly what I needed. It feels ⌠full.â
Deanâs gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. âGood.â
âDean, pass the burrata, will you?â Your dad asks from your other side.
âAbsolutely, sir,â Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
âAnd drop the sir, kid,â your dad adds, smiling warmly. âI think weâre past that.â
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. âYou got it, Mr. Maxwell.â
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Deanâs, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
âTo Beau,â your dad says, his voice thick but strong. âHeâs the brightest star in the sky tonight.â
âTo Beau,â the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Deanâs wine glass. You donât cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven oâclock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Deanâs car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
âYou look tired,â he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
âI am,â you admit, leaning into his touch. âIt was a long day. A good day, but long.â
âDo you want to go home?â He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. âI can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.â
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
âActually,â you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. âIâm kind of hungry.â
Dean raises an eyebrow. âYou just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.â
âI stress-ate pasta,â you correct him. âNow Iâm actually hungry. For garbage.â
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. âGarbage, huh? Your wish is my command.â
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Maloneâs.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesnât even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
âWell, donât you two look fancy,â she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. âGraduation?â
âYes, maâam,â Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
âCongratulations,â she says. âWhat can I get you? The usual?â
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. âWhat do you think, baby? The usual?â
âTwo waters,â you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. âAnd an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.â
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. âYou got it. Be right back.â
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
âYouâre a brat,â he murmurs against your skin.
âYou literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,â you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. âI think Iâm allowed to tease you about it.â
âI was keeping you alive,â Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. âI was a hero.â
âYou were very bossy.â
âAnd you loved it.â
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. âI did. I really did.â
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Deanâs eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
âOpen,â he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. âDean, stop. I can feed myself.â
âI donât know,â he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. âYou look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.â
âI will bite your finger,â you threaten, though youâre smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
âPromises, promises,â Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. âCome on. For old timesâ sake. Open up.â
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
âGood girl,â Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isnât tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything youâve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
âI love you,â Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like theyâve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
âI love you,â Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. âI loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.â
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brotherâs memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
âI love you too,â you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. âI love you so much, Dean.â
Deanâs entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didnât burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Maloneâs, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didnât stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows youâve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
âDamn it,â a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. âOkay. Pivot. Weâre pivoting to pancakes.â
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
Itâs been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. Youâre married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. Itâs just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
âYouâre making a mess, Di Laurentis,â you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Deanâs head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
âHey,â he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. âGood morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.â
âGood morning,â you smile against his lips. âI smell casualties.â
âThe toast didnât make it,â Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. âGood morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.â
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. âThe baby doesnât take orders, Dean. Much like its father.â
âThe baby is going to be perfectly behaved,â Dean argues, standing back up. âSit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.â
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasnât exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like youâre made of spun glass.
âI know,â you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. âIâm nervous.â
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
âHey,â he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. âThereâs nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. Youâre healthy.â
âI know,â you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. âItâs just ⌠it makes it all very real. Today we find out if itâs a boy or a girl. Itâs an actual person, Dean.â
âYeah,â Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. âItâs our person. Half you, half me. Weâre going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.â
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasnât let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
âAlright, letâs take a look at this little one,â the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
âCold, sorry!â Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, itâs just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
âOh my god,â Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. âY/N. Look.â
âI see it,â you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
âThereâs the heartbeat,â Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your babyâs heart. Itâs the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesnât even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
âItâs perfect,â he whispers, his voice shaking. âYouâre perfect.â
âYou guys are doing great,â Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. âBaby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.â
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
âNow,â Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. âDid you two want to know the gender today?â
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
âWe want to know,â you say, nodding. âBut ⌠can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.â
âAbsolutely,â Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you canât see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like heâs being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
âThank you,â you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
âCongratulations, you guys,â Dana says warmly. âIâll see you in four weeks.â
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
âStop staring at it,â you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
âIâm not staring at it,â Dean lies immediately. âIâm focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.â
âYouâve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,â you point out.
âItâs mocking me,â Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. âIt knows that I have zero patience. Itâs a test of my willpower.â
âDo you have a preference?â You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
âNo,â he says honestly. âI really donât. If itâs a girl, Iâm going to spoil her so completely that sheâll be an absolute terror to society. Iâm going to buy her a pony. I donât care where we put it. And if itâs a boy, Iâm going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and Iâm going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.â
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. âYouâre going to be an incredible dad.â
âWeâre going to be incredible parents,â Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
âLetâs go inside,â he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. Itâs quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
âOkay,â you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
âWe do it together,â Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
âOn three,â you say.
âOne,â Dean counts.
âTwo,â you whisper.
âThree.â
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Danaâs neat, cursive handwriting.
Itâs a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
âA boy,â Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
âItâs a boy,â you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
âA little boy,â Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. âGod, Y/N. Weâre having a son.â
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
âWe need to talk about names,â Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You havenât bought a single book. You havenât made a single list.
But looking into Deanâs eyes right now, you realize you donât need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
âWe donât need to talk about names,â you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. âAre you sure?â
âIâve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,â you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
âBeau,â Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud â speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy â sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
âBeau,â you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
âHe would be so arrogant about this,â Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. âHe would absolutely never let us live this down.â
âHe would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,â you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
âHe would demand to be the godfather,â Dean adds, closing his eyes. âEven though heâs a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.â
âHe would have loved him so much,â you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
âHe still does,â Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. âHeâs up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.â
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Deanâs. Itâs a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
âHey, little Beau,â Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. âItâs your dad.â
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
âYouâre making your mom cry again, so weâre going to have to work on that,â Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. âBut I need to tell you a few things before you get here.â
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
âFirst of all, you are so incredibly loved,â Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. âYou have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.â
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
âAnd secondly,â Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. âYouâve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.â
A single tear slips down Deanâs cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
âHe was fearless,â Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. âHe loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And thatâs what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.â
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
âIâve got you, Beau,â Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. âI swear to god, Iâve always got you.â
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Deanâs hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didnât end with the crash. It didnât end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
âI love you,â you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
âI love you too,â he says softly. âBoth of you.â
mr. and mrs. abbot - assassin!pope x assassin!readerÂ
word count: 5.2k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, femme fatale!reader, extremely dubious consent (bc would either of you consented if you had known the other was also an assassin? oop-), âjack abbotâ doesn't exist bc he's actually pope's fake identity!, he calls you âhoneyâ and you call him âsirâ, gun violence, murder, blood and gore, established relationship, deception, mutual pining, angst (with a happy ending!), domestic fluff, praise kink, mild brat taming, dom/sub dynamics, unprotected sex, breeding kink, squirting, spit kink, edging, fingerfucking, bondage, gun play (but tamer than usual lol!), choking, pope makes a lot of bad jokes (he's silly and in love!), it's actually lowkey mushy cutesy bc I just am in that kind of mood lately!Â
summary: you are an assassin but your husband thinks you're just a corporate executive. your husband is an assassin but you think he's just a doctor.Â
so what happens when you find out your husband's real identity and he finds out yours because your companies want you to kill each other?Â
a/n: i came up with this after seeing mr. and mrs. smith while browsing tv and i just had to write it!Â
hope it's a sick(ly sweet) read âĄÂ
âMrs. Abbot?â The pharmacist waves their hand in front of your face. âAre you feeling alright?â
You're staring down at your phone right now. At the bounty your company just set out on your burner.Â
For a man named Andrew Cody.Â
Better known by his call sign âPopeâ.Â
Who looks exactly like your husband JackâŚ
âHmm?â You glance up from your phone, remembering for a moment where you are. âOh, right. Sorry, just got a business text. A little distracted.âÂ
A clever excuse, like always, given your formal attire and the fact that you do actually work for a Fortune 500 company. You look like any corporate executive would if they were in line for a prescription at a pharmacy. Definitely not like an assassin for hire staring at a kill orderâŚ
âDo you need me to explain the medication to you before I sign off on it?â They show you the bottle of sleeping pills you always take on the nights Jack isn't home.Â
Because it's always hard for you to sleep when he's not there next to youâŚÂ
âNo, I'm alright.â You tell them and they nod, handing you the medication once they've signed off on it.Â
You take it out of the paper bag when you get to your car and stuff the pill bottle into your glove box.Â
You can't possibly take those now.
Not when you have no idea who your husband isâŚ
So, you call your handler. âWho is this guy?â
âCompetition.â The robotic voice on the other end answers.Â
âLast known?âÂ
âOceanside, CA.âÂ
You and Jack are a long way from there. On the complete opposite coastâŚ
âTime frame?âÂ
âASAP.â So, that's why it was sent to youâŚ
You have the highest record of kills done in the shortest amount of time. Always so efficient. You knew it would bite you in the ass one dayâŚÂ
âI'm retired, though.âÂ
âYou're the only one capable of doing this within the desired time frame.âÂ
âWhy?â You know they're not going to answer but you ask anyway, clarifying, âwhat's the rush?âÂ
âWe have intel he is planning to kill one of our own.â
You wonder who it can be.Â
Because you would've never guessed that it would be you.
Pope stares down, much like you had earlier, in disbelief at the photo on his screen.Â
That's you, his wife, on his burner beneath the bounty just sent to him.Â
But that isn't the name you gave him.Â
Call sign âPearlâ.Â
Because you excel under pressure.Â
A top assassin. Clean kills. Perfect record.Â
Just like PopeâŚÂ
âJack?â Robby tries to glance over Pope's shoulder but he shoves his phone in his locker and shuts it before Robby can see anything. âAlright, keep your secrets.â
âMy wife just sent something I shouldn't open at work.â Pope lies through his teeth but Robby always believes it.Â
Since Pope talks about you all the time at work. He loves you, after all.Â
He loves being a doctor, too.Â
He hates being an assassin. He had quit when the two of you got married.Â
So, why is he getting sent a bounty now?Â
âShe's a high priority target.â Pope's handler tells him when he calls after his night shift. Call sign âSmurfâ. âWe need her dealt with, so we need our best.âÂ
âWhy the urgency?â Pope wants to know.Â
Smurf replies, âwe have intel she's after one of our own.â
He wonders who it could be.Â
Because he'll never guess that you, his pretty wife waiting for him at home, are supposed to be going after him.Â
You've been sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of wine, since you got home from the pharmacy.Â
You haven't eaten.Â
You couldn't sleep.Â
You can't even stomach the wine that's sitting untouched on the table.Â
You keep thinking about your husband Jack.Â
But you know that's not his real name.Â
Andrew is his real name. Though, everyone in the world of hitmen calls him Pope.Â
The ever elusive Pope. An elite assassin who has been out of commission for years now.Â
Around the same time the two of you got marriedâŚthe same time you retired tooâŚ
You blink back more tears because you're trying to convince yourself that the foolish thoughts in your head can't possibly be true.Â
That maybe he quit killing people because he's actually in love with you.Â
Like you're in love with him.Â
Fuck. You know that can't be true.Â
Pope is known to be heartless. Ruthless. A born killer. The best of the best at torturing his targets for information.
Nothing like the man you married, Jack Abbot.
Decorated veteran. Emergency medicine doctor. Caring, kind, loving husband of yoursâŚÂ
How much of that was real?Â
And how much of it was a cover?
Does he knowâŚwho you are?Â
There's no way. And if he did, what's the goal of playing the long game?Â
If he wanted you dead, why would he go through all the extra hoops of taking you out on dates? Marrying you? Making love to you?Â
Because he loves you. Your mind tries to feed you delusions.
You are delusionalâŚbecause you can't find it in you to kill him.Â
Even though you have to, before it gets reassigned and someone else does.Â
And they won't be so mercifulâŚ
âHoney?â You hear your husband's voice call out to you.Â
Is it really morning already?
âWhat's wrong?â Pope sees the untouched wine glass and your puffy eyes.Â
So, you make something up quickly. âThe pharmacy didn't have any pills left in stock to fill my prescription. Couldn't sleep without them.â
Couldn't sleep without him. You hate that you love sleeping next to JackâPope.Â
His name is Pope. Jack doesn't exist.Â
The man you love was just a coverâŚ
For what? You might never find out.Â
âCome on, let's go to bed. I'll go get your pills for you after a nap.â He puts his hand out for you to take.Â
And you take it without hesitation. Force of habit.Â
Pope doesn't notice anything off about you, which is good. He is used to you not sleeping well without your pills. You get bad nightmares if you sleep unmedicated.Â
That's why you like sleeping next to him. You never get nightmares for some reason. Probably because his warmth comforts you.Â
The thought of feeling his skin cold because you had to kill him makes you want to throw upâŚÂ
You actually do throw up, right into the toilet in the bathroom. Pope gently holds back your hair, helping you with a light shoulder rub.Â
âAre you alright, honey?â Now Pope is worried.Â
Because the two of you were trying for a baby. And if you're pregnant right nowâŚwith his childâŚhow is he possibly supposed to kill you?Â
âNo, I'm not alright.â You wipe the tears that are dripping down your face uncontrollably. âI'm scared.âÂ
âAbout what?â He kneels down next to you. âTalk to me.âÂ
You look him in the eyes, in those beautiful hazel eyes you fell in love with, and you want to tell him the truth.Â
That you're supposed to kill him.Â
Before he kills you.Â
But instead, you tell him, âthat you won't want to kiss me now, after I just threw up.âÂ
The concern on Pope's face washes away, replaced by a chuckle. âI'd kiss you no matter what.âÂ
âYeah?â You look at his lips. âAre you sure?âÂ
He leans in to prove it, kissing you. And you kiss him back.Â
You do more than just that. You pull him against you, wanting his body flush with yours.Â
âLet's get ready for bed first.â He smiles at your eagerness. âThen I'll help you fall asleep like always.âÂ
Your skin heats up from his words and he nuzzles your nose while holding back an amused chuckle, liking how flustered you look.
It's hard for him to believe his adorable wife is an assassin. One of the best in the business too.Â
And yet here you are, your hand holding onto his so nervously as he walks the two of you to bed after you both washed up and brushed your teeth.Â
Who is the real you?Â
The one who is looking up at him all bashful the moment he climbs on top of you in bed?Â
Or the stone cold killer Pearl that he has heard echoes about slashing her way through target after target without a shred of fear?Â
Does it matter right now when you pull him down to kiss you, lacing your fingers in his soft curls and grinding your hips up against his?Â
âSomeone's being impatient.â Pope nips at your bottom lip, drawing out a whimper from your lips.Â
âPlease, sir.â You beg of him because you need to feel your husband's body against yours right now. âPlease touch me.âÂ
âHow do you want me to touch you?â His hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up over your chest so he can see your lovely breasts.Â
âMake me cum, sir.â You want to remember this feeling, in case you never get to experience it again.Â
âLift your arms up.â Pope instructs and you listen, letting him tug your shirt up over your head.Â
But he doesn't pull it off. He instead ties your wrists to the headboard, securing them in place there.Â
âWhat's your safe word, honey?âÂ
âYour name.âÂ
âThat's right. Do you remember why?â He asks as he kisses down the length of your body starting from the arms he just bound.Â
You swallow back gulps of air before his lips hover over yours and you breathe, âbecause I only get to call you âsirâ in bed.âÂ
âGood girl.â He leans down, sealing his lips around yours, trapping the moan that wants to escape when you feel his hand slipping between your legs. âDo you still want me to make you cum?â
âYes, sir.â You tug at your restraints when you feel his fingers graze your clit. So lightly, so purposefully weak to get you wriggling for more. âPlease.âÂ
âMy wife is so needy tonight. I love it.â He really does love you so much.Â
That's why in bed, he doesn't want you calling out some fake name he made up. When you call Pope âsirâ, he knows you're talking to him and not the fictional persona of Jack Abbot he created to be free from the world of assassination.Â
It's hard for him to think that you've been hiding the same secret as he has been all this time.Â
Is that why you told him you like being called âhoneyâ? So you could enjoy his attention without the constant reminder of your fake identity?Â
What would you do if he called out your real name right now?Â
You're restrained. You wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Though, if you are Pearl, then he's sure you could get out of the loose knot he made with your shirt.Â
Why does that thought make his cock twitch? The sight of you showing him how skilled you truly are at your work. You have to be skilled to hide this well.Â
It would be betraying your trust, though, to use this vulnerable moment of yours for more than just sex and pleasure.Â
You trust Pope, maybe not fully but definitely in bed. You've given this part to him. He knows that well.Â
You wouldn't show this side of you to just anyone, the side so desperate to cum on his fingers that your hips are grinding against his hand now that he's stripped you completely naked.
Would you be this eager if you knew that he's supposed to kill you?Â
Maybe you wouldn't care.Â
You just want to cum.Â
His spoiled wife, who he takes great care of.Â
âBeg for it, honey.â He pins you down to the bed by your lower belly, stopping you from squirming so much.Â
âPlease make me cum, sir.â You plead with him and nearly cum when he spits so harshly on your clit.Â
âBe specific.â Pope wants to see what you ask for today.Â
âPlease make me cum on your fingers, sir.â You feel so empty inside.Â
Your heart aches and you want to have him inside of you any way you can.
âAre you going to be a good girl and cum hard for me?â He asks as he slips a finger inside of you for just a second before popping it back out, pulling a whine from your lips.Â
âYes, sir.â You definitely will.Â
âLet's see it.â Pope dips two fingers inside of you then and curls them, grinding them right up against that spot that has your body trembling all over. He keeps thrusting them right there, reveling in how tight you're squeezing his fingers as he fucks you with them.Â
He knows you're about to cum because you're looking at him with those pleading eyes of yours. You don't want him to stop.Â
He always stops though. Because he likes seeing you on the edge of an orgasm, panting, reeling from getting so close before his fingers slow completely.Â
âPlease, sir.â You don't know how much more you can beg for him to make you cum.Â
Pope likes torturing you. It's what he's good at. Always has been and he takes a lot of pleasure from it. From seeing you so helpless and in need of his assistance.
âTell me you love me.â He doesn't know why that's what he asks in this moment. Usually he asks you to tell him something filthy, to leak out a dark desire of yours he'd be happy to fulfill.Â
But right now, all he wants to hear is your beautiful voice telling him, âI love you.âÂ
âI love you too, honey.â He says, then drives his fingers back inside of you without warning.Â
You cum instantly, the sheer force of his sudden movements causing you to squirt uncontrollably. You're gasping for air and crying out because he won't slow down. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers until you're squirting like a fountain for him, drenching the sheets with your orgasms.
âOh god, sir, I can'tââ You dig your nails into the fabric of the shirt binding your wrists when Pope leans down to seal his lips on your aching clit. âWait, stop, I'm going to cum again if youââ
You cum so hard that your eyes roll back and you can't seem to pull enough air into your lungs with every heavy breath. Pope slides his fingers out of you, licking them clean while he stares down at the sight of you so thoroughly dazed.Â
He strips off his clothes then, and that's when you ask him, âwill you please untie me, sir?âÂ
And he's tempted to tell you to do it yourself.Â
You can, of course, but in this scene, you've relinquished control to him. You've let him restrain you, so you aren't going to undo them yourself unless you absolutely have to.Â
Should he give you a reason to?Â
Should he wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze just to see if you're afraid of him enough to show your true self?
His body moves before he can think his actions through.Â
Pope sinks his cock into you, filling you up completely before his hands wrap around your neck. Your eyes widen when you feel him tighten his grip around your neck.Â
Tighter than he's ever choked you before.
Pounding into you with his cock rougher than he ever has before too.Â
âSay my name.â He keeps squeezing more and more, ramming his cock into you harder and harder, trying to scare you. âDo it.âÂ
The wires are crossed in your head. You don't know what to think or what to do.Â
So much pleasure is flooding your system but there's a backnote of genuine fear.Â
That maybe Pope is trying to kill you.Â
Would he?Â
Should you let him?Â
If you did, then you wouldn't have to kill him.Â
Then your last memory could be him fucking you like this.Â
That's not a bad way to go.Â
Especially not when you're cumming your brains out on his cock, feeling so lightheaded from the lack of air, your mind spinning from cumming so much over and over again.Â
âSay it!â He shouts at you, shaking you by your neck. âMake me stop. Don't let meâŚâ
You lock eyes with him and it's only when you see the tears building in corners of his eyes that you have to put a stop to this.Â
Not for your sake, but for his.Â
So, you slip out of the fabric tied around your wrists with ease then you reach up, cupping Pope's face before meeting his shocked gaze with your eyes as you call out his name, âAndrew.â
He blinks at you, the grip around your neck stilling completely, no longer actively squeezing. Tears drip down his face and you can feel them hitting your own face. Though, maybe some of those are your tears.Â
âYou were going to let me kill you.â He lets go of your neck entirely, holding himself up at either side of your head now. âWhy?âÂ
âBecause they want me to kill you.â You don't need to explain much else. âAnd I can't do that to you. I love you, Andrew. Even if you don'tââ
âI love you too.â He says, followed by your real name.Â
And despite all the orgasms you've had, nothing could compare to the pleasure of hearing your real name come out of his lips after being told that he loves you.Â
âI wouldn't have killed you.â He swears to you. âI would've let you kill me if you had to.âÂ
âTill death do us part.â You pull him in for a kiss then, like you're making that vow again.Â
Only this time, as your real self.Â
âDeath will have to wait.â His words are so warm on your lips that your heart skips a beat. âBecause I finally get to hear my wife call out my name while I'm fucking her. I'm not dying today.âÂ
You chuckle, smacking him on the chest, âAndrew!â
He smiles back at you, nuzzling your nose so affectionately before kissing you.Â
You meet his hips halfway as he starts to roll them against yours, fucking you nice and slow. Making love to you, like always.Â
Making you laugh like always. âAre you really Pearl?â
âAre we seriously talking about this while you're fucking me?â You gasp when he buries his cock as deep as he can and then lays all of his weight on you, trapping you beneath him. âAndrew!âÂ
âFuck, you sound so good screaming my name.â He gives you a kiss on the cheek and you glare at him when he pulls away. âAnswer the question.âÂ
âYes.â You answer then yelp when he thrusts his cock inside of you all of a sudden.
âYes what?â He smirks at how annoyed you look.Â
So there is a side of you he hasn't gotten to enjoy fully yet. The little brat hidden beneath the usual submissive.Â
âWe are not doing this!â You shove at him so he pins your arms down with his hands. âStop it!âÂ
âYou're good at pretending, honey.â Because if the stories are true, you definitely can get out of his grip right now.
Pope wants to see it. See you in action.Â
You huff through gritted teeth. âI am not doing this with you, Pope.â
Oh, now you've pissed him off.Â
Pope slips out of you completely and before you can stop him, he opens the secret compartment he built into his bedside table and pulls out his revolver.Â
Then, he shoots you.Â
You narrowly avoid it, your reflexes kicking in immediately so you can dodge it, rolling off the bed and to your feet in an instant.Â
He laughs so hard that you want to punch his teeth out. âSo you are as good as they say.â
âFuck you, you just shot at me, you motherfucker!â You press your hand against the nearby wall, activating the biometric lock that opens up the hidden compartment you made and pull out your glock.Â
Then, you shoot him.Â
And Pope narrowly avoids it, before firing another shot at you that you dodge with ease so you fire back at him quickly.
Clipping his arm.Â
You suddenly feel a weight sink in your stomach at the sight of the thin line of blood that darts across his bicep. But that uneasy feeling washes away when you hear Pope chuckle so happily.
âNice shot, honey!â He tells you before he fires another round and you almost get clipped in the ear. âHey, stand still. I need to even the score.â
âWhat are we doing right now?!â This has to be the strangest foreplay ever!Â
âHaving fun. And getting some practice in.â He says before shooting at you again, this time by your feet, hoping to nick your ankle but you're too slippery. âLooks like my wife doesn't need the exercise though. Good reflexes.â
âI will shoot your fucking cock off if you don't stop whatever the hell this is!â You shout at him before he aims another bullet at you. âAndrew!âÂ
âYou wouldn't dare shoot my cock. You'd miss it if it was gone.â He smiles so mischievously at you that you are actually tempted to shoot him there.Â
âI don't miss your leg.â You say then instantly regret it because you feel like that might've been too harsh, given the prosthetic he has.
Until Pope starts laughing again and goes, âthat's why you won't take out the one hanging between my legs, right?âÂ
âOh my god!â You groan at the horrid joke. âWho the fuck did I marry? Have you always been this irritating!â
âPretty much.â He nods with a shrug.Â
So you shoot his gun out of his hand.Â
Pope is actually startled by that, his revolver dropping to the ground.Â
Right before you pin him down to the ground in his distraction.
You point the gun to his head then tell him, âI always knew I'd be better than you.â
âOh yeah?â Pope suddenly grabs you and pushes you down onto your back, then shoves his cock into you in a single smooth stroke. âI always knew you had it bad for my cock.âÂ
âI will fucking shoot you!â You point your gun at him as he rolls his hips, grinding the tip of his cock deep where you like it. âStop it!â
âYou'll have to shoot me if you want me to stop fucking you.â He digs his fingers into your hips for leverage before he starts pounding his cock into you at a pace that has your back arching and your orgasm building too quickly. âThat's it honey, cum for me.âÂ
âAndrew, you can'tââ You literally have a gun trained on him and he's fucking you right now?!
âI can't what? Fuck my wife? Watch me.â He slips his hand between your legs and rubs your clit while he finds the right angle to drill his cock into you until you're cumming all over him.Â
You toss your gun aside, not wanting to accidentally shoot him, as your orgasm shoots through you in intense waves of pleasure that has you pulling him in for needy kisses. He smiles so beautifully against your lips as he kisses you back.
âTell me you want my cum, honey.â He massages your lower belly with his palm while his fingers play with your clit and his cock pounds you into the ground. âTell me you want to have my baby.âÂ
And it's like you snap right back into that submissive space in your head because you nod and tell him, âplease, I want to have your baby. I want your cum, sir.âÂ
âGood girl.â He gives you the sweetest kiss on the forehead before saying your name and telling you, âI love you so much.âÂ
âI love you too, Andrew.â You pull him back for a kiss, pleasure surging through you as you cum again.Â
That's enough for Pope to cum, when he feels you tightening up from your orgasm, milking his cock dry. You lay your forehead against his, breathing heavy as he fills you with so much of his release.
âWhat do you usually say after you've gotten my cum deep inside of you?â Pope nudges your nose, waiting for your response.Â
âThank you, sir.â You tell him, grinning when he grins back at you. âYou are so lucky I love you.âÂ
âI am lucky, because you definitely would've been able to kill me before I could kill you.â Pope can tell your reflexes are much better than his.Â
âWe should get that cleaned up.â You point to the slight cut from the bullet.Â
âI'll be fine.â He waves off your concern, since it's not even bleeding anymore. âIn case you forgot, I am actually a doctor.âÂ
âHow does an assassin have time for medical school?â You raise an eyebrow at that.
For you, it was easy to forge an impressive resume to land you an incredibly easy corporate executive job where all you do is answer emails all day.Â
Pope actually went to medical school and served in the military.Â
All under his fake identity, Jack Abbot.Â
âHow do you think I paid for medical school?â He laughs at his own joke and then laughs some more when he sees you glaring at him. âYou are so cute, honey.âÂ
Before you can say something back in retaliation, Pope kisses you with so much affection that you melt in his arms.Â
The two of you lay there on the ground, kissing until he's soft. Then, you both take a nice shower together, which really ends up with you riding him in his shower chair until the two of you cum again together, and then get redressed for bed after swapping out the sheets.
âThere's bullet holes in our walls.â You gesture at all the work that will need to be redone. âHow are we supposed to explain that to a contractor?â
âWe have lots of fun in the bedroom?â Pope chuckles when he sees how annoyed you are with his antics. âWhat? It's trueââ
The doorbell rings, cutting him off mid-sentence.Â
Pope rolls over to his bedside table, grabbing his security tablet so he can check who's at the door.Â
It's the policeâŚ
âA neighbor probably called when they heard the gunshots.â You hold back a groan. âWhat are we going to say?â
âMisfire?â Pope says with a shrug. âI'll just say my silly wife wanted me to show her how to shoot and you accidentally pulled the trigger.âÂ
âI can accidentally shoot off your balls. Don't test me.â You shove at him. âYou go answer them. I'm staying here where it's cozy.â
Pope hands you the security tablet and then gets up to go to the door. He tells the officers the explanation but they want to step inside to look around, which Pope allows.Â
Though, his eyes drift to the two cops that walk into the house once their backs are turned to him. He doesn't recognize either of them from the local police force and since he does SWAT work every now and then, he should have at least seen them once or twice.Â
They wouldn't send newbies out to check on gunfire.Â
And those guns they have holstered aren't police-issuedâŚ
Fuck. Pope can't tell if they've figured out that he knows yet.Â
So, he slowly walks over to the bookshelf by the living room television, where he has a gun.Â
But before he can fire a shot, a bullet flies through the air.Â
And one of the cops drops dead.Â
Then, Pope shoots the other one down before that one has a chance to react to you killing their partner.Â
He walks over to meet you as you both stare down at the dead bodies. Then, you each take a body to check for a burner.Â
âHow'd you know they weren't real cops?â Pope finds the burner phone on his dead copâs body, seeing the bounty for you and him on the screen with your current house address listed for last known.
You pull out your dead cop's burner along with some keys then say, âno cop car outside. But a very nice getaway vehicle.â
âWant to take a ride, honey?â Pope puts his hand out for you to give him the keys. âYou got a go bag?âÂ
âOf course I have a fucking go bag.â You want to beat him up for even asking. You know he's just messing with you, though. âI have one made for the two of us too.âÂ
âReally?â Pope finds that oddly sweet.Â
âIn case my life ever caught up to yours.â You wanted to make sure that wherever you had to hide, he could come with.Â
âWhat are our new identities then?âÂ
You go to unseal one of the floorboards in the living room and pull out the go bags. They're filled with untraceable cash and other necessities like weapons and new identities.Â
You pull out Pope's new driver's license and hand it to him. He looks at it and goes, âseriously? You couldn't pick a better name than âTitusâ?â
âShut up.â You roll your eyes at him, throwing the heavier go bag at him. âGo pack the car, Mr. Danforth.âÂ
âMaybe I should have you call me âmisterâ instead of âsirâ from now on, Mrs. Danforth.â He says with a smirk on his face, swinging the bag over his shoulder with ease before putting his hand out for you to take. âReady to run away together?âÂ
You let out a light chuckle then nod. âYes, sir.â
âSo we're keeping the âsirâ. I'll allow it.â Pope leans over, giving you a loving kiss on the temple.Â
The two of you start packing the car but then you remember the pills so you quickly go and grab them from your car. Pope furrows his brows at you.Â
âYou got them already? Why didn't you take them last night?â
âYou know why.â You shove them in your go bag.Â
âTell me.â He makes you stop your fussing.
âAndrew, we have people after us, who wants us dead. Can we talk about this in the car?â He really has such poor timing sometimes!
âI promise I wouldn't have killed you. Even if they tried to make me, I wouldn't. I love you, truly.â He says your name too, just to confirm it, giving you the reassurance you didn't know you needed to hear. âCome here.âÂ
Pope pulls you into his arms, giving you a warm hug that you gladly accept.Â
âTill death do us part.â He tells you before lifting your chin up to look at him. âAnd I promise you won't need those pills for a while. I'll make sure you sleep real good from now on.âÂ
You glare at him, knowing what he's insinuating and when he laughs, you giggle with him before leaning in for a kiss.Â
âNow let's go make sure the world knows not to fuck with Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.â Pope says against your lips before giving you another loving kiss.Â
You're certain they won't once they realize the two of you are a pair.
Because why would any assassin risk going head to head with you and Pope?Â
It'll surely be a death sentence for them, and a lot of fun for you two.Â
a/n: aw, this one turned out so much more fun than I originally planned! I will say that I hope this version of pope sort of makes sense as like a blend between him and jack, since technically he is jack too! I thought it would be fun to explore the idea that pope created the persona of jack abbot as a cover and then grew to love being jack! and now he's titus hehe ~
I decided to keep this one short and sweet. I was originally going to write the whole backstory of how they met, etc, but sometimes I like leaving things up to the imagination, I find that more fun and it allows for a little more wiggle room for any future installments!Â
Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.
Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (readerâs dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!
Word Count: 21k
-
The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.
The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. Theyâre a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe youâre too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.
You prefer brown eyes, anyway.
Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-
You blink, and force a smile.
The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. âSo, do you wanna maybe-â
A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.
âMove it, pal.â
Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.
The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.
âI-IâŚare you herâŚâ
âOh yeah, Iâm her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.â
The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.
âI was on a date.â
Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. âNot exactly your type.â
âYou donât know what my type is.â
âPretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.â
You clench your jaw. âWhat do you want, Craig?â
He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. âI need your help.â
âI donât do jobs anymore.â
He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.
âI told you, that was a date.â
âCâmon, donât lie to me. You think I donât know when youâre working an angle?â
You narrow your eyes a little. âOkay, fine. I donât do jobs with the Codys anymore.â
Craigâs smile falls a little.
Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.
âBaz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!â
Bazâs hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. âItâs too late.â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about? We canât just leave him-â
âWe have to. He was too late. You know the rules. Itâs him or all of us.â
Youâre frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.
When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.
âHeâs out of prison, you know.â
You take a sip of your drink. âGood for him.â
âHe keeps asking about you.â
Yeah, bullshit. âIâll bet he does.â
Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.
âSo, itâs a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-â
âI donât do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I donât know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isnât really boosting my interest.â Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.
Because heâs justâŚPope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, âboyfriendâ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.
And then it was all over. Just like that.
Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. âWhat?â
âItâs my job, okay?â He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. âAnd itâs good. Iâve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I justâŚI need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.â
You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look thatâs making you feel like-
âFuck. Fine.â God help you. âFine. Fine. Okay. Fine.â He grins at you, and you glare back at him. âBut I donât want to see Pope.â
Now itâs Craigâs turn to give you a look. âAbout thatâŚâ
-
Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.
Okay, maybe itâs not the outfit. Maybe itâs the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.
Youâve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you havenât exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether youâre here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.
-
âPut me down. Put me the fuck down Iâm gonna-â
âJesus, relax!â Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deranâs got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. âI had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.â
âYou just fucking left him there! We could have-â
âWe didnât have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.â
âFuck you.â
âYeah, yeah. Fuck me.â Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know heâs heartbroken too but you couldnât give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. âFuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.â
Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. âBoo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-â
âCalm down.â Itâs Deranâs voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, andâŚ
Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boysâ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.
âOkay.â You breathe, shaky, and Bazâs shoulders drop.
âOkay.â He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. âNow that weâre all calm, we need to figure out what to do.â
-
Heâs in the yard.
Three years later, and heâs just⌠in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?
He looks at you. You look at him. He doesnât move an inch.
He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.
âHi.â His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.
You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still canât look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. âHi.â
-
âYouâre bleeding.â
You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.
âYouâre not the only one who can get into fights.â
Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesnât want to talk about it.
âAre youâŚstaying here again?â He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. Youâre on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.
âSmurf says I can crash for a few days.â In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You donât mind. Itâs better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.
He still hasnât moved. âAre youâŚgonna stay in Craigâs room? With him?â
You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and youâre almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.
âWhy? Would that bother you?â
âYes.â
You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that youâre doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.
His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching withâŚ
âStop looking at me like that.â
He doesnât. âLike what?â
âLike you want to kill someone for me.â
âI do.â
âI know.â
Heâs close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You donât think youâve ever wanted anything more.
But thisâŚthis house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. Youâve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, youâll go along with whatever plan she has for you.
This is not that plan.
And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Popeâs lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You donât have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. Heâd probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-
His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.
âIâve gottaâŚgo inside.â
He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.
-
âWe should talk.â
You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You donât get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.
âLet go of me.â
He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. âWe should talk.â
âI think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.â You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.
You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.
As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you donât turn around. You donât look at Pope. His eyes donât leave you the entire time, and itâs almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.
But you donât look at him, and when itâs time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.
The job. Focus on the job.
You can do this.
-
You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.
You donât know why you did it. Well, you do. Itâs what Smurf wants. Itâs what Craig wants. Itâs what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. Heâs your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like itâs going to fucking crush you.
So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, heâs already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.
It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say itâs supposed to be like. You know he tried to make itâŚspecial, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, youâd gasped and clawed at his back, and heâd mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didnât hurt too badly, and it wasnât exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didnât feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.
When it was over, heâd kissed you, and youâd smiled up at him, and then heâd rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.
âThat was awesome.â He breathed, and you nodded. âYouâre awesome. Was itâŚdid you?â
âYeah.â You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure youâve always heard about, but thatâs fine.
âAwesome.â He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. âWanna beer?â
Youâd smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel moreâŚromantic than it does. But itâs still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. âYeah.â
~
Pope Cody hasnât looked at you in a week.
Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craigâs room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. Heâs even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when youâre standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. Itâs fun. You think you can get used to it.
You havenât had sex again. Heâs asked, almost every night, but youâve always come up with some kind of excuse and heâs always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.
But Pope wonât look at you, and you canât ignore it anymore.
Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now heâs standing in the yard and Smurfâs chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didnât talk. He didnât argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.
And now youâre alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Wonât. Look. At. You.
âAndrew.â You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesnât turn around.
âLook at me.â
He doesnât. You snap.
âWhy wonât you look at me?â You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.
âStop it.â
âNo.â You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.
âYou havenât talked to me since I got with Craig.â You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. Heâs older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. Heâs just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like itâs supposed to with Craig.
When he still doesnât answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesnât budge. âFucking look at me! Why wonât you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why youâre acting like this!â
âBecause it should have been me!â He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. âIt should have been me. You know it should have.â
He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesnât stop him. He still comes closer.
âYouâŚyou let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things IâveâŚâ he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, âthe things Iâve wanted to do since I met you.â His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and heâs close. So close. âIt should have been me.â
You donât move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. âThatâsâŚnot the plan.â
Heâs not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like heâs trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.
âFuck the plan.â His voice is almost a growl, and you donât have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.
The world explodes.
His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you donât know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before heâs kissing you again.
You donât even register that youâre moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until youâre gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.
And then heâs lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before youâre kissing him again with so much need that itâs almost embarrassing.
His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.
âIs this okay?â He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.
âPlease.â You donât know what youâre begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.
His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until heâs tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until youâre on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.
âTell me if itâs too much.â He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until heâs cradling your cheek.
âIâve got you.â He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard heâs trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. âBreathe. Iâve got you.â
You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like youâre floating.
Itâs nothing like Craig. It isnât like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much moreâŚright. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.
His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.
Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.
You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.
The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, itâs with a breathless moan of your name.
After, he holds you like youâre the most precious thing heâs ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.
He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. âWhat?â
âI didnâtâŚâ you didnât know it could feel that good. You didnât know anything could feel that good. âIâŚwow.â
He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. âYeah.â He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. âWow.â
-
The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.
Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Popeâs eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.
âStop looking at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âYou know like what.â
âYou look nice.â
âShut up.â
The door to the yacht opens, and you donât have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.
âWelcome!â The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when theyâre trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. âMr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?â
âSoon to be.â Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.
âAdorable.â The woman says, too emphatically, and you donât miss the way her eyes rake over your âfianceâ. You shouldnât care. This isnât real. Heâs not⌠yours anymore. And yet, itâs hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.
When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Popeâs. He doesnât let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.
Fine.
-
âIâm sorry. He refuses to see you.â
âIâŚâ you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. âWhat?â
âBelieve it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesnât want to see you.â
You blink again. âThatâsâŚthatâs not true. That canât be true.â
âYou can try again next week, but in my experience youâll probably have the same reaction.â
-
You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.
Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.
You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesnât look right in a prison uniform. He doesnât look like heâs been sleeping. âWhat the fuck, Andrew?â
At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug heâs been deprived of for over a month. Youâre about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.
âStop calling.â He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.
âWhat?â
âStop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.â
âIâŚâ what? This isnât happening. He wouldnât do this. âWhat? Pope, Andrew, I didnât leave you.â Thatâs almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. Youâre his girlfriend, after all. Heâs in prison. Youâve been trying to see him. You havenât left him. The last thing theyâll probably assume is that youâre talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.
âI know.â He says simply, and meets your eyes. âI donât care. Leave. Stop coming here. Iâm not going to come see you again.â
You donât know what to say. You donât know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesnât make sense and-
He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.
Thatâs the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.
-
âAnd here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when youâre out on the waterâŚâ
Four exits. Three cameras. One, twoâŚ
âIâm so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?â You ask brightly, from where youâre hanging off of Popeâs arm. âOr Iâm sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.â An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.
The moment youâre around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-
âWe need to talk.â
You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Popeâs arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. âNow? Let me go.â
âYou wonât talk to me. I have to-â
âSo youâre gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. Youâre supposed to be distracting them.â Heâs lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-
The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.
âFuck.â You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. âFuck.â
In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.
Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.
He kisses you like he hasnât thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you canât think of anything else.
His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-
âOh, Iâm sorry. I didnât mean toâŚinterrupt.â A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Popeâs. He doesnât even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like heâs trying to re-memorize the feeling.
It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.
âOh geez. Iâm so embarrassed.â You reach up, and pinch Popeâs cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. âI just canât keep my hands off of him, you know?â
âItâs so nice to see a couple soâŚin love.â A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You donât have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even afterâŚwhatever that was. âWould you two like to continue the tour?â
-
When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.
Pope punched him back.
When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.
âLet them fight. They need it.â She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.
âThis is bullshit. They-â
âYou know,â she interrupts, still not looking at you. âWhen I took you in off the street, I wasnât expecting you to stir up so much trouble.â
You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesnât work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.
âI didnât mean toâŚstir up anything.â
She looks at you now, assessing. âI believe you.â She hums, and pulls her arm back. âGo break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.â
-
âWhat the fuck was that?â
âA distraction.â Popeâs hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.
âAnd before that? Cornering me in the hallway when Iâm trying to gather fucking intel?â
He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. âItâs been three years.â
âAnd whose fucking fault is that?â
His brow furrows like he genuinely doesnât understand why you would ask that. âTheâŚU.S. prison system.â
âYou know exactly what I mean. Donât be a dick.â
âIâm not being a dick.â
âPull the truck over.â
He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where theyâre visible over his shades. âNo. Why?â
âIâm walking. Pull the truck over.â
He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. âYou can barely stand in those shoes.â
âSo Iâll take them off. Pull over.â
âJust let me talk to you. Please.â
âNo.â
His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.
You donât speak to him for the rest of the car ride.
-
Craigâs nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. Heâs holding an ice pack to his eye.
âDo you hate me?â You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.
He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.
âNah. Couldnât if I tried, I think.â
You frown. âThen why did youâŚâ
He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. âI mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. Iâd be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.â
âIâm not your girlfriend.â
âWell, not anymore.â
âI was never-â
âCâmon. Iâve got a shiner and a broken nose. Donât hit my ego, too.â
You laugh, and shake your head. âYouâre an idiot.â
He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and thereâs nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. JustâŚaffection.
You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.
âI thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.â
He frowns now, and shakes his head. âShe wonât. And if she does, Pope and Iâll just come with you.â
You smile again. You know it doesnât reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.
âNo matter what, that assholeâs not gonna hurt you again. Youâre gonna be okay.â
âAnd if Pope ever fucks up, Iâll be here. I know Iâm the best sex youâve ever had, anyway.â
You snort. âCraig-â
âEgo, remember? Lemme have this.â
You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.
You believe him.
-
When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.
âWoah, hey there Hurricane Lady.â Craigâs grin falls the second he sees your face. âShit. What happened?â
âNothing. Hereâs the phone. Itâs got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.â You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesnât get access to the same places you just did. âIâm off the job.â
âWhat?â
âSheâs not off the job.â Popeâs voice, from the door, makes you prickle.
âYou donât get to decide whether Iâm on or off the job.â You whirl, and glare. âYou donât get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.â
âJesus.â Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. âYou didnât tell her, man?â
âTell me what?â
âShe wonât let me tell her.â Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.
âTell me what?!â
âJust tell her.â
âIâve been trying-â
âTell. Me. What?â
âHe cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.â Craig says, and the words shut you up. âThey were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didnât incriminate yourself.â
Oh. Oh.
âPope. Andrew. I didnât leave you.â
âCan I talk to you now?â Popeâs voice is low, and heâs doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.
You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.
And then you walk into his room.
You donât even need to turn around to know heâs following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.
Popeâs old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.
âBeautiful. So beautiful. All mineâŚâ
He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.
Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and youâre going to-
You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, heâs looking at the bed like heâs remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-
Fuck.
âTalk. You wanted to talk, so talk.â
He watches you. You watch back, tense.
âThey were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.â
You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. âI couldnât tell you. They were listening to everything. I figuredâŚit was the only way to keep you out of prison.â
âThree years.â
Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. âI didnât know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.â
âThree. Years.â
âI missed you every day.â He moves closer, hesitant, like heâs trying to make sure you donât bolt. âEvery fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. ItâŚit killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. IâŚâ his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.
You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.
âYou risked the job.â You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesnât just go away with one explanation.
âFuck the job.â He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. âItâs been three years.â
And then heâs kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Codyâs skin against yours.
For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.
His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.
But it isnât enough. This isnât enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there wonât be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily heâs kissing you now is any indication.
Because his kiss doesnât make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldnât ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.
His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-
You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.
âYouâŚyou canât do that.â You whisper, and he looks like heâs about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. âNo, you donât get to do that. You donât get to just show up again and kiss me like that.â
âIâm sorry.â He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.
âYou made me think, for three years, that you didnât love me anymore.â
âIâm sorry.â He moves closer like itâs instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like heâs about to drop to his knees before you. âIâm so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldnât think of any other way.â
You push past him, and walk out the door.
For once, he doesnât follow.
-
âWhere is she?â
Youâre not here. You havenât come since he got out.Â
âShe doesnât really come around anymore, man.â Craig shrugs, like itâs casual, like your absence isnât digging a hole into Popeâs soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but youâre not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.
âShe comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.â Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. âShe doesnât talk to Baz, though. I think the most Iâve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.â
Yeah, sounds like you.
âSo, you gonna talk to her?â
Yes. Of fucking course he is. Heâll be on his knees begging the second youâre in the room.
But you donât come. You donât show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he canât call you. Despite what Craig said, itâs almost like youâve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.
When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you werenât wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.
Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.
But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.
He watches through your window and doesnât even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurfâs house and trying not to be overheard.
He doesnât go to the door. Itâs not the right time. Not yet. It isnât like it has to be perfect, but⌠but itâs been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he canât reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isnât sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. Heâs not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.
Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, thatâs when heâll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.
JustâŚnot yet.
But that doesnât mean he canât keep an eye on you, until then.
-
The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.
Itâs a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but itâs safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethanâs rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while youâre at it.
Heâs jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and heâs finally relaxing enough to-
His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.
âLeave.â And thatâs Popeâs low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.
Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. âIgnore him.â
âDo that, and Iâll cut your ears off.â
Son of a bitch.
âHeâs joking.â
âThree.â
Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.
âDonât.â You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.
âTwo.â
And heâs gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.
âFucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?â
âWho was that?â
âI had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craigâs bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-â
His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You donât flinch. You donât even come close. In all the time youâve known him, in all of his scariest moments, heâs never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesnât register in your mind. âWho was that?â
You look at him, deadpan. âMy boyfriend.â It couldnât be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.
It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. âIâm serious.â
Fine. You give up. âHe was a mark. Iâm on a job.â
âYouâre already on a job.â Popeâs frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. âThat guy was staring down the front of your shirt.â
âThatâs kind of the point.â You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.
âWeâre leaving.â
âNo, youâre leaving.â You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.
He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. âCome home with me.â
You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looksâŚdangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.
And yet, itâs annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yetâŚ
You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and heâs too far gone to let it go.
âCome home with me.â He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. âWe can do jobs together. Like we used to. You donât have toâŚdo this.â
You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you wantâŚ
Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way heâs standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, youâre having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.
His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.
âIâm sorry.â He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. âIâll apologize a thousand fuckinâ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.â
Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldnât give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. Itâs so familiar. So nice. So warm and-
Goddammit.
âStop.â You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. âStop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. Iâm not going home with you.â
The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.
You donât say another word.
You just leave.
-
The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl heâs ever seen.
Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.
Smurf hadnât said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as heâd placed you on the couch, but sheâd seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. Sheâd told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didnât get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. Youâre wearing a flannel thatâs way too big and has holes in it.
âI think sheâs been sleepinâ on the beach.â Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. Youâre so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.
âJunkie?â He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. MaybeâŚ
Craig shakes his head. âNah. Not a junkie. I dunno if sheâs homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.â
Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you donât wake.
âSheâs hot.â His younger brother observes, and Popeâs frown deepens. âAnd badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckinâ demon. She doesnât even know me.â
You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.
Hard, but not impossible. Because thereâs something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screamsâŚfighter. Survivor. Protector.
And he hasnât even spoken to you yet, but thereâs something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he canât exactly pinpoint but certainly canât ignore.
His.
-
When you wake up, heâs watching you. He knows he probably shouldnât be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he canât seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but heâs afraid to wake you.
Your eyes flutter open. Theyâre beautiful.
And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.
You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.
Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. Youâre in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.
You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.
âWhere am I?â He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.
âMy house.â He says simply, cocking his head to the side. âCraig brought you here.â
Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.
âWhy did you do it?â The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside donât just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.
âThree to one didnât seem like fair odds.â
Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame heâll never let go out.
You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.
âDo you want a sandwich?â
You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.
âSure.â
-
The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.
When Pope opens the door, there you are.
Fuck, itâs like you donât even know how beautiful you are. Heâs always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and youâre justâŚyou, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.
âYou fixed my door.â
Heâs shirtless. Itâs early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.
Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. Heâs devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-
âYou fixed my door.â You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.
âYeah.â
âPope, you donât know where I live.â
His brow furrows a little more.
âFine, I havenât told you where I live.â Oh, thatâs what you mean. Right.
âIt was creaking.â
âHow many times have you broken into my house?â
Seven. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âAndrew.â
You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.
âWeâre broken up. You canât break into my house.â
âWeâre not broken up.â The fact comes easily. Simply. Thereâs no plea behind it. No question at all.
âWeâre broken up. You broke up with me.â
âNo, I didnât. I said stop coming around. I didnât break up with you.â
âWhatever you did, it was three years ago.â
âAnd youâre not in prison.â He wants to ask why youâre not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldnât, you know how he thinks. Youâre just being deliberately obtuse because youâre angry. But heâll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if thatâs what you need. âIâm out. We still love each other.â
âYou donât know that I still love you.â
He raises an eyebrow. âTell me you donât.â
You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. Heâs always found itâŚcute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And heâll never try to pretend that he doesnât love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.
âYou fucked up my job.â
âYou hate those jobs. They bore you.â
Your eyes narrow, and youâre gorgeous when youâre angry. âI donât have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.â
Youâre stalling. You donât want to leave. âIt will.â He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. âWant some breakfast?â
âNo.â Youâre still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.
âCoffee?â
You hesitate. Frown. âFine.â
And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.
-
Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.
Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly justâŚmade you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.
Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.
But you did well. Really well.
And then, after dinner, you disappeared.
Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. Heâd hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, butâŚ
âHi.â
Shit. âHi.â
âWanna sit down?â
Yes. So fucking badly. Heâd do anything in the world to just be close to you. âDo you want me to?â
âYeah.â
He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.
He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like itâs the easiest thing in the world.
âAre youâŚokay?â Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? Youâre so warm. So soft. He doesnât have experience with this kind of thing.
âOh yeah.â You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. âI mean, if youâre asking if Iâm upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, donât worry. Iâm fine.â You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.
He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath youâŚ
âSo whatâs wrong?â
You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. âI donât know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like itâs going too well.â
âToo well?â
âThings change. They hurt when they change. Itâs tooâŚgood.â He starts to say something, though he isnât sure what, before you continue. âThatâs why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. Itâs why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?â
He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You donât even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.
âIt sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is soâŚbig. And no matter whatâs going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshitâs happening to me just feelsâŚinconsequential. More manageable, I guess.â
Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.
His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you donât pull away.
âIâll always be here.â He murmurs, some part of him terrified that youâll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.
And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. âThank you.â
-
Itâs a fucking whirlwind.
You donât know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and heâs standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you canât spend another second without his lips against your own.
He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you havenât even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, itâs weird for there to be any aspect of Popeâs life that you donât know about.
The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before heâs lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.
âBedroom.â You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.
âThree years.â He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.
He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you canât help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.
âTell me you want this.â
You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of âI want this, Andrewâ before heâs pushing into you and it is everything youâve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.
You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.
You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.
âThree years.â He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.
And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.
Itâs fast and desperate, like he really and truly canât help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, itâs everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesnât stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.
âYeah?â He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. âYeah?â
You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.
For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each otherâs arms with your legs shaking and Popeâs shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.
âI missed you.â He whispers, and youâre smiling too.
And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.
âWhere are we going?â You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. âBedroom.â
-
Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like heâs relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isnât his name, tells you he loves you until heâs hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain youâve felt in the past. Every tear youâve shed. Every lonely moment.
At some point, when heâs trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.
âWeâre not back together.â You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.
âWeâre not.â You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesnât speak, and he doesnât need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.
-
The sun is setting by the time youâre both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where youâd lasted about five minutes before heâd slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each otherâs hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned intoâŚwell, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.
Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if youâll ever walk again.
âHoly shit. We havenât done that sinceâŚâ you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Popeâs proud smile against your forehead.
âThree years and forty nine days.â He supplies, and you canât hold back your giggle. âDay after the jewelry store job.â
âRight.â Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. âForgot about that.â
âI didnât.â
You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.
-
For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Codyâs arms.
And heâs asleep. Heâs soundly, completely asleep. Heâs always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.
Heâs completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.
There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurfâs manipulations, Craigâs irresponsibility, Deranâs tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and BazâŚwell, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like thisâŚthis was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Codyâs arms.
Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.
He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesnât wake.
You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. Heâs so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.
And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.
You donât bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.
Heâll wake up soon, and heâll find you. And when he does, heâll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. Youâll talk, and heâll apologize, and he isnât very good with words but youâll understand him and youâll forgive him. Just like that.
Youâre not ready for that.
So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Codyâs.
âWhere the hell have you been?â Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.
You glance down at Popeâs t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.
Oh well. âYouâre gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.â
He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. âSo whyâre you callinâ me?â
âCause Iâm crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.â
âOr both.â
You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. Youâre confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, youâve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.
Well, you donât have that. You have Craig Cody.
âIâve gotta go off grid for a minute.â You say, and trail your eyes back towards Popeâs darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. âWanna get drunk?â
Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.
âSure. Where are you?â
-
Pope hasnât seen you in three days.
Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.
âItâs weird, dude. The balance is gone. Sheâs not talking him out of shit anymore. Theyâre just kinda ramping each other up.â He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. âWhatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and Iâm not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.â
âI didnât do anything.â Heâs already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were justâŚgone.
Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you werenât back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by âOh God oh God Andrew please donât stopâ itâs a little hard to let the words sink in.
Heâd searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that youâd turned it off. He went to Craigâs house, and his brother wasnât there. You didnât take your car when you disappeared. Heâs been worried sick about you and now youâve been on some kind of bender?
âYou did something.â Deran doesnât seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? âThey havenât done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.â
âI didnât fucking dump her.â He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.
âYou should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-â
âJust tell me if sheâs okay.â The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.
âJust get here.â The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.
-
Everything is nice and fuzzy, and youâre having a very fun time.
You donât have anywhere near Craigâs tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this âbenderâ hasnât exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.
And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.
You started at Craigâs house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.
âHoly shit, just say it. Say it already!â Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. âAre you mad? Sad? Câmon, quit beinâ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?â
âIâm angry!â You take the shot, down it, and sputter.
And then you smash the glass against the wall.
âThere she is!â Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friendâs arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.
âGimme another.â
He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.
And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.
And eventually, you ended up in Deranâs bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.
That is, until Pope Cody shows up.
Youâve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.
Thatâs okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.
âWeâre leaving.â He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.
âNuh uh.â You step back, and his frown deepens.
âDude, lay off. Sheâs just blowinâ off some steam-â
âWhat the fuck are you doing, man?â Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesnât get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.
âWhatâre you doing?â Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. âYou think youâre cool just walkinâ in here and making her go home?â
Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.
But youâre too late.
âMaybe Iâm sick and tired of pickinâ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.â Craig shoves Pope. Hard. âSeriously man, whatâs the fuckinâ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?â
Pope punches him in the face.
You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.
Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craigâs back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.
You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, thatâs gonna leave a mark.
The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.
Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craigâs lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. Youâve had worse, sure, but the bruise isnât gonna be pretty and you know damn well heâs gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.
You look up at him, reach up to pat his chestâŚ
And puke on his shoes.
You hear him mumble a quiet âoh, fuckâ before heâs shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.
âSorry.â You mumble, and he doesnât respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.
He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.
Youâre suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.
You feel Popeâs hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.
It feels like home.
-
âLook who finally decided to come home.â
Your fatherâs voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.
âThis isnât home.â You drop your keys on the counter. Itâs not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.
You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Codyâs arms. He hadnât woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but heâd hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as youâd wiggled your way out of his embrace.
Your father scoffs, and doesnât look up from the TV. âYou think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you canât give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?â
Itâs your turn to scoff. You donât answer. He keeps going.
âYou think that crazy kid loves you? You think youâll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ainât gonna love you. None of âem are. I know Smurf. Sheâs keepinâ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killinâ everyone in the house. They donât give a shit about you. They use you. Sâall youâre good for, anyway.â
That hits you. Harder than it should.
No. No, heâs wrong. Heâs an asshole, and heâs wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. Thereâs no question there.
âŚRight? Itâs not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Popeâs love isâŚobsessive. You donât mind it. You like it, actually. But-
No. Fucking no. Youâre not letting him get in your head. You canât.
Because thereâs Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but⌠but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.
And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you canât doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like heâll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing youâve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like heâs fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.
And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruisesâŚ
Youâd spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. Youâd spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that theyâll help him end this asshole.
Thatâs love.
And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.
âThe only reason youâre still alive, is because of me.â It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. âDonât forget that.â
Your father just smiles, like youâre wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.
You walk out the door, instead.
-
He sits you on the edge of his bed, and itâs just like before. Like every time youâve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if itâs okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.
He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but heâs realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away wasâŚwell, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didnât experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.
You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until heâs sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.
âYouâre mad at me.â
You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.
His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.
âWhy?â He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. âI thoughtâŚI thought we were good.â
You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.
He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.
âIâm not good at this. You always tell me.â Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. âTell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.â
You curl a little closer.
âYou left me.â You finally whisper. âYou promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.â
He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.
âI went to the beach, and it didnât feel better, because you werenât there.â Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. âI thought you didnât love me anymore. For three years.â
Fuck. âIâll never stop loving you.â If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. Heâs gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. âNever.â
And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, ââŚI donât know if I believe you, anymoreâŚâ
-
The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a womanâs fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.
And youâre proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.
âGeez, Pope really did a number on you.â You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a littleâŚemphatically. But still.
âPretty sure heâs got some pent up anger.â He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. âHowâs your back?â
You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. âItâs fine. The hangover was worse.â
Craig looks like heâs about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. Heâs apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and youâve forgiven him every time. After all, he didnât mean it, and youâve definitely had worse. âDamn, how bad?â
Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last nightâs tequila expels itself from your stomach.
Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.
âOh, the humanity.â You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. âChrist, did I get hit by a truck last night?â
âYou broke up a bar fight.â
âWhy the fuck would I do that?â
âIt wasâŚbetween me and Craig.â
You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. âDid you kill him?â
âNo. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so Iâm going to.â
Ah, thatâs where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, butâŚ
âHave you slept?â
He frowns, and looks like heâs fighting the urge to reach for you. âNo.â
Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-
âOkay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.â You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like youâve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.
His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesnât hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of âcâmereâŚâ
He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way thatâs always made him melt.
âI love you.â He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. âIâm sorry-â
âShhh. Go to sleep.â You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. âHead hurts, and you need to sleep.â
He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. âOkay.â
âIâve had worse.â You smile, and clink your beer against Craigâs. âThanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.â
Your friendâs smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. âFuck yeah I did. You did, too.â
âAw, shucks.â You grin, and itâs just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deranâs concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. âRennâs here.â
He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. Thatâs how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what heâs always deserved.
âYou two back together?â
âNah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. WeâreâŚyou know.â
You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. âJust donât fuck it up again, okay? Youâll be fine. Donât overthink.â
His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.
You scoff. âShut up.â
-
Thatâs the problem with good things. They always end.
Youâre at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you canât help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.
âDo you wanna go home?â
You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.
You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-
Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.
âIâll be right back.â You murmur, and when Popeâs brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. âJust gotta go to the bathroom, first.â
You leave before he can follow.
-
âYou look like shit.â You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.
âHeard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.â His retort makes you grit your teeth. âStill sluttinâ yourself out to the Codys?â
âWhat the fuck do you want this time?â
âJust an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.â Fuck. âWouldnât be too great for good olâ Dopeâs probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?â
âPope had nothing to do with that.â
Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. âShouldnât be a problem, then.â
âFuck you.â
âHow âbout we make a trade? I donât gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.â
You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. âLike I said, fuck you.â
You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it youâre being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.
âThought I raised you better than that.â The fingers on your wrist feel like theyâre going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you canât let your voice betray the pain youâre in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. âYou got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.â
He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.
-
âWhere did you go?â Popeâs dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.
You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. âI need my cut.â
âYeah. Youâll get it when we-â
âI need it now.â
He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but youâre too late. He knows you too well.
His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.
âWhere is he?â He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but heâs not letting you run from this. âIs he here?â
âNot anymore.â His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly youâre worried he might crack a damn tooth. âHey, Andrew. Look at me.â
His eyes donât leave the bruises on your arm. âI should have killed him.â
âBeating him half to death caused enough problems.â Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.
Itâs been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.
Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. âIâm fine. Weâre fine. LetâsâŚâ God, youâre supposed to keep up with this ânot together anymoreâ thing, but âcan we just go home?â
He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.
âYeah. Yeah, letâs go.â
-
Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.
God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.
Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.
âHoly shit.â Craig. Craigâs voice, as familiar as your own.
âI got hit.â You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. ââŚby a car.â As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing thatâs believable.
âYouâre a shit liar.â Now you know thatâs not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. âIâm gonna kill him.â
Youâve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. Itâs becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isnât hurting.
âDonât. JustâŚdonât.â You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.
âFuck that. You look like youâre about to keel the fuck over.â He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. âYouâre not going back there.â
âI hit him with a fuckinâ frying pan.â You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. âSo I figure Iâm not welcome back any time soon.â
âSmurf is gonna shit.â He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. âFuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?â
âI donât know.â You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. Youâve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like youâve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, youâve missed him so much itâs almost concerning.
Fuck.
âBeer, please.â You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. âI donât know. Iâll tell him I got in an accident.â
Craigâs answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. âYeah, real fuckinâ believable.â
You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. âOkay. IâŚgive me a sweatshirt.â
âHeâll just take it off.â
âFuck.â Heâs right. You shouldnât have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. âIâve gotta go.â
âFat fuckinâ chance.â Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. âYou think Iâm gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ainât Pope, but Iâm not gonna let you into a situation where you could-â
You sense him before you see him. You didnât even hear the door open.
âGet. Away. From. Her.â
Shit.
âShit.â Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.
Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that heâs not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights youâve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When youâve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.
âPlease.â You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. âPlease be okay about this.â
He doesnât answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.
âWhere is he?â
âPope. Andrew. Please.â Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. âPlease, just take me to bed.â You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. âI just wanna go to bed.â
And he does.
One hour later, he leaves that bed. You donât open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.
But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.
And you let him.
Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurfâs house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.
Youâre waiting for him in the hall.
You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.
âIs he dead?â Your voice is quiet. He doesnât look guilty, but he doesnât look away from you, either.
âNo.â
You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.
âNext time you do that,â you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, âtake me with you.â
He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.
-
A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, butâŚwell, theyâre more here for emotional support. And because they wouldnât let you come alone.
When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money youâve sent him, the amount of time heâs still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard youâve worked to break awayâŚ
To your surprise, he hadnât snapped. He hadnât stormed out of his house to find the old man. HeâdâŚ
Heâd kissed you. Heâd wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.
You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.
When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.
âWhat was that for?â
He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. âIâm sorry I wasnât here.â He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. âIâm sorry you had to be so fuckinâ brave on your own.â
âAndrew, IâŚâ this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You havenât mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.
He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. âI love you. You donât wanna be together? Thatâs okay. We can do whatever you want.â He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. âIâm not going anywhere, and youâre not dealing with this alone.â
Youâre not alone. Heâs not going anywhere. Never again.
You believe him. You really, really believe him.
âTake off your clothes, please.â
He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. âAre you sure?â
âPositive.â Youâre already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. âI love you. I trust you.â The words are murmured between kisses, ânow please take off your clothes.â
âChrist, itâs like you think youâre Tony Soprano or some shit.â You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what youâre used to is absolutely insane.
Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks heâs tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what youâre doing. Shocker, that youâre the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.
Well, not anymore.
âI told you to come alone. You brought your fuckinâ guard dog.â
âYeah, youâre one to talk.â You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. âDid you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?â Youâre guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.
âEnough.â Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. âTell the psycho to leave.â
âCall him a psycho one more time, and this time it wonât be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.â
âAre you threatening me, you little shit?â
âLike father, like daughter.â
âI should teach you a fuckinâ lesson-â he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.
It all happens so fast.
In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times heâs made threats, itâs always been diffused. Heâs always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.
This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.
The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.
You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-
And then the gun goes off.
-
You wake to an empty bed.
Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. Itâs not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.
Huh.
The mystery doesnât stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.
Naked. Staring at the moon.
He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.
âHey, handsome.â You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesnât move. He doesnât break his eyes from the night sky. âWhat are we looking at?â
âEverything.â He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isnât here. Isnât entirely inside his own head. Thatâs alright. This isnât the first time something like this has happened, and it probably wonât be the last. At least heâs not smashing anything with a hammer.
âSounds like a lot.â You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. âHow âbout you just look at me instead?â
When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.
âYouâre an angel.â The words come out as a reverent whisper. Heâs not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when heâs in this state.
âNot quite.â You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. âBut I appreciate the compliment.â
Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes donât leave you. âCan IâŚtouch you?â
You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.
âWill you come to bed with me?â You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. âIâm not an overly jealous person, but Iâd prefer to keep this view for myself. Donât wanna share with the neighbors.â
âIâll do anything for you.â
âTell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?â
He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You canât make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.
âI love you.â You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. âEvery part of you. You know that?â
âI donât deserve it.â He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.
âYou do.â You kiss his nose. His cheek. âYou really, really do.â
-
For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.
Itâs not like you donât know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind canât seem to keep up. Canât seem to process exactly what just happened.
You feel like you got punched in the stomach. Thereâs an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and thenâŚ
Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.
âFuck.â Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. âFuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!â
Youâve heard that voice before. When heâs lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. Thatâs the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.
You didnât even get to do your little speech. Your whole âfuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time youâre getting a cent from meâ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.
Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.
âNo. No no no no no!â
Now thatâŚthat isnât concern either. Itâs worse. So much worse. Itâs the realest and most raw fear youâve ever heard.
Thereâs too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. Itâs spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that youâd tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.
Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice itâs way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.
âItâs okay. Itâs okay. Iâve got you. Youâre gonna be okay. Look at me. Câmon, y-youâve gotta look at me.â
Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrewâs arms tighten around you.
âClose your eyes.â The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. âClose your eyes, sweetheart. Itâs gonna be okay.â He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.
When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.
Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.
âDonât look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? Youâre gonna be okay.â
He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.
-
âHoly shit. What happened?â
Craig is hunched over the toilet. Thereâs a bottle of tequila on the floor.
He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. âGo away.â
âNah.â Youâre already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.
âMâa fuckup.â He mumbles. âJusâ aâŚdrunk idiot. Deran said.â
You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. âDefinitely acting like one.â
âSee?â He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. âEven you say it.â
âShut up. You know thatâs not what Iâm saying.â You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. âHey, look at me.â
He does. He looks like he might have been crying.
âYouâre one of the smartest people I know, you know that?â
âYouâre not funny.â
âIâm not lying.â
He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. âYou gotta stop seeinâ the best in me.â
âToo late. You done puking?â
He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.
And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Popeâs room he catches your wrist.
âI love you.â
You stop, and furrow your brow.
âNot in like, a weird way. Mânot tryna fuck you or anything. I donât even know howâŚâ he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. âI dunno how to say it.â
Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. âI think youâre telling me Iâm youâre best friend.â
âWell, obviously. Sâmore than that, though. You donâtâŚyou donât think Iâm a fuckup. You actually like me.â
You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didnât think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.
Who loved you like you loved him, and wasnât sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didnât think twice when he realized that it wasnât romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, heâs drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.
âYou have the biggest heart.â You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. âEven if you can be an idiot sometimes.â
He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. Heâs only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.
âPromise you wonât go anywhere.â He mumbles, like heâs nervous to say it.
He smells like puke, and heâs sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.
âCanât get rid of me if you tried, jackass.â
-
Craig is freaking out. Heâs in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and heâs freaking out.
Oh, no. That wonât do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. OrâŚor is it the other way around? Itâs concerningly difficult to think. You feel like youâre floating.
âAlmost there. Almost there. Donât leave me, okay?â God, Andrew Codyâs voice is the best thing youâve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but heâs shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and youâre supposed to fix that.
âDrive fucking faster!â Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesnât let up. âDeran, the IV isnât working. Itâs not working, sheâs too fuckinâ pale.â
Heâs covered in blood. You canât see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and itâs getting really hard to think.
âMâhere.â You try, scratchy and raw. âMâhere. Youâre okay. DonâtâŚbe a dumbass.â
âFuck. Fuck, donât die. Please donât die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.â You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard itâs almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. âTheyâre all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. Youâre not going with them, you hear me? Youâre not going with them.â
Thereâs shouting. Thereâs panic. Itâs all fading. Popeâs lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing andâŚ
-
âI love you.â
The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost donât hear them through the haze of sleep. But youâre awake, now. He doesnât know it, but youâre awake.
You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.
âI love you.â He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.
You shift, and he goes very, very still.
âHi.â You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.
ââŚHi.â
âYou just said you loved me.â
âIâŚthought you were sleeping.â
You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.
âHow long have you been telling me you love me when Iâm asleep?â
Heâs silent. He doesnât look away.
âAndrew?â
ââŚa while.â
You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. âI love you, too.â
His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. âYou do?â
âYeah.â How could you not? How could he not know? âOf course I do.â
-
A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.
âFuck, thank God. You looked likeâŚshit, okay. Pope, let her go. Youâve gotta let her go, man.â
âWhere were you?â Heâs whispering against your cheek, and heâs out of his mind. Shit, heâs really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and heâs speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. âWhere did you go? Donât go. Take me with you.â
Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.
But youâre losing time, and heâs not letting you go.
âDonât touch her.â Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. âDonât touch her. Donât take her away.â
You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Popeâs arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.
Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.
âFuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.â Craig says, and heâs still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Popeâs head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then youâre being lifted out of the car.
âI got you. Itâs okay.â You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. âPopeâs okay, too. Everythingâs gonna be fine, yeah? JustâŚjust donât die. Please, please donât die.â
Youâre so tired. You want Andrew. If youâre going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. ButâŚ
-
When you open your eyes, itâs to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.
You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And youâre alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and youâre alive.
Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like youâre the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.
âHi.â You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. âAre you here?â You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like heâs here now. He looks like heâs your Andrew.
He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.
âI thoughtâŚI thought you were-â
âI think we should get married on the beach.â You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. âSâthat okay?â
He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like heâs trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. âYou wanna get married?â
âDo you?â
âYes.â Thereâs no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. âBut youâre on-â
âI know. Still want to. I can ask you again when Iâm off them, if you want.â
âI think you should.â He murmurs, but heâs smiling. Itâs a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like heâs already re-learning the expression.
âMm.â You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. âYou wanna marry me?â
âSince I first met you.â
âSoftie.â You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. âYou never asked, though.â
âI planned it.â He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. âBought a ring.â
âWhen?â
âFive years ago.â
You raise your eyebrows, and say again, âyou never asked.â
âNever found a perfect time.â
âMm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.â
He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. âI killed your father.â
Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. âOkay.â
âIâm glad I did it.â
âI know.â
And, like he just canât help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.
âCan we get married now?â You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.
âWhen the drugs wear off.â
You frown, and shrug. âOkay. Can we go home?â
âWhen they say you can.â
Hm. âCan we have sex?â
He laughs. Itâs a beautiful sound. âGo to sleep.â
âYouâre no fun.â
âPromise I will be.â He kisses your cheek. âFor the rest of your life.â
âI like where this is going.â
âIâll never leave you again.â
âKeep talkinâ, Cody.â
âWhen we get home, Iâll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.â
âTake me now.â
The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. âGo to sleep.â
-
You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. Thereâs no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesnât love it, but she doesnât fight it. It wouldnât be great optics, after all, for her sonâs girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.
He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when youâre fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.
Itâs nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.
But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and justâŚenjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.
A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.
His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.
âGood morning.â You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. âI officially think Iâm healed enough forâŚstrenuous activities.â
He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-
And pulling back.
You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide itâs almost silly.
âI have another idea.â
âItâs been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.â
His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping youâd say something like that, andâŚ
And pulls out a ring.
âOh.â You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. Itâs simple. Beautiful. Perfect.
âBought a new one.â He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.
Summary: your picket sign says MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. Garrettâs nose says otherwise. Youâre Boston Universityâs loudest omega-rights activist, three years deep into a thesis that biology is a leash, not a law. Then Briarâs captain scents you across a hockey rink, levels your brother in the process, and decides the rest is just a matter of time. What follows is a war fought in courting gifts and stubborn silences ⌠and a slow, infuriating realization that being chosen doesnât have to mean losing yourself
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The pungent scent of nail polish remover and cheap vanilla air freshener fills the small space of your Boston University dorm room.
You sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of poster board and permanent markers. You uncap a thick red Sharpie and lean over your current masterpiece.
âI just donât understand why society still expects us to roll over and expose our necks the second some guy puffs out his chest,â you say, aggressively dotting the âiâ on your poster.
Your roommate, Jackie, sighs from her spot on the ratty futon. Sheâs meticulously painting her nails a violent shade of crimson, her knees pulled up to her chest. âBecause biology is a bitch, and alphas smell good. Itâs not that deep, babe.â
âIt is that deep, Jackie,â you argue, sitting back on your heels to admire your work. The sign reads MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. âThatâs literally the entire point of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy.â
âO.M.E.G.A. is a mouthful,â she mutters, blowing gently on her left hand.
âItâs an acronym,â you correct her, tossing the red marker aside and picking up a black one. âAnd we have a meeting tomorrow night. You should come. Weâre discussing the systematic dismantling of second-gender workplace bias, specifically in corporate leadership.â
âSounds like a rager. Canât wait.â Jackie rolls her eyes, though sheâs smiling. âYou know, for an Omega Studies and Sexuality major, you spend a lot of time completely denying your own instincts.â
âI am not denying my instincts. I am refusing to be ruled by them,â you say firmly. You grab your BU Terriers hoodie off the floor and pull it over your head. âI refuse to be a stereotype. Iâm a sophomore in college. I want a career. I donât want to be locked in a penthouse somewhere popping out pups for an arrogant, territorial alpha who treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain.â
âHey, if some rich alpha wants to lock me in a penthouse and pay off my student loans, I am not fighting it,â Jackie teases.
âYouâre impossible.â You laugh, zipping up your canvas tote bag. You love BU, and you love your major â even if your parents think itâs a colossal waste of tuition. You are fiercely independent. The whole concept of a destined mate makes you want to gag. You donât need protection. You donât need a provider. You just need people to treat you with basic human respect.
âAre you still coming to the game tonight?â You ask, checking your phone.
âTo watch your brother get demolished by Briar University? Absolutely.â Jackie carefully caps her nail polish. âThe Hawks are basically walking wet dreams on ice skates. Have you seen their captain? Garrett Graham?â
âI donât care what he looks like. Heâs an alpha, which means heâs probably an arrogant Neanderthal.â
âA hot, arrogant Neanderthal,â Jackie corrects. âSeriously, your brother is a decent third-line center, but Briar is number one in the country right now. Itâs going to be a bloodbath. Graham is merciless.â
âHeâs my brother. I have to support him.â You shove your phone into your pocket. âPlus, he promised me heâd take me out for pizza after the game. I am holding him to that, even if heâs bruised.â
âAssuming he survives,â Jackie says, grabbing her jacket. âCome on. If we donât leave now, weâre going to get stuck sitting behind the glass where all the obnoxious frat alphas bang on the plastic.â
***
Garrett stares at the glowing screen of his phone, the white text bubbles burning into his retinas.
Donât embarrass me tonight. Scouts are watching. Play like a man, not a bitch.
Thatâs it. Thatâs the pre-game motivational text from his father. Phil Graham, NHL legend, all-star defenseman, and world-class piece of shit.
Garrett locks the phone, the screen going black, and throws it roughly into his duffel bag. He leans forward on the wooden bench of the visitorâs locker room at the BU arena, resting his elbows on his knees. He runs a heavy hand over his face, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of tape wax, sweat, and the chill of the ice rink.
This is his sanctuary. The ice. Briar. His team. Out here, Phil canât touch him.
âYou good, G?â
Garrett looks up. Logan is standing there, leaning his weight casually on his expensive composite hockey stick, his dark eyebrows raised. Logan is his best friend, his right-hand man, a fellow alpha, and the only person on earth who knows exactly what kind of monster Phil Graham really is behind closed doors.
âYeah,â Garrett says, his voice rough. He clears his throat and forces the trademark cocky captain smirk onto his face. The mask falls into place easily. âJust thinking about how bad weâre gonna crush BU tonight in their own barn.â
âThatâs the spirit,â Dean calls out from three stalls down. He is tossing a roll of white athletic tape in the air and catching it flawlessly. âI hear they have a weak defense. Iâm planning on scoring at least a hat trick so I can impress those bunnies I saw waiting by the tunnel.â
âYou literally couldnât score a hat trick if the goalie was blindfolded and facing the wrong way, Dean,â Tucker says mildly. Tucker is adjusting his shoulder pads, his southern drawl cutting through the locker room noise.
âFuck you, Tuck. My wrister is lethal, and you know it.â
Garrett chuckles, the lingering tension in his shoulders bleeding out. These guys are his brothers. The family he chose.
He turns his attention down to his skates, his mind drifting back to his mom as he pulls the laces tight. She was a beta. Soft-spoken, kind, with a warm laugh that used to fill their massive, empty house before the lung cancer took her away. Before she got sick, Phil had been an overbearing, traditional alpha. But behind closed doors, he was abusive. The yelling. The shattered plates. The bruises she tried so hard to hide with concealer.
Garrett had been too small, too young to stop it back then. By the time his own alpha presentation hit, flooding his system with the strength and size he needed to fight back, she was already gone. And the abuse turned fully onto him. Verbal. Physical. Every failure on the ice punished.
He shakes his head, forcefully clearing the dark memories. He made a promise to himself a long time ago. When he found his omega, she would never know a single day of fear. Heâd be a traditional alpha in the best sense of the word. A protector. A provider. He would spoil her rotten and treat her like a princess.
âAlright, boys,â Garrett says, his voice booming. He stands up, his massive frame towering in the room. The locker room goes instantly quiet, all eyes turning to their captain. âListen up. BU thinks they have home-ice advantage tonight. Letâs show them they donât own shit. We play fast, we play hard, we donât let them breathe in the neutral zone. We hit them hard and we keep hitting.â
âHell yeah,â Logan says, slamming his stick against the floor.
âLetâs go!â Dean yells.
The chorus of shouts and barking echoes off the concrete walls as the Briar Hawks file out of the locker room, their skates clattering against the rubber mats as they head for the tunnel.
Garrett takes a deep breath, letting his alpha instincts rise to the surface. Heâs ready for war.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening.
The smell of popcorn, stale beer, and the heavy, musky scent of overexcited alphas in the crowd presses in on you from all sides. You wrinkle your nose, instantly regretting your decision not to apply a scent blocker to your pulse points before leaving the dorm.
âThis is exactly why I hate hockey games!â You yell over the roar of the crowd, leaning close to Jackie. She is sitting next to you, a giant red foam finger on her hand, practically vibrating with excitement.
âWhat? I canât hear you over the sound of my own ovulation!â Jackie yells back, pointing frantically down at the ice. âLook at them! Look at Briarâs captain! Number 44! Oh my god, heâs massive.â
You roll your eyes, groaning, but let your gaze follow her pointing finger anyway.
Garrett Graham.
Heâs big. Even under the bulky pads, you can tell heâs built like an absolute tank. He skates with a terrifying, aggressive fluidity. A natural predator on the ice. He stops abruptly at the blue line, sending a spray of crushed ice into the air, and rips his helmet off for a second to run a thick, gloved hand through his messy, sweat-dampened dark hair.
Okay, objectively? The man is gorgeous. Jawline carved from marble, broad shoulders, arrogant smirk.
Subjectively? Heâs everything you despise. The alpha posturing. The aggressive chest-puffing. The way the crowd roars for him just because he exists.
âHeâs just a guy playing a game,â you say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest.
âHe is a literal god,â Jackie counters, fanning herself with a game program. âOh look, your brotherâs line is going out for the shift.â
You lean forward, your focus immediately shifting away from the Briar captain. Your brother skates out to the center circle. Itâs midway through the first period, and the energy in the building is already chaotic.
âCome on,â you whisper, clutching the cold edge of your plastic seat. âWin this face-off.â
***
Third period. Ten minutes left on the clock. The score is tied 2-2.
Garrett skates slowly to the center dot, his chest heaving. His muscles are burning â a good, familiar burn. He feels alive. He feels utterly dominant. He already has one goal and an assist under his belt tonight, but he wants the game-winner.
He coasts to a stop, the steel blades of his skates biting sharply into the ice.
The BU center skates up to the dot opposite him. Some sophomore kid. Number 13. Garrett doesnât even know his name. He just knows the kid is a third-liner trying to punch above his weight class.
Garrett bends his knees, resting the blade of his stick on the ice, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
He takes a deep, grounding breath through his nose, pulling in the icy air to cool his burning lungs.
And then it hits him.
Itâs not just a scent. Itâs a violent explosion in his brain.
Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And a sharp, wild hit of sweet jasmine.
It bypasses every logical thought process in his mind and hooks directly into his brainstem. His alpha instantly roars to life, clawing desperately at the inside of his skull.
Omega.
My omega.
Garrett freezes. His pupils blow wide, consuming his irises. His vision tunnels, the edges of the brightly lit arena blurring into darkness. The deafening roar of the BU crowd fades into absolute, dead silence in his ears.
He breathes in again, harder this time. The scent is intoxicating. Itâs the most incredible thing heâs ever smelled in his entire life. It makes his blood run boiling hot, his heart slamming against his ribcage like a sledgehammer trying to break out.
He snaps his head up, his neck cracking, looking around wildly. Where is she? Where is his mate?
But the scent isnât coming from the stands behind the glass.
Itâs coming from directly in front of him.
Garrettâs crazed gaze snaps down to the BU center. Number 13. The kid is an alpha â Garrett can smell the faint, bitter undertone of male alpha hormones â but itâs completely smothered, drowned out by the sweet, overwhelming scent of Garrettâs omega.
The realization hits him like a freight train to the chest.
This alpha has his omegaâs scent on him.
Not just a passing brush in a hallway. The scent is deep. Itâs lingering. Itâs embedded in the fabric of his jersey, soaked into his skin. This alpha has been touching her. Holding her.
Mine.
A low, guttural snarl rips from Garrettâs throat. It doesnât even sound human. It sounds like a wild animal cornered in a cage.
The BU center looks up from the ice, his eyes widening in confusion. âWhat the-â
Garrett doesnât think. He doesnât process. The rational, calculating captain of the Briar Hawks vanishes in an instant, replaced entirely by a feral, territorial alpha staring at a direct threat to what is his.
âWhy do you smell like her?â Garrett growls, his voice vibrating with absolute venom.
âExcuse me?â the BU player says, gripping his stick tighter, stepping back slightly at the sheer hostility rolling off the Briar captain.
âWhy. Do. You. Smell. Like. My. Omega.â
Before the kid can even open his mouth to answer, Garrett snaps.
He drops his expensive stick onto the ice. His heavy, padded gloves shoot out, grabbing the front of the BU centerâs jersey and twisting the fabric tight into his fists. With a violent, explosive shove, Garrett slams the guy backward off his skates.
The kid hits the ice hard.
The refereeâs whistle blows shrilly, piercing the air.
Garrett doesnât hear it. He falls on top of the guy, his heavy fist pulling back and coming down. Hard.
The BU playerâs helmet flies off, skittering across the ice.
âDonât touch her!â Garrett roars, his vision completely red. He lands another brutal punch to the guyâs jaw. âDonât you ever fucking touch her!â
âGraham! What the fuck!â
Hands are suddenly grabbing at his jersey. Pulling at his shoulder pads.
âGet off me!â Garrett thrashes wildly, throwing an elbow blindly backward to shake off the hands. He needs to get back to the alpha beneath him. He needs to obliterate this guy. He needs to erase him from existence for daring to lay hands on his destined mate.
âGarrett, stop! Stop!â
Itâs Loganâs voice, shouting directly in his ear. Logan has his massive arms wrapped securely around Garrettâs chest, hauling him backward with pure, desperate alpha strength.
Dean is there a second later, grabbing Garrettâs right arm, while Tucker grabs his left. Two referees are swarming the pile, one of them throwing himself over the bleeding BU player to shield him.
âLet me go!â Garrett snarls, his fangs fully descended, his chest heaving violently. He fights against his own teammates, his boots scrambling frantically for purchase on the slick ice to launch himself forward again.
âGarrett, snap the fuck out of it!â Logan yells, shoving him forcefully back against the glass boards. âWhat the hell is wrong with you? Youâre going to get suspended!â
Garrett blinks, panting heavily, his breath pluming in the cold air. His knuckles ache. The thick, red haze of pure, instinctual rage slowly starts to recede, leaving behind a frantic, clawing panic in his chest.
âHe smells like her,â Garrett gasps out, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes dart frantically toward the BU bench where the athletic trainers are dragging number 13 off the ice. âLogan, he smells like my mate.â
Logan stares at him, his face pale under his visor. âWhat?â
âMy omega,â Garrett says, his voice breaking with sheer desperation. âHe had her scent on him.â
***
You are on your feet, your hands clamped tightly over your mouth in absolute horror.
It happened so fast. One second, your brother was lining up for the face-off. The next, Garrett Graham had morphed into a literal monster, tackling him to the ice and wailing on him like a madman.
The entire arena is in an absolute uproar. Boos, screams, and curses echo off the vaulted rafters.
âOh my god,â Jackie gasps beside you, her foam finger forgotten on the floor. âWhat just happened? Was that a dirty hit? I didnât even see a hit!â
âHe just attacked him!â You yell, your voice shrill with panic. âHe didnât even do anything! He just stood there!â
You watch, trembling violently, as three Briar players have to physically drag their captain away from your brother. Graham looks insane. Heâs fighting them, screaming something you canât hear over the deafening noise of the crowd. His face is twisted in a mask of pure rage.
Thatâs your brother on the ice. Bleeding.
âI have to go,â you say, grabbing your tote bag and shoving past Jackie.
âWait, Y/N, you canât go down there! Security wonât let you!â
âHeâs my brother, Jackie! He might be seriously hurt!â
You squeeze past the knees of the people in your row, ignoring their annoyed grunts and spilled beer. You practically run down the steep concrete steps of the bleachers. Your heart is lodged in your throat, beating a frantic rhythm against your windpipe.
This is exactly what you preach against. This is exactly the kind of volatile, dangerous alpha behavior that society constantly excuses because âbiology made them do it.â Garrett Graham is a brute. An animal. He is everything wrong with the system.
You reach the bottom of the stairs and sprint toward the restricted tunnel that leads to the locker rooms and the medical bay. A large security guard steps into your path, holding up a hand.
âMiss, you canât be down here. Authorized personnel only.â
âMy brother is the player who just got attacked!â You say, your voice cracking with emotion. âNumber 13! Please, I need to make sure heâs okay!â
The guard softens slightly, checking the radio clipped to his shoulder. He sighs. âAlright. Just stay close to the wall and donât get in the medicsâ way.â
âThank you!â
You hurry down the dimly lit concrete hallway. You can hear the muffled shouting from the ice above you, the angry roar of the BU crowd.
You hate him. You absolutely despise Garrett Graham. You donât even know the man, but you hate everything he stands for. He thinks he can just do
whatever he wants, hurt whoever he wants, because heâs a star alpha? Because he wears the captainâs C on his jersey?
Youâre going to make sure he faces consequences. Youâre going to take O.M.E.G.A. and start a campus-wide protest if the league doesnât suspend him.
You turn the corner, rushing toward the BU medical room, completely unaware of the intoxicating scent youâre leaving behind in the cramped hallway.
Sweet vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild jasmine.
***
The concrete walls of the tunnel blur as Logan and Tucker practically drag Garrett away from the ice. The deafening roar of the BU crowd slowly muffles behind the thick, soundproof doors, but the pounding in Garrettâs skull is louder than any arena.
Heâs fighting them every step of the way. His skates catch and drag on the rubber floor mats.
âGet your hands off me!â Garrett snarls, thrashing his shoulders. âI have to go back out there!â
âYouâre not going anywhere near that ice, G!â Logan barks, his grip tightening on the collar of Garrettâs jersey. âYouâre done for the night. Youâre lucky if youâre not done for the season!â
âYou donât understand!â Garrett shoves Tucker hard enough that the defenseman stumbles against the cinderblock wall. Garrett spins around, chest heaving, his alpha fully dialed up to a ten. His fangs are still descended, pressing sharply against his bottom lip. âHe had her scent on him. The BU center. He smelled like my mate.â
Tucker recovers his balance, his easygoing southern expression completely wiped away, replaced by deep concern. âGarrett, man, youâre not thinking straight. You donât even have a mate.â
âI do now!â Garrett roars.
And then, he smells it.
It hits him like a physical blow to the sternum. The scent isnât buried under sweat and masculine alpha pheromones this time. Itâs pure. Itâs fresh. Itâs hanging heavy and sweet in the stagnant air of the restricted hallway.
Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild, intoxicating jasmine.
Garrett freezes. The violent thrashing stops instantly. His pupils dilate so fast his vision swims.
âSheâs here,â he whispers, his voice trembling.
He inhales deeply, his chest expanding as he tries to pull every single molecule of her scent into his lungs. Itâs coming from further down the corridor. Toward the medical bay.
She was just here. She walked right through this hallway.
âOh, fuck no,â Logan says, seeing the terrifying, predatory shift in his best friendâs eyes. âDonât you even think about it.â
But Garrett is already moving. He rips himself out of Loganâs grasp with a violent surge of adrenaline, his heavy hockey skates clattering awkwardly against the floor as he lunges down the hallway.
âMine,â he growls, the word tearing from his throat. He needs to find her. He needs to see her. He needs to wrap her up and hide her away from every other alpha on the planet, especially the one currently bleeding on the ice.
âGrab him!â Logan shouts.
Before Garrett can make it ten feet, a heavy weight slams into his back. Tucker tackles him around the waist, taking them both down to the rubber matting. Garrett hits the floor hard, his elbow pads taking the brunt of the impact. He roars, twisting like a feral animal, throwing an elbow back to dislodge Tucker.
âGraham! Stop!â
Smitty, the Briar Hawksâ head athletic trainer, comes sprinting down the hall, his medical kit swinging wildly from his shoulder. He takes one look at the chaotic pile on the floor â Garrett snarling and clawing at the floorboards to crawl forward, Tucker desperately holding him back, and Logan diving in to pin Garrettâs shoulders â and instantly knows whatâs happening.
âHold him down!â Smitty orders, dropping to his knees beside the pile. He rips open his medical kit, his hands moving with practiced, frantic speed. âHeâs scent-drunk. Heâs totally lost in an alpha drop.â
âSheâs down there!â Garrett screams, his voice cracking with pure, agonizing desperation. âLet me go! Sheâs my omega! I have to get to her!â
âKeep his head still, Logan!â
Logan wraps his thick arms around Garrettâs chest and neck, locking him in a wrestling hold. âI got him. Hurry up, Smitty. Heâs strong as shit right now.â
Smitty tears open a sterile foil packet with his teeth. Inside are three heavy-duty scent blocker patches â industrial strength, the kind usually reserved for alphas who go into uncontrollable rut in public spaces.
Garrett realizes what they are doing a second too late.
âNo!â He thrashes violently. âNo, donât! I need to smell her! Donât take her away from me!â
Itâs heartbreaking. The raw, unfiltered panic in his voice makes Logan wince, but he holds firm.
Smitty slaps the first cold, gel-lined patch directly over the scent gland on the right side of Garrettâs neck. He presses it down hard. He rips open a second packet and slaps it onto the left side. Then he grabs Garrettâs bare wrist, right where his glove ends, and slaps a third one over his pulse point.
The reaction is almost instantaneous.
The heavy, pharmaceutical chemicals in the patches flood Garrettâs system, aggressively suppressing his olfactory receptors and numbing the frantic misfiring of his alpha hormones.
The sweet, beautiful scent of vanilla and jasmine vanishes.
Itâs like someone turned off the sun. The world goes cold, gray, and completely empty.
Garrett stops fighting. The adrenaline drains out of him so fast he feels physically sick. His head slumps back against Loganâs arm, his breathing ragged and shallow. He stares blankly at the ceiling, a hollow, agonizing ache carving itself out in the center of his chest.
Sheâs gone. He canât feel her anymore.
âYou good, G?â Logan asks quietly, cautiously loosening his grip.
Garrett doesnât answer. He just closes his eyes, a single tear slipping out and tracking through the sweat and grime on his cheek.
âGet his gear off,â Smitty says gruffly, standing up and brushing off his khakis. âI want him in street clothes and on the team bus in five minutes. Heâs going straight back to campus. He does not pass go, he does not collect two hundred dollars. Do not let him take those patches off until tomorrow morning.â
âWhat about the game?â Tucker asks, climbing off Garrettâs legs and offering a hand down to help him up.
âThe game is over for him,â Smitty says flatly. âAnd if the league reviews that footage, his season might be over, too.â
***
You sit on the edge of the vinyl exam table in the BU medical bay, your leg bouncing a mile a minute. You are chewing furiously on your thumbnail, your eyes locked on the doctor shining a penlight into your brotherâs eyes.
âFollow the light, please. Good. Now the other side.â
Your brother sits there, looking miserable. His bottom lip is split wide open, swollen to the size of a grape. Thereâs a nasty, purple bruise already blooming over his left cheekbone, and heâs holding an ice pack against his jaw.
âHeâs lucky,â the doctor finally says, turning off the penlight and stepping back. âNo concussion. Just some deep contusions and a busted lip. Heâll need a few days off the ice, but structurally, his jaw is fine.â
âFine?â You snap, sliding off the table. âHe got mauled by a rabid animal in front of five thousand people! Heâs not fine!â
âY/N, calm down,â your brother mutters, wincing as the movement pulls his split lip. âItâs hockey. Fights happen.â
âThat wasnât a fight!â You yell, throwing your hands in the air. âHe jumped you! You didnât even drop your gloves! He just snapped and attacked you for absolutely no reason!â
âActually,â your brother says slowly, lowering the ice pack. He frowns, looking confused. âHe was screaming at me.â
âYeah, because heâs an unhinged, steroid-pumped Neanderthal.â
âNo, he ⌠he was screaming about his omega.â Your brother looks at you, his brow furrowed. âHe kept asking why I smelled like his omega.â
You freeze. The anger bubbling in your chest hits a sudden, strange roadblock. âHis ⌠what?â
âHis omega. He said I had her scent on me.â Your brother shakes his head, wincing again. âI donât even know what he was talking about. I havenât hooked up with anyone in weeks. And I definitely havenât been near any Briar girls.â
A cold, uneasy prickle washes over the back of your neck. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very exposed in the sterile room.
âItâs just alpha bullshit,â you say quickly, forcing a dismissive scoff. âHe was trying to justify his violent behavior by blaming it on his biology. Itâs the oldest excuse in the book. âMy instincts made me do it.â Itâs pathetic.â
âMaybe,â he says softly. âBut he looked ⌠terrified. And pissed. Like I had actually taken something from him.â
âWell, heâs delusional,â you state firmly. You grab your tote bag from the chair. âIâm just glad youâre okay. Iâm filing a complaint with the athletic commission tomorrow. O.M.E.G.A. is not going to let this slide. We are going to make an example out of Garrett Graham.â
***
The off-campus house is usually a hub of noise, video games, and chaotic energy. Tonight, it feels like a morgue.
Garrett has been pacing the length of the living room hardwood floor for two hours straight. Back and forth. Window to kitchen island. Kitchen island to window.
Heâs wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt, his hair wet from the shower he was forced to take. The three medical patches are still stark and ugly against his skin. They make his head feel thick and fuzzy, like his brain is wrapped in cotton. He feels nauseous. He feels disconnected from his own body.
But beneath the heavy chemical blanket of the blockers, his alpha is still screaming. Pacing its cage. Clawing at the walls.
Mate. Omega. Where is she? Find her.
Logan sits on one of the leather barstools at the island, nursing a beer. Dean is sprawled on the sectional sofa, silently tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it. Tucker is sitting at the dining table, his laptop open, the screen illuminating his face in the dim room.
âYou gotta sit down, G,â Logan says quietly. âYouâre wearing a trench in the floorboards.â
âI canât,â Garrett grates out, running both hands harshly through his damp hair. âI canât sit still. I feel like Iâm going to jump out of my own skin.â
âThe blockers are messing with your equilibrium,â Tucker chimes in without looking up from his screen. âSmitty said to give it time.â
âFuck Smitty. Fuck the blockers.â Garrett stops pacing and grips the edge of the granite countertop, his knuckles turning white. He looks at Logan, his blue eyes bloodshot and wide with manic energy. âYou donât understand what it felt like, Logie. It was ⌠it was her. I know it was her. My chest physically hurts right now. Like Iâm missing a vital organ.â
Logan sighs, setting his beer down. âI believe you, man. I do. But you canât go feral on the ice. You beat the shit out of a guy for existing in the same airspace as your supposed mate.â
âHe had her scent all over him!â Garrett snaps, a low growl rumbling in his chest despite the patches. âIt wasnât just in the air. It was on his skin. On his jersey. He touched her.â
âOkay, so letâs use our heads,â Dean says, catching the tennis ball and sitting up. âIf this guy had her scent on him, that means he knows her. Heâs been close to her. Which means heâs our only lead.â
Garrettâs head snaps toward Dean. âWhat?â
âDeanâs right,â Tucker says, his fingers flying across the keyboard. âIf we want to find this girl, we start with the guy you used as a punching bag.â
Garrett abandons the counter and marches over to the dining table, pulling up a chair and leaning over Tuckerâs shoulder. Logan and Dean follow suit, the four alphas crowding around the glowing screen.
âWhat are you doing?â Garrett asks, his voice tight.
âI pulled up the BU athletics roster,â Tucker explains, clicking a few links. âThe guy you fought was number 13. Here he is. Center. Sophomore. Hometown is just outside of Boston.â
âPull up his social media,â Logan orders.
Tucker nods, opening a new tab and typing the kidâs name into Instagram. His profile pops up immediately. Itâs public.
Garrett stares at the screen, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache. He hates looking at this guyâs face. His alpha demands he smash the laptop, but he forces himself to breathe. He needs the information.
Tucker scrolls through the feed. Lots of hockey pictures. Pictures with his buddies at parties. Pictures of a golden retriever.
âLook for girls,â Dean says eagerly. âAny girlfriends? Exes? Fling?â
Tucker clicks on a photo from a few months ago. The BU center has his arm thrown around a pretty blonde girl. âMaybe this is her?â
âNo,â Garrett says immediately, pointing at the screen. âThatâs a beta. I can tell just by looking at her. My mate is an omega. A strong one.â
âHow the hell can you tell from a picture?â Dean scoffs.
âI just can,â Garrett snaps. âKeep scrolling.â
Tucker scrolls further back. âOkay, letâs look at tagged photos. Family events. Holidays.â
He clicks on a photo from what looks like a high school graduation a couple of years ago. The BU center is standing in a cap and gown, smiling brightly. Standing next to him is a girl.
You have a radiant smile, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist in a clear display of affection. Youâre beautiful. Strikingly beautiful.
Garrettâs breath hitches in his throat. Even through the heavy, suffocating fog of the scent blockers, a jolt of pure electricity shoots straight down his spine. His heart stutters, then slams into a frantic, double-time rhythm.
âStop,â Garrett whispers.
Tucker pauses the mouse cursor.
âWho is that?â Garrett asks, his voice suddenly hoarse. He leans closer to the screen, his eyes hungrily tracing the lines of your face. The curve of your cheek. The spark in your eyes.
Tucker clicks on the tag hovering over your face. It opens your profile in a small popup window.
Sophomore @ BU. Omega Studies & Sexuality. President of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy (O.M.E.G.A).
A heavy silence falls over the dining table.
âOh, no,â Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face.
âBro,â Logan says, letting out a long, slow whistle. âYou are so screwed.â
Tucker clicks to open your full profile. The grid loads, and suddenly the screen is filled with pictures of you.
Some are normal. Selfies with a friend. Coffee cups. Stacks of textbooks. But a massive chunk of you feed is dedicated to you activism.
There are pictures of you standing on the steps of a campus building holding a megaphone. Pictures of you holding up protest signs made of poster board and Sharpie.
MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY.
ALPHA PRIVILEGE IS A POISON.
EQUAL PAY, EQUAL SAY. END SECOND-GENDER ROLES.
âSheâs one of those omegas,â Dean says, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. âThe militant ones. The ones who take hormone suppressants and refuse to nest. Man, sheâs practically denying her own biology.â
âPerformative activism,â Logan mutters, crossing his arms. âThey think fighting their true nature makes them independent, but they just end up miserable and stressed out all the time. Being an omega isnât a weakness, itâs just how theyâre wired.â
âShe hates alphas,â Tucker points out, gesturing to a particularly aggressive infographic you posted about toxic alpha territorial behavior. âAnd considering you just proved her entire thesis correct by beating her brother to a bloody pulp on live television ⌠Iâd say your chances are hovering somewhere in the negative digits.â
Garrett ignores them. He tunes out their groans and their commentary entirely.
He reaches out and takes the mouse from Tuckerâs hand. He clicks on a close-up selfie of you. Youâre looking off-camera, laughing at something, the wind blowing your hair across your face. You look so vibrant. So fiercely alive.
You are the BU centerâs sister. Thatâs why he smelled like you. It wasnât a loverâs scent. It was familial. Protective.
A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washes over Garrett, so intense his knees actually weaken. You arenât claimed. You arenât with another alpha. Yiu arehis.
He stares at the picture, taking in the stubborn tilt of your chin. The fire in your eyes.
Youâre a fighter. You think you have to fight the world to prove youâre worth something. You think being an omega means being a victim, being weak, being subservient. Youâve built a fortress around yourself, armed to the teeth with protests and slogans and defiance.
Garrettâs lips slowly curve into a small, terrifyingly confident smirk.
He isnât disappointed. Not even a little bit. If anything, the challenge thrills him. His alpha hums with dark, possessive approval.
âYou guys are looking at this all wrong,â Garrett says, his voice low and steady.
Logan raises an eyebrow. âEnlighten us, G. Because from where Iâm standing, your destined mate is the president of the I Hate Alphas fan club.â
âShe doesnât hate alphas,â Garrett says, clicking to the next picture. Itâs a photo of you looking exhausted but determined, sitting at a library desk at 2 AM. âShe hates the way alphas have treated her. She hates feeling like she has to rely on guys who see her as property instead of a partner.â
âAnd you donât?â Dean asks skeptically. âYou literally just claimed her as yours after smelling her once.â
âShe is mine,â Garrett states, factually, like heâs discussing the weather. âFate decided that. But Iâm not going to treat her like property. Iâm going to treat her like a goddamn queen.â
He stands up, his massive frame towering over his friends. The frantic, manic energy from earlier is gone. Itâs been replaced by a cold, laser-focused determination. The target has been acquired. The mission is set.
âShe thinks biology is her enemy,â Garrett says softly, looking back down at the screen. He reaches out and gently traces the edge of the monitor, right over her smiling face. âShe thinks giving in to her instincts means losing her freedom. Sheâs spent her whole life fighting against exactly what I am.â
âSo, whatâs your play?â Tucker asks, leaning back in his chair. âYou canât exactly walk up to her with a bouquet of roses and say, âHey, sorry I hospitalized your brother, but weâre destined to be together. Letâs go make a nest.ââ
He turns away from the laptop, a terrifying, beautiful clarity settling over his mind. The scent blockers are still numbing his senses, but his purpose is crystal clear.
âShe thinks she doesnât need an alpha,â Garrett says, a dark thrill running through his veins. âShe thinks she can do it all on her own. Fine. Let her think that.â
He cracks his knuckles, the bruised skin from the fight pulling tight.
âIâm not going to force her into anything,â Garrett continues, his voice vibrating with absolute, unshakable conviction. âIâm going to work for it. Iâm going to prove to her that being mine isnât a cage. Iâm going to show her exactly how good it feels to be protected, to be cherished, to be taken care of.â
Logan watches him for a long moment, then slowly shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. âYouâre insane, you know that?â
âIâm motivated,â Garrett corrects him.
âSheâs going to fight you every single step of the way, G,â Tucker warns him. âOmegas like her ⌠they donât break easy. They donât submit just because you smell nice and buy them things.â
âGood,â Garrett says, his smirk widening into a full, genuine smile. For the first time since he stepped off the ice, he looks like himself again.
The cocky, unstoppable captain of the Briar Hawks. âI like a challenge. And sheâs not going to break. I donât want her to break.â
He looks back at the laptop screen one last time, making a silent vow to the fiery, stubborn girl in the photos.
âI want her to fall,â he whispers. âAnd Iâm going to be the one to catch her.â
***
The high-end bedding boutique in downtown Boston smells like lavender, sterile cotton, and the overwhelming scent of a very stressed-out Logan.
âIâm just saying, G, three hundred dollars for a single blanket is extortion,â Logan mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks completely out of place, a massive hockey player surrounded by delicate displays of pastel throw pillows and scented candles. âWeâre college students. We sleep on futons we found on the curb. This is madness.â
Garrett ignores him. He runs a large, calloused hand over a faux-fur throw draped over a display bed. Itâs incredibly soft. Like a cloud. But is it soft enough for her?
âSheâs an omega, Logan,â Garrett says, his voice low and intensely focused. He drops the faux-fur and moves to a display of crushed velvet pillows. âHer skin is sensitive. Her nesting instincts are going to kick in eventually, no matter how much she tries to suppress them. When she comes to the house, I want her to have the best. I want her to feel completely surrounded by comfort.â
Logan sighs, leaning against a display table. âOkay, first of all, she doesnât even know youâre courting her yet. Second of all, you beat up her brother. Sheâs not exactly going to be eagerly jumping into a nest in our spare room.â
âItâs not the spare room,â Garrett corrects him smoothly. âItâs my room. And sheâll be there.â
âYouâre dangerously delusional, man.â
âIâm prepared.â Garrett grabs four of the crushed velvet pillows in a deep, rich shade of burgundy and shoves them into Loganâs chest. Logan grunts, instinctively catching them. âHold these. I need to look at the Egyptian cotton sheets. Smitty took the blockers off this morning, and my senses are dialed to a hundred. If a sheet feels scratchy to me, itâll feel like sandpaper to her.â
Since the scent blockers were removed, Garrettâs entire world has snapped back into razor-sharp focus. The crushing, suffocating emptiness is gone, replaced by a relentless, thrumming energy. His alpha is awake, demanding action, demanding progress.
He spent the entire morning tearing apart his bedroom. He scrubbed every inch of it, threw away his cheap college sheets, and vacuumed until the carpet looked brand new. Now, heâs building the foundation. An alpha provides. Itâs the most basic, fundamental instinct in his DNA. He couldnât protect his mother, but he can provide for his mate. He will build her a sanctuary so perfect she wonât ever want to leave.
âGarrett!â Tuckerâs voice cuts through the quiet hum of the boutique.
Garrett turns to see Tucker jogging through the glass doors, holding his phone up like a trophy.
âIâve got a visual,â Tucker says, slightly out of breath as he navigates around a tower of decorative towels. âThe O.M.E.G.A. Instagram account just went live. Theyâre hosting a protest. Right now.â
Garrettâs posture instantly straightens. The softness of the boutique vanishes from his mind. âWhere?â
âBU quad. Right in front of the student union.â Tucker taps the screen. âLooks like a decent turnout. Theyâre protesting toxic alpha aggression in collegiate sports.â
Logan barks out a harsh laugh. âGee, I wonder what sparked that particular topic?â
âThis is it,â Garrett says, his pulse beginning to race. He steps away from the sheets. âThis is the moment.â
âYouâre going to crash an anti-alpha protest?â Tucker asks, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. âGarrett, they will literally tear you apart. You are public enemy number one right now.â
âI donât care about them. I only care about her.â Garrett reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, plush object.
Itâs a teddy bear. A ridiculously soft, expensive-looking bear with a little ribbon tied around its neck. But itâs not just a bear. For the last twenty-four hours, since he bought it at a boutique near the arena, Garrett has kept it pressed securely against the scent gland on his neck beneath his jacket.
It is saturated. Absolutely soaked in his natural scent â crisp winter air, sharp cedar, and a deep, grounding undertone of bergamot. It is a traditional first courting gift. A piece of the alpha, offered to the omega for her nest, to surround her with his scent and offer protection.
âA stuffed bear?â Logan asks, eyeing the plush toy. âReally?â
âItâs tradition,â Garrett says firmly, slipping the bear back into his pocket. He turns to the cashier, an older beta woman who is staring at them wide-eyed. âRing up the pillows. And the silk sheets. Highest thread count you have. Logan will pay. I have to go.â
âWait, I have to pay?â Logan yells as Garrett is already pushing through the glass doors, the bell chiming loudly overhead.
Garrett doesnât look back. The blood is roaring in his ears. Heâs going to see her.
***
The Boston University quad is buzzing with nervous, electric energy.
You stand on the concrete steps of the student union, the heavy megaphone gripped tightly in your hand. The wind whips your hair across your face, but you barely notice. You are running on pure adrenaline and righteous anger.
Over a hundred students are gathered on the lawn in front of you. Most are omegas and betas, holding up hastily made cardboard signs.
HOCKEY IS NO EXCUSE FOR ASSAULT.
HOLD ALPHAS ACCOUNTABLE.
INSTINCT DOES NOT EQUAL INNOCENCE.
âWe are told, time and time again, that biology dictates behavior!â You shout into the megaphone, your voice echoing off the brick buildings. âWe are told that alphas cannot control their territorial aggression. We are expected to just accept it when they treat us, and each other, like property to be fought over!â
A cheer of agreement ripples through the crowd. Jackie is standing in the front row, holding up a sign and nodding fiercely.
âJust three nights ago, we all witnessed this exact, toxic behavior on the ice!â You continue, your chest heaving. The memory of your brother bleeding on the ice is a fresh, burning brand in your mind. âAn unprovoked, brutal attack! And what does the league do? They review it. They hesitate. Because âboys will be boys,â right? Because âalpha instincts are complicated.â No! It is a choice! Violence is a choice!â
You lower the megaphone for a second to catch your breath. Your hands are shaking slightly. Itâs terrifying to stand up here, but you refuse to back down. You refuse to let the system win.
Suddenly, a strange ripple moves through the back of the crowd.
The chanting dies down. The cheering stops. People are turning around, their voices dropping into hushed, anxious whispers.
You frown, lifting the megaphone again. âListen, we canât let them-â
âY/N,â Jackie says sharply from the front row. She isnât looking at you. Sheâs staring wide-eyed toward the edge of the quad. âLook.â
You follow her gaze.
The crowd of students is physically parting. They are stepping back, creating a wide, empty path through the center of the lawn, as if repelled by a magnetic force.
And walking right down the middle of that path is Garrett Graham.
Your breath catches in your throat.
He is not in his hockey gear. Heâs wearing dark jeans, a black t-shirt that stretches tightly across his broad chest, and a leather jacket. He looks massive. Imposing. Dangerous.
And the scent.
Oh god, the scent.
The wind shifts, carrying it directly up the steps and wrapping it around you like a physical blanket. Crisp winter air. Heavy cedar. Bergamot. It is intoxicating. It bypassed your brain completely and hooks straight into your chest. Your omega, the part of you that you spend every single day suppressing and ignoring, violently thrashes to life.
Alpha.
Your knees actually weaken for a split second. You have to lock your joints to stay standing. You grip the megaphone so tightly your knuckles turn white.
He stops at the bottom of the steps, looking up at you. His gray eyes are piercing. Unblinking. They strip away the crowd, the signs, the noise, leaving only you and him in a silent, high-stakes vacuum.
âWhat is he doing here?â someone mutters nearby.
âIs that the guy from Briar?â
You swallow hard, forcing the primal, biological panic down into the pit of your stomach. You are the president of O.M.E.G.A. You will not cower. Not in front of him.
You lift the megaphone to your mouth. âAre you lost, Graham?â You project, your voice echoing loudly across the silent quad.
Garrett doesnât flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, a slow, infuriatingly confident smirk spreading across his lips.
âOr,â you continue, your voice dripping with venom, âare you here to voluntarily suspend yourself for the rest of the season? Because the athletic commission office is in the next building over.â
A few nervous chuckles break out in the crowd, bolstered by your defiance.
Garrett takes a step up the concrete stairs. The movement is slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory. He doesnât look at the crowd. He never breaks eye contact with you.
âThatâs adorable,â Garrett says. He doesnât have a megaphone, but his voice is a deep, rich baritone that carries easily in the sudden silence. âBut no. Iâm not here for the athletic commission.â
He takes another step up. The distance between you is closing, and his scent is growing stronger, richer, wrapping around your senses and making your head spin.
âThen why are you here?â You demand, lowering the megaphone. You donât need it. Heâs close enough now.
âI think you know,â he says softly.
He stops two steps below you. He is still taller, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. He looks at you with an intensity that borders on madness. Itâs terrifying, but itâs also ⌠magnetic. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to lean into the space between you.
Garrett reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket.
The crowd tenses. A few people gasp.
But he doesnât pull out a weapon. He pulls out a small, incredibly soft-looking teddy bear.
You stare at it, completely thrown off balance. âWhat is that?â
âA gift,â Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates straight into your bones.
He holds it out to you.
The moment the bear leaves his pocket, the scent hits you in a concentrated wave. It smells exactly like him. But deeper. Richer. It smells like safety. Like home. Like everything your biology is screaming at you to claim.
You recognize it instantly from your Omega Studies textbooks.
A courting gift. Scent-saturated. The first official step in an alpha claiming an omega.
A hot flush of pure, unadulterated outrage burns through your veins, instantly vaporizing the biological haze.
âAre you out of your goddamn mind?â You ask, your voice a harsh, disbelieving whisper. âYou put my brother in the hospital, and now youâre bringing me a stuffed animal? You think you can just show up here and ⌠and court me?â
âI donât think,â Garrett says, his eyes darkening with possessive heat. âI know. Youâre mine.â
âI am not yours!â You explode. You donât even care that a hundred people are watching. âI am not property! I donât belong to you, and I certainly donât belong to a violent, out-of-control brute who attacks people because of some archaic biological glitch!â
Garrettâs jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. But he doesnât yell back. He doesnât raise his voice. He just keeps the bear held out toward you.
âTake the gift,â he says quietly. Itâs not a request. Itâs a command, laced with heavy alpha pheromones meant to compel an omega into submission.
Your breath hitches. For a terrifying second, your hand actually twitches. Your fingers ache to reach out, to grab the soft plush, to press it against your nose and drown in his scent.
You violently yank your hand back, furious at your own bodyâs betrayal.
âGet off my campus,â you sneer.
Without breaking eye contact, you snatch the bear out of his hand.
Garrettâs eyes flare with immediate triumph, thinking youâve accepted it.
But you donât hold it. You donât smell it. Using all your strength, you wind your arm back and throw the bear directly at his chest.
It hits his leather jacket with a soft thump and falls to the concrete step between his boots.
The entire quad gasps in collective horror. To throw an alphaâs courting gift back at them is the ultimate insult. It is a direct challenge. It is a rejection of their protection and their scent. In traditional circles, itâs enough to start a war.
Garrett looks down at the bear on the concrete.
Silence stretches so tight you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You brace yourself. You prepare for him to snap, to roar, to turn into the monster you saw on the ice.
Slowly, Garrett bends down. His large hand scoops the small bear off the step.
He doesnât look angry.
He straightens up, brushing a speck of dust off the bearâs ear. He lifts the plush toy right up to his face, resting it just beneath his nose.
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
When his eyes open again, the blue irises are entirely blown out, swallowed by blown pupils. He looks feral. But not with rage.
With pleasure.
âYouâre magnificent,â Garrett breathes out, a dark, wicked smile curving his lips.
You falter, stepping back. This wasnât the reaction you expected. âWhat?â
âYou touched it,â he says, his voice rough and thick. âYour hands were on it.â
He lowers the bear, looking at you like you are the only thing that exists in the entire universe.
âYou think this is a game,â you say, your voice wavering just a fraction. âYou think you can wear me down. I am telling you, Graham, I will fight you until my last breath. I will never submit to you.â
âI know,â Garrett says smoothly. He takes a step back, moving down the stairs. âThatâs exactly what Iâm counting on.â
He doesnât say another word. He just turns around and walks back through the parted crowd. He doesnât look back. He walks with the terrifying, easy swagger of a man who knows he has already won the war, even if he lost the first battle.
You stand frozen on the steps, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your hand, the one that touched the bear for a split second, tingles.
And the worst part? The absolute, most infuriating part?
The wind shifts again, and you can still smell him.
***
The house is dark by the time Garrett finally walks through the front door.
Logan, Dean, and Tucker are in the living room, a hockey game playing silently on the massive flat-screen TV. They all turn their heads as Garrett walks in.
âWell?â Logan asks, muting the TV. âHowâd it go? Did she accept the gift? Are we planning a mating or a funeral?â
Garrett doesnât answer immediately. He walks into the kitchen, tossing his keys onto the counter. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the teddy bear.
He stares at it in the dim light coming from the stove hood.
âG?â Tucker asks, walking into the kitchen. He looks at the bear. âDid she reject it?â
âShe threw it at my chest,â Garrett says.
Dean bursts into laughter from the living room. âOh, man. I told you. Sheâs ruthless. Youâre never going to break that one.â
âI donât want to break her,â Garrett says softly.
He brings the bear up to his face again. The scent on the plush fabric is different now. Itâs no longer just his sharp cedar and crisp winter air.
Intertwined with his scent, clinging to the fabric from the fraction of a second her hands gripped it, is the delicate, breathtaking scent of vanilla and rainwater.
His scent. And yours. Tangled together.
It is the most intoxicating thing he has ever experienced. It sends a spike of pure, primal satisfaction straight to his brain. She touched it. She infused it with her essence. Even in rejection, she left a piece of herself with him.
âSheâs a fighter,â Garrett murmurs, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of the bearâs ear. âSheâs angry, and sheâs stubborn, and sheâs absolutely perfect.â
Logan walks into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. He watches Garrett smell the toy like a man possessed. âYouâre sick in the head, man. She publicly humiliated you in front of a hundred BU students, and you look like you just won the Stanley Cup.â
âI won something better,â Garrett says, finally lowering the bear. He looks at Logan, a terrifying, calm certainty in his eyes. âShe thinks her rejection pushed me away. She thinks Iâm going to give up.â
âAnd youâre not.â
âIâm just getting started.â
Garrett walks past Logan, heading for the stairs. âIâm going to sleep. We have practice at 8 AM. We have to prepare for the playoffs.â
âWhat about the suspension?â Tucker calls out. âThe league is still reviewing the tape!â
âThey wonât suspend me,â Garrett says without looking back. âTheyâll fine me. The commissioner loves money, and Briar brings in the ratings. Iâll be on the ice this weekend.â
He climbs the stairs to his bedroom â the room he spent hours scrubbing and preparing. He walks in and closes the door behind him.
The moonlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the ridiculous amount of luxury bedding piled onto his mattress. It looks excessive. It looks insane.
Garrett doesnât care.
He strips down to his boxers, tossing his clothes into a hamper. He climbs into the bed, the expensive silk sheets cool and smooth against his skin. He pulls one of the crushed velvet pillows toward him, adjusting it.
Then, he brings the teddy bear up to his chest.
He tucks it right under his chin, his nose pressed directly into the plush fabric.
He breathes in. Deep and slow.
Vanilla. Rainwater. Cedar. Jasmine.
Itâs a promise. Itâs a taste of the future. She is out there, right now, across the city, probably seething with anger, writing another speech about how much she hates alphas.
Garrett closes his eyes, a soft, satisfied groan rumbling in his chest.
Youâre so feisty, he thinks, the darkness pulling him under. Itâs just going to make claiming you that much more satisfying.
He falls asleep instantly, his heart beating in steady rhythm, his lungs filled with the scent of his destined mate.
***
Three months.
That is exactly how long you have been locked in a silent, infuriating war of attrition with Garrett Graham.
It started with the teddy bear at the protest, but it didnât end there. Oh, no. For a guy who spends his weekends brutally slamming other men into fiberglass walls, the Briar Hawksâ captain possesses an absolutely terrifying amount of patience.
He didnât text you. He didnât call. He didnât show up at your dorm to harass you.
Instead, he launched a highly coordinated, psychological courting campaign.
During finals week in December, when you were running on three hours of sleep and pure anxiety, a courier delivered a massive box to the library reference desk with your name on it. Inside were six different blends of expensive, organic loose-leaf tea meant to soothe omega stress, a ceramic mug, and a pair of top-tier noise-canceling headphones.
You donated the tea to the campus food pantry and gave the headphones to Jackie.
In January, when the Boston winter became unbearable, a custom-made, heated weighted blanket appeared at the O.M.E.G.A. student office. It was incredibly soft, ridiculously heavy, and smelled distinctly like crisp winter air and cedar. You threw it in the campus dumpster.
Every gift was practical. Every gift was thoughtful. Every gift was a glaring, neon sign blinking I am an alpha who can provide for you better than you can provide for yourself.
And it drove you absolutely insane.
Now, itâs late March. The snow is beginning to melt, turning the BU campus into a slushy mess.
You are sitting on your bed, staring at the small, unassuming cardboard box sitting on your desk. It arrived thirty minutes ago. Jackie is sitting on her futon, eating popcorn and watching you stare at the box like itâs a bomb about to detonate.
âJust open it,â Jackie says, tossing a kernel into her mouth. âWhatâs the worst it could be? A diamond ring? Keys to a Porsche? The horror.â
âHeâs escalating,â you say, crossing your arms over your oversized sweatshirt. âItâs a small box. That means itâs not a blanket or a fruit basket. Itâs something specific. Itâs a calculated strike.â
âYou talk about this guy like heâs a supervillain,â Jackie laughs. âHeâs just a guy who is biologically obsessed with you. Itâs actually kind of romantic, in a twisted, obsessive way.â
âItâs not romantic. Itâs stalking with a budget.â
You slide off the bed and walk over to the desk. You pull a pair of scissors from your cup holder and slice through the packing tape. You fold back the cardboard flaps.
Inside, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, is a book.
You frown. A book? You carefully lift it out. Itâs an older edition, the dust jacket slightly faded at the edges. You turn it over to read the cover.
The Autonomy of Instinct by Dr. Josephine Richter.
All the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, sudden rush.
âWhat is it?â Jackie asks, noticing your sudden stillness.
âItâs ⌠itâs Josephine Richter,â you whisper, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the embossed letters of the title. âSheâs the founder of modern-day omeganism. This book is the foundational text of the entire O.M.E.G.A. movement.â
âOkay, so he bought you a textbook. Thatâs a weird flex for a hockey player.â
âJackie, itâs not a textbook,â you say, flipping the cover open. You stare at the title page, your heart dropping into your stomach.
There, written in faded black ink, is a personalized note and the loopy, unmistakable signature of Dr. Josephine Richter herself.
To a brighter future - J. Richter, 1964
âItâs a signed first edition,â you say, your voice cracking. âThese are practically impossible to find. They belong in museums. They cost ⌠I donât even want to know how much this cost.â
Jackie stops chewing her popcorn. âDamn. Okay. That is a flex.â
You slam the book shut, a hot, blinding wave of fury washing over you.
This isnât a blanket. This isnât tea. This is him holding your entire belief system in the palm of his hand and wrapping a bow around it. Itâs a message. It says: *I see your movement, I see your rebellion, and I can buy it. I can buy anything you care about.*
Itâs patronizing. Itâs arrogant. Itâs the ultimate alpha power play.
âThatâs it,â you snap, shoving the book into your canvas tote bag.
âWhoa, where are you going?â Jackie asks, sitting up.
âI am going to put an end to this,â you say, grabbing your keys and your winter coat. âHe thinks he can just wear me down with a credit card. He thinks he knows me. Iâm going to march right into his obnoxious frat house and give him a piece of my mind.â
âY/N, wait, are you sure thatâs a good idea?â Jackie calls out as you march toward the door. âGoing onto his turf? Your omega is going to absolutely freak out.â
âMy omega is perfectly under control,â you throw back over your shoulder. âIâm going to Briar.â
***
Garrett sits at the large kitchen island in his off-campus house, nursing a protein shake.
The house is relatively quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Tucker is at class, and Dean is asleep on the couch with a textbook covering his face. Logan is sitting across from Garrett, scrolling through his phone.
âPlayoffs start next week,â Logan says without looking up. âCoach is going to run us into the ground at practice tomorrow. Make sure you hydrate.â
âIâm always hydrated,â Garrett mutters, staring blankly at the granite countertop.
âYouâre always something,â Logan replies, finally looking up. He eyes Garrett critically. âYouâve been on edge all week. Let me guess. You sent her something else?â
Garrettâs jaw ticks. âMaybe.â
âG, itâs been three months. Sheâs thrown away everything youâve given her. Including that weighted blanket I helped you pick out, which I am still deeply offended by, by the way. Donât you think itâs time to admit defeat?â
âI donât lose, Logan.â
âThis isnât a hockey game. You canât just out-skate her.â Logan sighs, putting his phone down. âYou have to consider the fact that maybe she really just doesnât want an alpha.â
âShe wants one,â Garrett says softly, his blue eyes darkening. âHer head is just getting in the way of her instincts. I just have to find the right key to unlock the door.â
Before Logan can respond, three sharp, aggressive knocks hammer against the front door.
Dean jolts awake on the couch, the textbook sliding off his face and hitting the floor with a thud. âWhat the hell? Whoâs banging on the door like a cop?â
Garrett frowns, sliding off the barstool. He walks through the living room and pulls open the heavy wooden front door.
He stops dead in his tracks.
You are standing on his porch.
Your cheeks are flushed bright red from the cold wind. Your hair is a bit messy, and your eyes are blazing with absolute, unadulterated fury. You look like a valkyrie ready to burn his house down, and Garrett has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
For a solid three seconds, Garrettâs brain completely short-circuits. His alpha roars to life so fast it makes him dizzy.
Mate. Home. You came home.
âYou,â you snarl, pointing a single, accusatory finger directly at his chest.
âMe,â Garrett replies, his voice immediately dropping into a low, rumbling purr. He grips the edge of the doorframe, trying to keep himself from reaching out and dragging you inside.
âDonât you purr at me, Graham,â you snap, stepping forward.
You are entirely too close. The scent of vanilla and fresh rainwater hits him like a freight train. Itâs been three months since he smelled you this close. He has been surviving on the fading remnants of your scent on the teddy bear he keeps in his bed, but this? This is the real thing. Itâs intoxicating.
âWhoâs at the door, G?â Logan calls out from the kitchen.
You donât wait for an invitation. You push past Garrett, stepping right into the entryway of the house.
The moment you cross the threshold, the dynamic shifts.
You donât notice it at first because you are blinded by rage. You march right into the living room, digging into your tote bag. Dean is sitting on the couch, staring at you with wide, shocked eyes. Logan walks into the living room, stopping dead when he sees you.
âHoly shit,â Dean whispers. âItâs the omega.â
âOut,â Garrett orders softly, closing the front door behind you. The click of the lock echoes loudly in the room.
Logan and Dean donât need to be told twice. They take one look at Garrettâs face â the dark, blown-out pupils, the rigid posture â and they practically sprint for the back door.
âNice meeting you!â Dean calls out before the back door slams shut.
You ignore them. You pull the vintage copy of The Autonomy of Instinct out of your bag and slam it down onto the glass coffee table.
âExplain this,â you demand, turning to face Garrett.
Garrett doesnât look at the book. He walks slowly toward you, his massive frame moving with predatory grace. âDid you like it?â
âLike it?â You scoff, throwing your hands in the air. âAre you insane? Itâs a first edition Josephine Richter! You canât just casually mail this to someoneâs dorm room!â
âWhy not? I thought it would make you happy.â
âIt doesnât make me happy! It makes me furious!â You yell, your chest heaving. âYou think this is some kind of game! You think you can just buy my submission! You think because you have money you can purchase a piece of my movement and hand it to me like a shiny toy!â
âI donât want your submission,â Garrett says, stopping just two feet away from you. He looks down at you, his expression completely serious. âI wanted to show you that I listen to you. I see what matters to you. And I support it.â
âYou donât support it! You embody everything O.M.E.G.A. is fighting against!â You argue, but your voice wavers slightly.
Because suddenly, the anger is starting to slip.
You are standing in his house.
The entire space is saturated in his scent. Sharp cedar. Crisp winter air. Bergamot. Itâs in the couches. Itâs in the rug. Itâs in the very oxygen you are breathing.
It is overwhelmingly, suffocatingly alpha.
Your pulse begins to race, but not from anger. A deep, heavy heat starts to pool low in your stomach. Your breathing turns shallow.
âYou âŚâ you start, trying to regain your train of thought. You look at the broad expanse of his chest in his gray t-shirt. âYou think you can just âŚâ
Garrett watches the shift happen. He sees the exact moment your righteous fury falters. Your pupils dialate, a beautiful, liquid black swallowing the color of your eyes. Your rigid posture softens.
âI think,â Garrett says softly, his voice a hypnotic rumble, âthat youâre fighting a war that ended the second we met.â
âNo,â you whisper, shaking your head. But you donât step back.
Your omega is waking up.
Itâs been suppressed by stress, by blockers, by pure, stubborn willpower. But standing here, in the den of the alpha who has been relentlessly pursuing you, providing for you, proving his dedication ⌠your biology simply takes the wheel.
You feel a sudden, desperate urge to close the distance. Your skin feels too tight. You feel cold, and the only source of warmth in the entire world is the massive man standing in front of you.
âY/N,â Garrett murmurs, seeing the glazed, hazy look in your eyes. He knows exactly what is happening. He keeps his hands firmly at his sides, refusing to push you. He needs you to come to him.
You let out a soft, fractured breath. The smell of cedar is so heavy it feels like a physical weight on your tongue.
Without thinking, without a single shred of rational thought, you take a step forward.
You close the gap between you. You are so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. You look up at him, your lips parted, your breathing ragged.
âYou smell so good,â you whisper. The words slip out of your mouth before your brain can stop them.
Garrettâs eyes flare with dark, possessive triumph. His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath, a low, rumbling purr starting deep in his chest. It vibrates in the air between you, a sound meant to soothe and encourage a distressed omega.
It works.
The purr shatters the last of your restraint.
You lift your hands. You place your palms flat against his chest. His heart is hammering wildly against your fingertips. The muscle beneath his shirt is rock hard.
Garrett remains completely still, letting you explore him. He is terrified that if he moves too fast, heâll break the spell and youâll run.
You slide your hands up his chest, over his broad shoulders. You step up onto your tiptoes.
Your omega demands comfort. It demands recognition. It demands to be claimed.
You tilt your head, exposing the sensitive skin of your own neck, and you press the inside of your wrist directly against the pulse point on the side of Garrettâs neck. Right over his scent gland.
Garrett lets out a harsh, jagged groan. The sound sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.
You rub your wrist against his neck, a slow, deliberate circle. You are scenting him. You are marking him with your scent, claiming him as yours in the most primal, instinctual way possible.
âFuck,â Garrett breathes out, his hands finally coming up to grip your hips. His touch is firm, grounding, but he doesnât pull you closer. He just holds you there, letting you work.
You switch hands, bringing your other wrist up to rub against his jawline. You press your face into his chest, inhaling deeply, letting the cedar and bergamot fill your lungs. It feels so right. It feels like the safest place in the entire world.
âMy turn,â Garrett whispers, his voice thick with lust and alpha instinct.
You whimper softly, tilting your head back further, offering yourself to him.
Garrett leans down. He doesnât use his wrists. He uses his face. He presses his nose directly against the scent gland on the side of your neck, right below your ear.
He inhales so deeply you can feel the pull of air against your skin.
Then, he rubs his cheek against your neck. The slight stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin. He drags his scent gland directly over yours, mixing his heavy cedar with your sweet vanilla.
He is marking you. Claiming you. Overwriting every other scent on your body with his own.
It feels incredible. A wave of pure, heavy euphoria crashes over you, making your knees buckle.
Garrett catches you instantly. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. He holds you up, his face still buried in your neck, purring loudly into your skin.
âPerfect,â he murmurs against your collarbone. âYouâre perfect. Mine. So incredibly sweet.â
He presses an open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point.
The wet heat of his mouth against your skin is like a bucket of ice water to your brain.
The euphoria shatters. The biological haze cracks, letting the cold, harsh light of reality flood back into your mind.
What are you doing? You are practically making out with Garrett Grahamâs neck in his living room. You are scenting him. You are letting him scent you. You are submitting.
Panic, sharp and violently bright, erupts in your chest.
âNo,â you gasp, your eyes snapping wide open.
You plant your hands flat against his chest and shove him backward with all your strength.
Garrett stumbles back a step, clearly caught off guard. His eyes are entirely black, glazed with lust and alpha satisfaction. He reaches for you again instinctively. âY/N-â
âDonât touch me!â You scream, stumbling backward until the back of your knees hit the couch.
You look at him, horrified. You look at your own hands, trembling violently. You can smell him all over you. Your skin is practically humming with his scent.
âIâm sorry,â Garrett says quickly, his hands raised in surrender. He takes a deep breath, forcing his alpha down, trying to clear his head. âI didnât mean to scare you. You initiated it, sweetheart, I just-â
âDonât call me that!â You shout, grabbing your tote bag off the coffee table. You leave the book sitting there. You donât care. You need to leave. You need to get out of this house before you do something permanent. Before you let him bite you.
âY/N, wait, please. Letâs just talk.â Garrett takes a step forward, his voice pleading.
âThere is nothing to talk about!â You back away toward the front door, your breathing erratic. âThis ⌠this was a mistake. A biological misfire. It doesnât mean anything!â
âYou know thatâs a lie,â Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave, serious and firm. âYou felt it just as much as I did. You feel safe with me.â
âI feel suffocated by you!â You lie, your voice cracking.
You turn around, grab the doorknob, and yank the front door open. The freezing March air hits your face, snapping the last lingering threads of the scent-haze.
âYou can run,â Garrett calls out from the living room, not moving to chase you. He stands perfectly still amidst the wreckage of your restraint, looking like a king who has just breached the castle walls. âBut you canât wash me off! You smell like me now! Everyone on campus is going to know exactly who you belong to!â
You let out a choked sob of frustration and sprint out the door, slamming it shut behind you.
You run down the front steps and down the sidewalk, ignoring the slush seeping into your boots. You run until your lungs burn and the Briar hockey house is completely out of sight.
You stop at a corner, leaning against a brick wall to catch your breath.
You bring a trembling hand up to your neck. The skin there is still warm. Itâs tingling.
You close your eyes and take a shaky breath.
He was right.
You smell like him. You smell like crisp winter air, heavy cedar, and absolute, undeniable safety.
And the most terrifying part of all?
Your omega is already crying out to go back.
***
Garrett stands in the quiet living room for a long time after the door slams shut.
The house feels empty again. Colder.
But the air is permanently changed. Woven into the heavy cedar of his own scent is the sweet, bright trail of vanilla and rainwater. You were here. You willingly walked into his den. You touched him. You scented him.
The back door creaks open. Logan cautiously sticks his head into the kitchen.
âIs the coast clear?â Logan asks quietly. âDid she kill you?â
Garrett slowly turns around.
Logan pauses, taking in the sight of his best friend. Garrettâs hair is messy, his eyes are still dark, and there is a terrifying, triumphant smile playing on his lips.
âLogan,â Garrett says, his voice thick and rough.
âYeah, G?â
Garrett reaches up and touches the side of his own neck, right where you pressed your wrist against his pulse point.
âShe scented me,â Garrett whispers, the awe and victory clear in his voice. âMy omega scented me.â
Logan lets out a long breath, stepping fully into the kitchen. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers, twisting the caps off and handing one to Garrett.
âWell, Iâll be damned,â Logan says, clinking his bottle against Garrettâs. âCongratulations, man. You broke the ice.â
Garrett takes a long pull of the beer, his eyes drifting down to the vintage book left abandoned on the coffee table.
âI didnât just break the ice,â Garrett says softly, his thumb tracing the condensation on the glass bottle. âI started an avalanche. And now, she has nowhere left to run.â
Series Summary: Itâs definitely not conventional for two alphas to spend their lives together, but Jack and Robby have never been particularly conventional in the first place. They donât need an omega â but, fuck, do they want you.
 Chapter Summary: Long-married alphas Jack and Robby have accepted their strange but comfortable life together -- until you come into the ED with a scent that makes them wonder if fate may have something else in mind.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!jack, alpha!robby, omega!reader, first meeting, jack and robby's love story uwu
Content Warning: child in the emergency room (fever, not ultimately serious)
Authorâs Note: letâs all collaboratively agree not to project the way i write omegaverse in this one onto the regular human spectrum of sexuality okay? because EYE like it
Word Count: 3.3k
Theyâd gotten together before they presented. Both late bloomers. Very late. Med school. Assumed to be betas because, well, they were twenty-one and that was more than a little late to be anything else. Robby, bitingly sarcastic, rakishly and boyishly handsome, too cocky for his own good as he flirted with anything with a pulse. Jack, a squirrely redhead fresh off a tour in Kuwait with darkness in his eyes and an amputation that needed six more weeks before he could be fitted for his prosthesis. An unlikely pair connected by one thing: Being not quite enough. Not quite at the top of their class. Not quite harsh enough to attract omegas or soft enough to attract alpha. Just enough for each other.
Morning workouts where Robby pretended he wanted to get fit as an excuse to come to Jackâs physical therapy sessions, encouraging him and watching him with barely controlled lust as he fought his way out of the wheelchair and onto his prosthetic, going from wobbly to sure over weeks and weeks of hard work. Midday lunches where they could complain about professors who lived behind the times and other students who just plain sucked. Study sessions where they savored shortbread cookies from the cafe attached to the library, those shared moments of late-night sweetness enough to fuel them through days of harsh salt and sour.
So they bonded â not in the traditional sense of the word with bites and pheromones, but something else. Something that went deep. Deep enough that when they were both hit by their first rut, they collided into each other full force. Lips that broke against teeth, sweat that mingled as they lost themselves, knots that rubbed against each other as they tangled up in Jackâs army-issue sheets. After that first rut together, they locked eyes â hazel and brown, a sunlit creek â and knew. It would be a hard road for them in a society where two alphas together was well outside the norm, but this was it. This was lust and love and laughter and light and everything all merged into one relationship.
They decided to figure it out together.
Wedding bands and attending positions and fifteen years of figuring it out later, thereâs only one thing missing: A family of their own. Every alpha has that deep urge at the base of their gut to have pups â to breed, yes, but also to raise children, to grow with them, to be a parent. That was the one thing they couldnât give each other. There are plenty of options these days for non-A/O couples, of course, but none of them felt like a fit for Jack and Robby.
They could only agree on one option: If the right omega came along, someone they could both spend their lives with, theyâd have pups of their own. If it happened, it happened. They could be happy and fulfilled without it, but the option was open.
Thereâs been a handful of omegas over the years, but never anything serious. Friends they helped out during heats, brief flings, one boyfriend of a couple months. In the last five years, though, itâs just been the two of them. Nowadays, creeping into their forties together, theyâre pretty damn sure that dream is no longer possible. Countless friends who understand them most have told them to wait, itâs fate, that biology wants alphas to find omegas. But, really, no matter how much they nod along or laugh it off, theyâve made peace with their simple life together, refusing to admit that thereâs still a tiny spark at the backs of their minds every once in a while. That want. That ache.
Jack can smell you from the hub.
Through the clear semi-perforated patch over his nostrils that usually keeps omega pheromones off his mind.
His chin snaps up as you sit down at regular triage. As a nurse does your intake, you cradle a pup who canât be more than two wailing in your arms. Your eyes are as red-rimmed as his, clearly affected deeply by him being so upset. You soothe the poor baby with gentle bouncing and intentionally flaring that scent of yours. Jackâs body moves before his brain catches up, taking long strides until heâs next to the nurse receptionist, hand on her shoulder, mouth already opening to say, âIâll take them back and handle everything now. Thank you.â
It takes him by surprise as much as the nurse, who gives him a curious, amused sort of glance. Sure, theoretically, heâs more than welcome to take a patient back in whatever order he wants as an attending. But she can see right through any real reasoning. The stern and sarcastic Dr. Abbot fawning tenderly because of a crying pup and a sniffling omega? ItâsâŚendearing, if strange.
After more than a decade in emergency medicine, heâs very rarely affected by the presence of omegas in distress. He even chuckles when his younger, less experienced coworkers trip over themselves to focus on anything when a sweet, soft thing like you needs immediate help. But now here he is, hand on your lower back as you introduce yourself and the toddler to him, taking sturdy steps across the ED like heâs trying to shield you from any other doctors who might poach your presence.
Guiding you into the closest open room equipped with pediatric supplies, Jack moves like heâs your marionette. As he gets the room and chart ready, his every motion is an unconscious response to you, his body instinctively trying to comfort and assure and take control the way an alpha should. Itâs all instinct buried in medicine. While he tries to keep his head on straight, Jack sits on his stool opposite you and the toddler on the hospital bed and gently says, âTell me all about whatâs going on.â
You offer up a small smile and explain as you fuss over the toddlerâs messy hair and tear-streaked cheeks and rumpled pajamas, âBennyâs felt yucky all day â really sleepy and fussy, not wanting to eat, running kinda warm â but we had it under control until a few hours ago. Sips of clear fluids, nice cooling bath, resting with some Bluey.â Your eyes go misty again as you look up from Ben and find Jackâs gaze resting tenderly on you. With your lower lip wobbling and your voice thick with tears, you tell him, âBut then his fever just kept climbing up starting after dinner. I didnât feel good about going to sleep not knowing if it would break or not, so weâve been up for hours. Now he doesnât want to drink anything and- and heâs never upset and clingy like this; heâs so curious and polite and-â You fall into tears again. âSorry, I just- I just-â
Jack canât stand seeing you upset. It hurts as much as any real heartbreak. And heâs never even met you before. He canât help wondering what it would be like if he took the scent blocking patch off his nose and let himself inhale the fullness of you. Clearly your pheromones are strong enough to be a problem for him without even knowing that.
Swallowing hard, Jack scoots closer and takes your free hand in his. Itâs not professional, but you donât mind. You lean into the touch, clutching his hand close, taking his strength to be your own. Jack squeezes your hand and assures, âItâs alright; you did the right thing bringing him in. Weâll get this figured out in no time. Is it okay if I pick him up and do my exam now?â
With a reluctant nod, you help Jack move Ben onto the exam bed, where he looks so small and so hurt that your tears keep falling despite how often you wipe them away. Benâs immediately reaching for you, trying to get to your side, and you look to Jack with the most innocent, pained eyes. He touches his stethoscope to Benâs chest and tells you, âYou can stay over here; donât worry. Are you his mom?â
âOh, no, not anyoneâs mom,â you reply softly, always taken aback by the question no matter how many times itâs asked. Stroking Benâs wispy hair like heâs your own, you go on, âIâm his nanny. Shoot, his au pair. His mom gets so mad when I forget to call myself that. Anyway, yeah, um, I just take care of him when theyâre away, which is a lot of the time.â
He commits that to memory, hating himself for being relieved to know that you donât already have a mate and pups of your own. Itâs a strange swirling feeling in his stomach. Something similar to what he feels when heâs alone with Robby after a fresh batch of students has moved on â a yearning, quiet, needy thing. He swallows hard, swipes a forehead thermometer over Benâs skin, and tuts, â103.8. Thatâs no good, little man.â Subtly dropping his hand, he pages for a nurse and tells you, âWeâre going to go ahead and start IV fluids since he hasnât been drinking enough and add some fever reducers to try to get his temperature down so heâs more comfortable. Once he settles some, heâs due for a whole bunch of fun tests. Weâre gonna have to admit him tonight to make sure that fever breaks and he can sleep here under observation.â
Benâs eyes slam up to yours, understanding as much as his tiny brain can as he latches onto âsleep here.â Trying to snuggle closer to you while you fight to keep him on the exam bed, he wriggles and worries fearfully, âNini stay?â
âHe canât say ânannyâ yet,â you tell Jack with the softest smile. You gently run your fingers through Benâs hair, the gesture clearly to calm you both, and ask Jack, âThatâs okay, right? If I stay in the room with him? His parents are in Europe until next week.â
Glancing at your chart to make sure all your paperwork is in order, he replies, âOf course. Iâll have them bring up a cot so you donât have to deal with the loveseat. Theyâre awful.â
âThatâs sweet; thank you. I know itâs not your job to deal with stuff like that.â
âDonât worry about it.â As a resident pushes an IV and takes cultures, Ben finally starts to quiet and soften as the fluids hit his system, his sleepiness beginning to take over. Jack tells you sternly, his eyes paternal and warm, âI want you to be extra diligent about keeping yourself healthy the next couple days. Canât have a lovely thing like you coming down with whatever the little guy has.â Your eyes widen in response to the way the compliment slips from his tongue so earnestly and simply. His face blanches and his neck goes blotchy. Quickly, he stammers out, âOh, god. Iâm so sorry; I have no idea why I just said that. I mean, you are lovely, of course, but-â
âItâs alright, Dr. Abbot,â you giggle, happy to smile for the first time since youâve been at the hospital. You give Jack a playful nudge and add, âI donât mind being called lovely by a silver fox such as yourself.â
As his cheeks tinge bright pink, Jack nods courteously, grateful that youâve given him an out. âThank you. Thatâs, ah, thatâs very nice of you.â
You snicker and shake your head. âPlease; Iâm sure patients hit on you all the time.â
The junior doctor whoâs tending to Ben snorts, âYou have no idea.â Her mischievous eyes flick up to yours with a conspiratorial sort of energy. âUsually it doesnât fluster him so much.â
Abbot releases a harsh breath and bites back, âEllis, please.â
âIâm just saying,â she teases lightly, making big amused faces to amuse Ben while drawing his blood and praising him for being brave, âthe big bad night shift attending doesnât usually take care of sweet toddlers with fevers himself.â
Abbot hisses, âParker.â
She just chuckles to herself and stands up with her collection of swabs and vials. Practically skipping past with amusement, she leans in close to him and teases, âWe can smell it on you, gramps.â
You let out a squeak, something like a laugh, and avert your eyes. You hadnât mentioned it because youâre unendingly polite and would rather die than embarrass a doctor, but, yes, Dr. Abbot is scenting all over you like a teenager with a crush, all raspberry and brunch. Itâs not necessarily uncommon for an alpha to stink up a room when theyâre with a particularly cute omega, but for an older professional itâs a bit juvenile, maybe. Like laughing a little too loud at every joke or staring at someoneâs lips while they talk.
To Jack, though, the realization is like being shoved in the chest. As Dr. Ellis takes a reluctant-but-too-sleepy-to-protest Ben off for some imaging, Jack puts his hand over his face and groans, âOh my god, Iâm so sorry. For the compliment and then for this and- God. I havenât- Iâm not even- Iâm sorry. Thatâs the point. Sincerely.â
After biting your lip so adorably it makes Jackâs stomach turn, you sheepishly admit, âItâs really alright, doctor. Iâm probably a little too close to my heat to be running around in public; Iâm sure itâs affecting you more than it normally would. Donât worry about it.â
Jackâs brows furrow. Youâre affecting him that strongly when he has his nostrils covered and heâs nowhere near being in rut? Thatâs ridiculous. He must be, like, sick, surely. Or youâre some super omega with magic seduction hormone powers.
Or, worse than it all, youâre something special.
His mind races a bit as he turns away from you, reaches up, and carefully peels off the scent-blocking patch over his nose.
And itâs you.
Shift change canât come soon enough. Jackâs thrumming his fingers against countertops, clicking his pen enough to make Dana snatch it from his hand, and checking on you and Ben so often it could probably count as an addiction. He tries to be subtle about it but fails miserably, not even realizing how pathetic heâs being until Ellis makes fun of him for it â over and over, at that.
Finally, though, fucking finally, his husband slinks through the doors with his sunglasses on and his earbuds still blasting. He walked to work, which means he woke up early, couldnât get back to sleep, and stayed antsy until he could justify leaving early. The moment he can smell Jack, his face softens, the morningâs anxiety easing because he knows Jack will have already done everything he can to set the day shift up for success.
This morning, though, Jack walks up to Robby with hurried, serious steps unlike the exhausted, unsteady ones heâs usually met with. He doesnât skip tilting his chin up to meet Robbyâs quick kiss â he never misses that â but he does drop his voice low right away to say, âYou need to come with me.â
As he meets Jackâs eager pace, Robby hustles up, catches Jack by his lower back, and chuckles against his ear, âShit, whereâs the fire?â
But Jack doesnât answer, too possessed with leading Robby up to the pediatric room where you and Ben are still both sleeping. The heavy blinds keep out the early morning light and Jackâs hand hesitates on the door handle. You look so peaceful with your lips gently parted, curled up, totally calm now that Benâs feverâs come down and the antibiotics are working their magic. During morning rounds, heâs the first doctor to punch the lights on and wake a patient to keep the hospital going and free up beds.
But you?
He hates the idea of waking you.
With a shaky breath, Jack meets his own husbandâs eyes, tells him all about last night, that moment really just a few hours ago now, and then says, âItâs time for his morning workup. Youâll understand if- I need you to- I donât even know how to explain myself right now. Just come in here with me, okay? Youâll know. Iâm sure youâll know.â
Tentative, soft, he nods. âAlright, of course. No problem.â Early in a relationship, this kind of intense behavior would be met with suspicion, concern, confusion. But now, with more than a decade of expertise in the strange field of Jack Abbot, Robby knows better than to do anything but what he asks without question. He tucks one of Jackâs too-grown-in curls behind his ear and prods quietly, âJust give me a quick heads up on what Iâm in on, though, would you? Because, from here, it looks like a pedes case getting ready for discharge.â
Jack cracks a stupid sort of smile. âI know Iâm being nuts, alright? But just take a deep breath when weâre through the door, okay? Because I think sheâs- I think sheâs supposed to be ours, Michael. Iâve never felt anything like it â and I need you to feel it too.â
Robby tilts his head to the side, any thoughts rushed away. Ours. Conceptually, he knows what Jack means. Theyâve discussed it before. But Jackâs never looked so goddamn serious about it. Like thereâs not a single question in his mind. If youâre not theirs, then you must at least be his. That makes Robbyâs heart rate spike a bit, but he decides not to entertain the thought. He decides, as he has ten thousand times, to trust Jack with the fragile stitched-up thing of his heart.
As Jack pushes open the door and carefully slides the dimmer lights on, you stir to consciousness and so does Ben. When you realize the two of you have actually managed to sleep soundly after such an awful evening, your scent flares happily.
Robbyâs world shifts just like Jackâs had.
His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him.
Shortbread.
Butter and vanilla and sugar.
Flooding from your skin, so thick and delicious it makes their heads spin.
Jack and Robbyâs scents have always fought one another. Robby â black coffee, no cream, roasted so dark itâs past bitter. Jack â raspberry, bright, effervescent, tongue-coating sour. They donât make sense together. Every kiss a clash. But with your scent mingled in, something gentle that matches them each individually and meets in the middle, it all blends into something that clicks into place. Itâs not just Robbyâs rough winter night and Jackâs bright spring sunrise. Itâs a summer evening that lingers on and on, warm, ripe, rich. Fireflies in cupped palms and laughter on whiskey tongues and homemade thumbprint cookies dipped in swirling hazelnut heat until theyâre perfectly soft. A complicated mouthful finally balanced.
Immediately after they leave the treatment room, Robby drags Jack down a hall and corners him against a wall with a borderline heaving chest. Voice raspy and needy, he presses his forehead to his husbandâs and checks, âYou feel this- this crazy? Like nothing makes sense anymore?â
Jack swallows hard and tries to focus on the rough scent from Robbyâs neck. Usually it calms him, but his head is still spinning from the way your presence mixed with theirs into something so much more simple and true. He reaches up and twines his fingers in the short hair at the back of Robbyâs neck and replies slowly, âYeah. Yeah, of course I do. Fuck. What are we supposed to do? Should we-â
âWe shouldnât,â Jack agrees as he nods like he means it. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees you in the hall, away from Benâs inquisitive eyes, questioning a nurse with serious concerned eyes. He melts all over again. Looking back at Robby, he sighs, accepting it, âBut what if we did anyway?â
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
Summary: the one where he puts a ring on your finger
Series Masterlist
Sidney has been carrying a ring in his pocket for three days, and heâs starting to think it might burn a hole through his shorts.
The ring box is small, velvet, and currently residing in the right pocket of his linen pants while youâre six feet away, crouched down and cooing at a tabby cat on the cobblestone streets of Folegandros. This is the fourth cat youâve befriended today â or maybe the fifth, heâs lost count â and watching you baby-talk to a stray while the Aegean Sea sparkles behind you is making his chest feel too tight.
âSidney, look at her little face,â you call out, glancing back at him with that smile that made him buy the ring in the first place. âSheâs so sweet. Do you think sheâs hungry?â
âProbably,â he says, even though he has no idea. Heâs been to a lot of places, done a lot of things, but Greek island cat behavior was never in his wheelhouse.
Youâre already digging through your bag â the woven one you bought in Naxos two days ago â pulling out the bougatsa youâd grabbed at breakfast. You break off a piece and offer it to the cat, who sniffs it suspiciously before accepting.
âGood girl,â you murmur, stroking her sun-warmed fur. âSuch a pretty girl.â
Sidney pulls out his phone and takes a photo, adding it to the collection heâs been building all week. You feeding cats. You laughing at a local taverna. You in that white sundress that makes you look like you belong here, among the whitewashed buildings and endless blue. You looking at him like he hung the moon when he surprised you with this trip.
The plan had been simple: skip the tourist traps, rent a yacht, and island-hop through the Cyclades the way normal people canât. Santorini and Mykonos were beautiful, sure, but they were also Instagram factories, full of influencers and cruise ship crowds. He wanted something real. Something authentic. Something that felt like it belonged to just the two of you.
So heâd hired a captain and a small crew, and for the past week, youâd been sailing from island to island â Naxos, Paros, Antiparos, Koufonisia, and now Folegandros. Small islands. Quiet islands. Islands where locals still outnumbered tourists, where you could walk through villages and actually hear church bells instead of club music.
And watching you fall in love with each one has been the best part of the trip.
You stand up, brushing off your dress, and loop your arm through his. âThank you for this,â you say, like you have every day. âThis whole trip. Itâs perfect.â
âYouâve said that about every island,â he points out, amused.
âBecause itâs true about every island,â you counter. âHow did you even find these places? Iâve never heard of half of them.â
âResearch,â he says, which is true. Heâd spent weeks reading travel blogs, watching videos, messaging people whoâd been to Greece. Heâd wanted to get it right.
âWell, you nailed it,â you say, squeezing his arm. âThis is the best vacation Iâve ever been on.â
The ring box feels heavier in his pocket.
Tonight, he thinks. It has to be tonight.
Heâd been planning to propose since the beginning of the season. Had the ring custom-made six months ago by a jeweler in New York who specialized in unique pieces. Had it designed specifically for you â a blue diamond, because youâd once mentioned in passing that you loved how unusual they were, set in platinum with cathedral details that the jeweler had called âarchitecturalâ and âdistinctive.â The kind of ring you could wear every day but that would still make people stop and stare.
Heâd been carrying it for three days, looking for the perfect moment, and somehow every moment had felt both perfect and not perfect enough. Sunset in Naxos? Too crowded. That quiet beach in Antiparos? Too isolated. The yacht deck under the stars? Too predictable.
But tonight. Tonight he has a plan.
âCome on,â he says, tugging you gently down the street. âWe should get ready for dinner.â
âWhere are we going again?â You ask.
âItâs a surprise,â he says, which makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.
âYouâve been very mysterious about tonight,â you observe.
âHave I?â He asks innocently.
âVery,â you confirm. âShould I be worried?â
âDefinitely not,â he assures you. âJust trust me.â
âI always trust you,â you say simply, and the ring box burns hotter.
Back on the yacht, you disappear into the cabin to get ready while Sidney checks in with the captain about timing. Dinner reservations are at seven-thirty â heâd made them weeks ago, calling the restaurant directly, explaining in broken English and hand gestures over video chat what he wanted. The owner, an elderly woman named Yiayia Eleni, had been delighted, conspiratorial, promising him the best table and complete discretion.
He showers and changes into the nice shirt he packed specifically for this â white linen, rolled sleeves, paired with his better shorts and the watch you got him for his birthday. He looks at himself in the mirror and takes a breath.
âYouâve played in the Olympics,â he tells his reflection. âYouâve won Stanley Cups. You can propose to your girlfriend.â
His reflection doesnât look convinced.
When you emerge from the cabin twenty minutes later, his brain stops working entirely.
Youâre wearing a dress heâs never seen before â soft blue, the color of the Aegean, with thin straps and a skirt that moves when you walk. Your hair is down, slightly wavy from the sea air, and youâre wearing the delicate gold necklace he bought you in Paros.
âIs this okay?â You ask, suddenly self-conscious. âYou said nice restaurant, but I wasnât sure how nice-â
âYouâre perfect,â he interrupts. âYou look perfect.â
You smile, pleased, and do a little spin. âI bought it in Naxos. I was saving it for a special occasion.â
âGood instinct,â he manages, and offers his arm.
The restaurant is a ten-minute walk from where the yacht is docked â a small, family-owned place right on the water with only six tables. Yiayia Eleni greets you at the door with enthusiastic cheek kisses and a flood of Greek that neither of you understand but that clearly means âwelcome.â
She leads you to a table on the terrace, right at the edge where the stone meets the sea. Itâs the best table, separated slightly from the others, with a view of the harbor and the sunset thatâs just beginning to paint the sky pink and gold.
âSidney, this is beautiful,â you breathe, sitting down. âHow did you find this place?â
âI have my ways,â he says mysteriously.
Yiayia Eleni returns with wine â local, she explains in careful English, from her sonâs vineyard on the island. She pours you each a glass, winks at Sidney in a way that suggests she knows exactly whatâs happening tonight, and disappears back into the kitchen.
âSheâs adorable,â you say, watching her go. âI love these family places. They have so much character.â
âBetter than the tourist traps,â Sidney agrees.
âSo much better,â you say. âI mean, Iâm sure Santorini is beautiful, but this-â you gesture at the view, the quiet harbor, the locals walking past, â â this feels real. Like weâre actually experiencing Greece, not just performing it for Instagram.â
âThatâs what I was hoping for,â he admits.
You reach across the table and take his hand. âYou did good, Crosby. This whole trip. Itâs been incredible.â
âYeah?â He asks, even though youâve told him this every day.
âThe best,â you confirm. âI donât want it to end.â
âIt doesnât have to,â he says carefully. âWe could come back. Make it a regular thing.â
âIâd like that,â you say, smiling. âAnnual Greek island trip. I could get behind that tradition.â
The food arrives in waves â Greek salad, grilled octopus, fresh bread with olive oil, moussaka that Yiayia Eleni insists you try. Everything is perfect, simple and fresh and made with obvious care. You moan over the octopus, declare the moussaka life-changing, and insist on trying to learn the Greek words for âthank youâ and âdelicious.â
Sidney watches you charm Yiayia Eleniâs husband â Papou Pavlos â when he comes out to check on your meal, sees you light up when you successfully communicate that the food is incredible, and feels the ring box pressing against his leg like a heartbeat.
The sun is setting now, turning the sky into a masterpiece of orange and pink and purple. The other diners are focused on their own meals, their own conversations. Yiayia Eleni catches his eye from the doorway and gives him an encouraging nod.
Itâs time.
âHey,â he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended.
You look up from your wine, smiling. âHey yourself.â
âI want to tell you something,â he starts, and watches your expression shift from casual to attentive.
âOkay,â you say slowly. âShould I be worried? You look very serious suddenly.â
âNot worried,â he assures you. âJust give me a second. Iâve been planning what to say for weeks and now Iâm blanking.â
âPlanning what to say about what?â You ask, but thereâs something in your eyes now, a dawning realization.
Sidney stands up, his chair scraping against the stone, and your eyes go wide.
âSidney-â you start.
âLet me say this,â he interrupts gently, moving around the table. âPlease. I need to say this.â
He drops to one knee beside your chair, and you make a sound thatâs halfway between a gasp and a sob.
âOh my god,â you whisper.
âI had a whole speech planned,â he admits, pulling the ring box from his pocket. âIâve been rehearsing it for days. But now Iâm looking at you and I canât remember any of it.â
âThatâs okay,â you say, and your eyes are already shining with tears. âYou donât need a speech.â
âI do though,â he insists. âBecause you need to understandâyou need to know what you mean to me.â
He takes a breath, and the words start coming.
âIâve been playing hockey since I was three years old,â he says. âMy whole life has been about the game. About training and winning and being the best. And I love it. I love hockey. But you-â his voice catches. âYou made me realize that thereâs more to life than the game.â
Youâre crying now, tears streaming down your face, but youâre smiling.
âYou made me want things I didnât think I wanted,â he continues. âA home thatâs actually a home, not just a place I sleep between road trips. Lazy mornings and inside jokes and someone who calls me out when Iâm being too intense about game film.â
You laugh through your tears. âYou are too intense about game film.â
âI know,â he says, smiling. âAnd youâre the only person who can tell me that and make me actually listen.â
He opens the ring box, and your hand flies to your mouth.
âOh my god,â you breathe. âSidney, thatâs-â
âI had it made for you,â he explains. âThe blue diamond because you said you loved them. The cathedral setting because youâre always talking about architecture when we travel. I wanted it to be unique. Like you.â
âItâs the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen,â you whisper.
âThis whole trip,â he continues, âwatching you fall in love with these islands, seeing you feed every cat we encounter, listening to you try to learn Greek from the locals â Iâve been falling more in love with you every single day. Which I didnât think was possible because I was already so gone for you.â
âSid,â you say, your voice breaking.
âYouâre brilliant and funny and kind,â he says. âYouâre going to finish your PhD and do incredible things and change the world with your research. And I want to be there for all of it. I want to watch you defend your dissertation and get your first academic job and publish your first book. I want to support you the way you support me.â
âYou already do,â you manage.
âI want to come home to you every night,â he continues. âI want to travel the world with you. I want to have babies with you â when youâre ready â and build a family. I want to grow old with you and still be feeding Greek cats when weâre seventy.â
Youâre fully sobbing now, and so is Yiayia Eleni, whoâs appeared in the doorway with a handkerchief.
âYouâre my home,â Sidney says, and his own voice is unsteady now. âYouâre my family. Youâre everything I didnât know I needed and everything I canât imagine living without. And I know Iâm older than you, and Iâm gone a lot, and my life is complicated, but-â
âSidney,â you interrupt, your hand on his face. âAsk me. Please just ask me.â
He takes a shaky breath. âWill you marry me?â
âYes,â you say immediately, emphatically. âYes, yes, a thousand times yes.â
He barely gets the ring out of the box before youâre pulling him up, kissing him with tears streaming down both your faces. He manages to slip the ring onto your finger between kisses, and it fits perfectly â of course it does, he had your ring size memorized from that time you tried on rings at a vintage store in Pittsburgh.
When you finally pull back to look at it, you make a sound thatâs pure joy.
âSidney, this isâI canât even-â You turn your hand, watching the blue diamond catch the last of the sunset. âHow did you design this? Itâs perfect. The cathedral setting, the way the band has these details â itâs like it was made specifically for me.â
âIt was,â he confirms. âEvery part of it. I wanted you to have something no one else has.â
âMission accomplished,â you say, kissing him again. âI canât believe you did this. Here, on this perfect trip, at this perfect restaurant-â
âI wanted it to be special,â he says.
âItâs perfect,â you assure him. âYouâre perfect. This is perfect.â
Yiayia Eleni appears with champagne that Sidney definitely didnât order but that sheâs clearly been saving for this exact moment. Sheâs talking rapidly in Greek, gesturing at the ring, at you, at Sidney, and while you canât understand the words, the meaning is clear: congratulations, how beautiful, how wonderful.
Papou Pavlos appears with a camera, insisting on taking photos. The other diners are applauding. Someone brings out baklava with a candle in it.
âDid you plan all this?â You ask, laughing through tears.
âI planned the proposal,â Sidney admits. âYiayia Eleni planned the celebration.â
âI love her,â you declare, and Yiayia Eleni, understanding her name if not the words, beams and kisses both your cheeks.
You insist on taking photos of the ring against the sunset, the ring with the harbor in the background, the ring next to your wine glass. Sidney takes a photo of you wearing the ring, your smile brighter than any sunset, and knows heâs going to frame it.
âCall my parents,â you say suddenly. âAnd yours. We have to tell them.â
âRight now?â He asks, amused.
âRight now,â you insist. âThey need to know. Your parents need to know theyâre getting a daughter-in-law. My parents need to know theyâre getting Sidney Crosby as a son-in-law, which theyâre going to lose their minds about.â
âYour dadâs going to make daddy jokes,â Sidney realizes.
âOh absolutely,â you confirm. âFor the rest of your life. Youâve signed up for this.â
âWorth it,â he says, kissing you again.
You make the calls right there at the table, with the Aegean Sea behind you and the ring catching every light. Your mom cries. Your dad says âI knew itâ and then makes exactly the joke Sidney predicted about calling him dad. Sidneyâs mom cries too, and his dad gives him a gruff congratulations that sounds suspiciously emotional.
Your brother demands photos of the ring immediately and then sends back a string of all-caps messages about how Sidney BETTER TREAT HIS SISTER RIGHT OR ELSE.
âHeâs twenty-one,â you point out, reading the messages. âWhatâs he going to do?â
âHe plays college baseball,â Sidney says. âHe could probably do some damage.â
âFair point,â you concede.
By the time you finish making calls, the sky is fully dark, stars beginning to appear. Yiayia Eleni has brought out more wine, more baklava, and what looks like her entire extended family to congratulate you.
âThis is the best day of my life,â you tell Sidney, your hand in his, the ring gleaming in the candlelight.
âMine too,â he agrees.
âBetter than winning the Stanley Cup?â You tease.
âSo much better,â he says, and means it. âThe Cup doesnât kiss back.â
You laugh, that sound he loves, and lean your head on his shoulder. âWhat do we do now?â
âNow,â he says, âwe finish our wine, eat more baklava than is advisable, and walk back to the yacht as an engaged couple.â
âAnd tomorrow?â
âTomorrow we wake up and youâre still going to be my fiancĂŠe,â he says. âAnd Iâm going to make you breakfast and probably stare at you wearing that ring for several hours.â
âSounds perfect,â you say. âWhat about after this trip?â
âAfter this trip, we go home and you finish your PhD,â he says. âAnd we start planning a wedding. And we build our life together.â
âOur life,â you repeat, testing the words. âI like the sound of that.â
âMe too,â he says.
Yiayia Eleni insists on more photos â of you and Sidney, of the ring, of the whole family together. She makes you promise to send copies, to come back for your anniversary, to name your first daughter Eleni.
âSheâs very invested in our future,â you observe as you finally say goodbye.
âSheâs been planning this since I called to make the reservation,â Sidney admits. âI think sheâs been shopping for your wedding gift.â
âI love her,â you say again. âI love this place. I love this island. I love that this is our story now â how you proposed on a quiet Greek island at a family restaurant while I was still sunburned from feeding cats all day.â
âThatâs very on brand for us,â Sidney observes.
âIt really is,â you agree.
The walk back to the yacht is quiet, your hand in his, the ring catching the moonlight. Other couples pass by, locals heading home from dinner, and Sidney realizes this is what he wants for the rest of his life. This. You. Quiet walks and shared moments and building something that matters more than hockey ever could.
On the yacht, you insist on modeling the ring in better lighting, taking more photos, sending them to your cohort group chat and watching the messages explode.
The yacht is anchored in the quiet harbor, the island lights twinkling on the shore. You lean against the railing and Sidney wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
âI canât believe I get to marry you,â you murmur.
âI canât believe you said yes,â he counters.
âOf course I said yes,â you say, turning to face him. âYouâre Sidney Crosby. Youâre brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and you support my career and you planned this entire perfect trip just to propose to me in the most romantic way possible.â
âWhen you put it that way, I sound pretty good,â he says, smiling.
âYou are pretty good,â you confirm. âEven if you are a dirty old man sometimes.â
âIâm your dirty old man now,â he points out.
âFiancĂŠ,â you correct. âYouâre my fiancĂŠ. My dirty old fiancĂŠ.â
âEven better,â he agrees.
You kiss him under the stars, wearing his ring, and Sidney thinks about how far theyâve come from that charity gala where you argued about hockey statistics. How youâve gone from the girl who challenged him to the woman he canât imagine living without.
âI love you,â he says against your lips.
âI love you too,â you say back. âFuture husband.â
âFuture wife,â he replies, and the words feel right in a way that makes his chest tight.
Later, in the cabin, you insist on sleeping with your left hand on his chest so you can see the ring even in the dark.
âYouâre ridiculous,â he says fondly.
âIâm engaged,â you counter. âIâm allowed to be ridiculous about my engagement ring.â
âFair,â he concedes.
âTell me again,â you say sleepily. âAbout the ring. How you designed it.â
âI worked with a jeweler in New York,â he explains, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. âTold him I wanted something unique. Something that represented you. He suggested the blue diamond because theyâre rare and distinctive. The cathedral setting because of the structural elements, the way it frames the stone. We went through probably twenty designs before we found the right one.â
âItâs perfect,â you murmur. âIâm never taking it off.â
âYouâre going to have to,â he points out. âFor lab work. Research. When youâre washing dishes.â
âOkay, fine, sometimes Iâll take it off,â you concede. âBut Iâm going to hate every second of it.â
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair. âIâm glad you like it.â
âI donât like it,â you correct. âI love it. Just like I love you.â
âLove you too,â he says. âFuture Dr. Crosby.â
You make a happy sound. âI didnât even think about that. Iâm going to be Dr. Crosby. That sounds so official.â
âVery official,â he agrees. âVery impressive.â
âYour wife is going to be a doctor,â you say, testing the words. âHow does that feel?â
âLike Iâm the luckiest man alive,â he says honestly.
You shift to kiss him properly. âWe both are. Lucky, I mean.â
âYeah,â he agrees. âWe really are.â
You fall asleep like that, engaged and happy and planning a future that feels bigger and brighter than anything Sidney could have imagined.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that heâs spent his whole life winning.
But this â you, with his ring on your finger, saying yes to forever â this is the biggest win of all.
hockey au part 1: moving in, family dinner, and the first game of the season. also featuring: a whole bunch of other f1 cameos. 4.9k words
warnings: alcohol, slight reference to injury, my limited knowledge of college hockey, itâs a bit slow burn-y but i hope you get the vibe
Youâre sitting in Lando Norrisâ room, a basket stuffed to the brim with goodies perched on your lap. Youâve just finished going through them with Lando, explaining each one in excruciating detail. There are snacks, -both healthy and non healthy- study items, some school gear, and everything in between.
âYouâre crazy,â Lando says, brows raised. âLike. Clinically. Coach told me to keep an eye on him, not⌠mother him.â
You roll your eyes. âDonât you want him to feel welcome? Sâgotta be scary, coming to a new team his junior year.â
The two of you are talking about Oscar Piastri, the hockey prodigy who, for two years, has been playing at a different school. Now heâs headed to play with Landoâs team, and his coach had strongly suggested that Lando take him under his wing. Heâs moving in as one of Landoâs roommates in their off campus house today, so youâd made him a welcome basket. Youâd been thrilled about the whole idea. Landoâs less excited, it seems.
âI do want him to feel welcome,â Lando says, collapsing backwards onto his bed and sighing. âThis just seems a little overboard.â
âWhen am I not overboard?â You ask, hugging one knee to your chest.
Lando purses his lips, then shrugs. âYouâve got a point.â
You hear a commotion downstairs, and both you and Lando sit up a little straighter. You can hear Max Verstappen, the team captain, talking, probably showing Oscar around the house. You wiggle your fingers on the bed in excitement. Lando sighs in mock annoyance. Heâs smiling, and you can tell heâs excited too. You know him well enough to know that. Youâve been friends for years and years now.
Lando stands up and nods towards the open bedroom door. âCome on, letâs get this over with.â
You follow him down the stairs and into the living room, where Max is standing with Oscar, explaining something and waving his hands around as he speaks. You and Lando lean in the doorway, his head stacked above yours, and wait patiently for them to notice you. Max does first, and his eyes light up. He waves the two of you in and introduces you both to Oscar, who smiles politely.
Youâre holding the basket of goodies in your arms, and you hold it out to him. âThis is a little welcome present,â you say, blinking softly.
Oscar takes the basket into his hands and blinks softly. His cheeks have gone red, and you feel your own face grow warm as he looks up at you. His hair falls over his forehead, and he smiles. Oh. Oscar Piastri is cute.
âWow, thanks,â he says, quietly. âThis is great.â
Lando leans over your shoulder. âYouâre welcome.â
You elbow him, so hard he hunches over and groans. âFuck off, Norris, you did nothing.â
Oscar laughs, muffling it behind his hand, and you feel quite proud of it. Max is quick to pull Oscar away after that, muttering something about showing him the rest of the house. Lando, having recovered, stands up and glares at you. You shrug. Then something pops into your head.
âHey, family dinner is at 7:00 tonight,â you call after Max and Oscar, and Lando winces at the volume of your voice. âDonât be late! Iâm talking to you, Max.â
Nearly everyone shows up to the family dinner that night, which isnât how they usually go. The whole team doesnât live at the house, but Sunday dinner is open to everyone, and people make appearances based on their schedules. The guys who do live in the house are almost always there, of course. And you, because you almost never have anything better to do.
Oscar comes down to dinner in a Timberwolves hoodie that you recognize from the gift basket, which makes you feel a bit giddy inside. He stands on the edge of the crowd of people in the kitchen, like heâs a bit afraid to even put a toe in the wrong place. You smile softly at him from across the room as you open a bottle of soda. That same pretty blush returns to his cheeks.
Someone notices him, finally, and announces his presence. Theyâre hockey players, so they jump straight into teasing and far too aggressive handshakes. You let out a little sigh of relief as you see some of the tension fall from his shoulders. He looks happy to meet everyone, a smile slipping across his face. You canât help the matching one on your own lips.
âTold you heâd be fine,â Lando says, nudging your shoulder.
You nod. âYeah.â
Across the room, you hear someone comment on his hoodie as they tug on the front of it. âNice, already repping the team!â
He nods, looking towards where you and Lando stand at the counter. âOh. Yeah. Lando and his girlfriend gave it to me.â
The room falls silent for just a few seconds, and then they all erupt into laughter. Oscar looks around, bewildered, face even redder than before. You roll your eyes at the rest of the boys.
âIâm not his girlfriend,â you state, and Oscar scrunches his face up sheepishly. âAnd, like I said before, Lando did absolutely nothing to help.â
âYou know, you could sound less disgusted at the idea of being my girlfriend,â Lando suggests.
You roll your eyes and pick your drink up off the counter. âWhereâs the fun in that?â
Alex, a goalie on the team whoâs leaning on the counter nearby, nods along. âBesides, itâs not like you could ever pull Bunny, Lando.â
Lando puts his hand on his chest in mock hurt. Alexâs comment is met with resounding agreement. Oscar looks even more confused. Thereâs a little furrow in his brow that you think is honestly quite adorable.
âBunny,â Max says, pointing at you, always happy to explain something, âis her nickname.â
âItâs a long story,â Alex pipes in.
Oscar doesnât ask more than that. When everyone sits down for dinner, heâs quiet, especially compared to the rest of them. Heâs still settling in, you remind yourself. A new team must be daunting. As everyone talks about class schedules and syllabuses and how they canât wait for the hockey season to start, you relate to him more than heâll probably ever understand.
After dinner, the rest of the team files out. Eventually, youâre left at the dining table with Lando and Max. Their other roommates, George, Alex, and Charles, are in the kitchen cleaning up the leftovers. Oscar has disappeared, off who knows where doing who knows what. Heâs probably still unpacking. Itâs a Sunday night, and when you decide to head back to your own apartment, Lando offers to walk you home. When you leave his house, you look up at the window in the corner from outside. The blinds are closed, but Oscarâs light is on.
âŚ..
You quickly find out that you and Oscar must be in the same major, or at least a similar one, because you keep bumping into him during the first week of classes. The strange thing is that he doesnât seem to notice you, or maybe itâs just that he doesnât care to. Youâre in at least three lectures with him. He barely looks at you in any of them, and never acknowledges you.
Heâs just as withdrawn at the hockey house, where you spend most of your free time. Heâs not mean, heâs just not exactly social, either. After the first family dinner on the day he moves in, he misses the next three, which is nearly unheard of for someone who lives in the house.
Lando seems to think itâs fine. âHeâs showing up to training, heâs talking to the team, he listens to the coaches well. Maybe heâs just not a social guy.â
âOr maybe he just doesnât like you,â Charles, the alternate captain on the team, suggests.
You glare daggers at him, reach into the mixing bowl in front of you, and lob a bit of cookie dough at his head. He dodges it with expert precision. It smacks against the wall and sticks. Damn athletes and their good reflexes.
âHey, hey, no food fights,â Max says, having walked into the kitchen at the worst time.
Heâs glaring at Lando, who throws his hands up in innocence. âIt wasnât me this time!â
Max turns to Charles, who points a finger at you. The captain gives you an exasperated look, resting his hands on the counter. He usually reserves that look for Lando, or one of his other teammates when theyâre causing trouble. You hate having it directed at you.
You shrug. âHe was being mean.â
âWas not!â Charles whines, and you roll your eyes at him. âAll I did was suggest that maybe the reason Oscarâs quiet around her is just that he doesnât like her.â
Max hisses through his teeth. âCharlie, thatâs mean. Come on, who wouldnât like her?â
You smile brightly. âFor that, Max, you can have the first cookie.â
Max grins widely and reaches over to rub his hand against the top of your head. Itâs the same way he rubs his gloves against his teammates' helmets when theyâve done well. You think itâs the only way he knows how to show affection. As he steps past you, Oscar walks into the room. Youâd be worried he overheard the four of you talking, but you know heâs just arrived at home- youâd heard the sound of the front door. He greets everyone with a nod, sidesteps you, and heads for the fridge.
âWant some cookie dough, Oscar?â You ask, waiting with bated breath.
Charles narrows his eyes at you, obviously offended by your offer compared to you throwing it at his head. Landoâs watching you with amusement on his face. You want to punch both of them.
âOh, no thanks,â he says.
He grabs a protein shake and then leaves the room again with just another nod. You pout at his back as he disappears.When you turn and look at Max, heâs giving you a solemn frown.
âWeâve found the one man immune to Bunnyâs charms,â he says, shaking his head.
The cookies take a while to bake, and by the time theyâre done, the house is empty. Everyoneâs off at practice. You pack them up into a container, knowing if you time it right youâll catch them on their break. Then you walk over to the rink, which is only a short distance away, cookies in one hand and a book in the other. You sit in on practices sometimes. Their coach only acts mildly annoyed about it. It usually helps when you bring baked goods along with you.
You take your usual seat down near the bench when you get there. A couple of the guys wave when they spot you. The head coach glares at you from the corner of his eye and then makes his way up into the stands, headed for you.
âHi, Seb,â you say as you smile up at him as you take the lid off the container of cookies. âI made chocolate chip this time.â
Sebastian, or Coach Vettel, as everyone sane calls him, sighs and grins before reaching into the container. âTheyâre still warm!â
You nod, watching as he takes a bite. The smile stays on his face, which is a marker of a job well done. He turns over his shoulder, and you cover your ears just before he whistles to the team.
âTake a break!â He yells. âCookies!â
Half the team scrambles over to the bench. Sebastian waves you down towards them. You follow him out of the stands and down to the bench, where Max is leaning over the wall, hands outstretched.
âI was promised the first cookie,â he says, elbowing Charles when he gets a little bit too close.
You hold the container out to him. Behind him, Oscar is face to face with the goal on the ice, shooting pucks like he doesnât realize theyâve called for a break. Your heart sinks. Not even the cookies can make him look your way. Max catches your gaze as everyone else takes a cookie and scatters away, either to sit down or meander on the ice. He nudges his hand against your wrist and smiles softly.
âGive him time,â Max says with a shrug. âHeâs trying to find his footing. Trying to prove himself. Heâll open up when heâs ready.â
You sigh heavily. âI donât know why I care so much.â
âBecause youâre a good person,â he says, and you feel your face heat up. âBecause heâs new and you worry about him just like you worry about all of them. But thatâs my job, too, okay? So trust me.â
You nod. He nods back. Then Lando comes barreling up, yelling something about cookies. You hand him a couple and listen to him whine about the practice as Max tries his best to keep the morale up. Behind them, Oscar shoots another puck into the net.
When they go back to practicing, you watch for a bit before you open your book. The season is ramping up, and their first game is only a few weeks away. The first practice was rough, it always is- you remember Max coming back to the house, so frustrated he wouldnât even speak to anyone. Theyâre in sync now, though- passes connecting seamlessly, moving like a unit on the ice. Youâve missed it, youâll admit. The scrape of the skates on the ice, the slap of the sticks against the pucks. When Lando asks if youâre excited for the first game, youâll fake a yawn, just to keep his ego in check, but really, you canât wait.
After practice is over, Lando yells up to you in the stands. âWeâll walk you home, yeah?â
You nod in agreement. You give them time to get packed up and changed and then meet them in the lobby of the rink. Slowly but surely, they all filter out. Landoâs first, hair soaking wet, and he shakes the excess water on you. Then Max and Charles, deep in a conversation youâll never understand. George and Alex follow them out, and you peer behind them, looking for Oscar.
Max nudges you towards the door. âOscar said not to wait for him.â
You try your best to hide the frown. Nobody but Max seems to notice, and he doesnât point it out. He just smiles softly at you, like heâs trying to be reassuring. It works a little bit.
Your apartment is a few blocks down from the rink, sort of on the way to their house, if you donât mind making a small detour. They always insist on walking you home, whether itâs one of them at the end of a family dinner, or a whole group on their way home from practice. Tonight, George and Alex peel off to head straight home, while Max and Lando accompany you. Theyâre chatting about the team, about practice, and you donât really start paying attention until you hear them say Oscarâs name.
âI think heâs downplaying it,â Lando says, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. âI think with him, we have a real chance at the championship this year.â
Max is quiet. You know this is a sore spot for him. The team hasnât won a championship since before Max and Landoâs freshman year. Theyâre seniors now. Theyâve been in the playoffs every year. The championship has been just out of reach every time. They all want it so badly.
âLet him downplay it,â Max says. âDonât put too much pressure on the guy, you know? Besides, better than him being a cocky asshole, huh?â
Lando twists his face up, but he nods. âGuess weâll see at the game next week.â
You perk up even more at that. The first game is only days away. The whole campus is buzzing about it, yourself included.
âYouâre going to be there, right?â Max asks, turning to you. âCanât go without our resident cheerleader.â
You nod eagerly. âWouldnât miss it for the world.â
Youâve reached your apartment building. They each give you quick hugs and then send you upstairs. By the time you reach your bed, youâve forgotten all about Oscar Piastri and his unwillingness to act like you even exist. You fall asleep and dream of cookies flying across the ice rink like pucks.
âŚ..
You donât sleep over at Landoâs house often, preferring your own bed to the couch or the air mattress, or, god forbid, sharing a bed with Lando. The two of you are close, but never close enough to be that comfortable with cuddling, beyond long hugs when youâre feeling sad or heâs lost a game. But youâd had a movie night that went on long and when youâd fallen asleep leaning against his headboard, heâd suggested you just spend the night. Then he promptly curled up next to you and passed out.
Youâd done the same, but now itâs 1am and youâre wide awake, blinking around the room. The poster the guys all tease him for stares at you from the back of the door- Lewis Hamilton, former Timberwolves prodigy and first round draft pick. Itâs a bit ridiculous that heâs still got the poster, really, but you know heâs had it for years. You drag yourself out of bed and head down to the kitchen. Maybe if you can get some cold water, youâll be able to fall back asleep.
You nearly scream when you walk into the kitchen and find that itâs not empty. Someoneâs standing at the fridge, his back to you. Itâs Oscar- heâs shirtless, and he turns to look over his shoulder like he knew you were coming. He probably did, you suppose- the house is old and the stairs creak, along with every other floorboard.
âHi,â he says, quietly. Youâre trying not to stare at the smooth expanse of pale skin on his back, or his toned arms. âCanât sleep?â
You blink a few times, then take a step into the kitchen. âI was asleep. Then I woke up.â
He nods in understanding and turns back to the fridge. You watch as he pulls the pitcher out, then reaches for a glass- two glasses. Something about that makes your heart catch in your throat. You swallow the feeling down and take a few steps closer. His arm tenses as he pours the water. Youâre trying not to stare, because really, itâs his kitchen and youâre an outsider here. Youâve never felt like this in this house before, so out of place. Heâs the only one who makes you feel that way. You donât think heâs even doing it on purpose. So youâre trying not to stare, and failing, because honestly, Oscar Piastri is hot. Youâre only realizing it now, because youâve been too focused on him ignoring you before this.
He clears his throat. âSo. Youâre not Landoâs girlfriend?â
That startles you out of your stupor. He slides the glass of water across the counter, and you step forward to grab it. You drum your nails on the granite and shake your head.
âNope. Just friends. Strictly platonic.â You state. He raises his brows- youâre not sure what to make of that. âI know me being here at 1am sort of contradicts that, but, yeah.â
Oscar nods. âSorry. I donât mean to pry, I justâŚâ
He just wants to know why you are here, if itâs not because youâre dating his teammate. He doesnât understand. You get it. Between the nickname and your penchant for hanging out around the house and the practices, he probably does think youâre some sort of puck bunny. You fight the urge to jump to your own defense. Oscarâs given you almost nothing. You donât owe him an explanation in return
You shrug. âItâs fine. Logan asked the same things,â you say, referring to the freshman rookie. âI promise Iâm not trying to fuck all your teammates or whatever you assumed. Iâm just friends with them.â
You see his whole body tense. You take a sip of your water and study his face. You canât quite read his expression, not in the same way as you can with most of his teammates. Itâs annoying that heâs so easily unknowable. Heâs not even trying.
âThatâs not why I asked,â he says, quietly.
You almost believe him. You would, really, if he hadnât been so standoffish towards you for the first few weeks youâd known him. You try to remember what Max said a few days ago. Heâll open up when heâs ready. Or maybe, never at all.
You take the glass with you when you head back up to Landoâs room. âGood luck on the physics quiz tomorrow.â
He calls out a soft, âyou too,â at your retreating figure.
Itâs a kind gesture, but youâre definitely going to fail the quiz. He doesnât need to know that, though.
âŚ..
You file into your seat at the first game of the year surrounded by the smell of hot dogs and soft pretzels and cheap nacho cheese. Lily, Alexâs girlfriend, is already waiting in her spot next to yours. Sheâs wearing Alexâs varsity jacket. Youâre clad in a hoodie you stole from the hockey house, one youâre pretty sure used to be Maxâs at one point. Itâs been passed down to other people so many times it doesnât matter, now. Lily smiles at you when you sit down and tears off a chunk of her pretzel for you. You accept it gratefully. Between the pretzel, the chill in the air, and the sound of Shut Up and Dance by Walk The Moon playing in the background, you feel right at home.
The Zamboni is down on the ice, making its last round. âDid you ask Alex if we could ride the Zamboni this year?â
Lily nods. âHe said âweâll seeââ she says, mocking his accent and letting out a puff of air. âSo. Weâll see, I guess.â
You sigh heavily and lean back in your seat. Youâve been begging them to get you out on the Zamboni for years now, trying to bribe everyone from the players to the coaches. None of the bribes have worked yet. You swear youâll get your chance one day, but this is Lando and Maxâs last year. Theyâre your best shot- theyâre the ones youâre closest with, and the most easily convinced to go along with any of your antics.
The Zamboni leaves the ice, and the players come out of the tunnel, and for the next 60 minutes-plus breaks- youâll be glued to the game down below. It feels like the whole school has been waiting with bated breath- itâs Sebâs first year as head coach, theyâve got Oscar now, this could be the year. They could win it all. Maybe this is it. When you look over, Lilyâs hands are gripping the armrests tightly. You place a hand on her wrist, just to remind her youâre there. She smiles gratefully as Alex takes his place in front of the net, and the rest of the boys take their places on the ice.
Oscar scores 30 seconds in. The two of you lose your minds in the stands, screaming your heads off. Down below, you watch Max rub his glove against Oscarâs helmet, watch the way Lando comes barreling into the younger boy from across the ice. The electricity of it crackles in the air. For the rest of the game, you canât take your eyes off of him, off of number 81. Heâs captivating.
They win with a solid 4-2 score, and the team they played is one of the easier ones, but it still feels good, and bodes well for the rest of the season. Oscar scores two of the goals. Another goes to Max, and the fourth to Charles. You and Lily head to the house before theyâre even off the ice, knowing full well whatâs about to come. You make quick work of clearing any breakable items from the common spaces of the house, you make sure all the bedroom doors are closed, and you remove anything they wouldnât want stolen or spilled on- blankets, random hoodies, Charlesâ entire weekâs worth of homework strewn across the kitchen table. Lily pulls the mixers from the fridge, while you take the bottles of alcohol out of the cupboard. The two of you set up beer pong in the backyard together.
When the boys get home, they bring a crowd with them- the rest of the team, minus the freshmen, the teamâs girlfriends and friends and some of their families, and anyone else theyâve picked up along the way. The house already feels full, and you start to usher people towards the backyard, knowing itâll only get more crowded from here on out. Max pulls you into a hug as he slips past you on his way outside- you pass him a shot, and he smiles gratefully before he tips it back. Lando is hot on his heels, and you repeat the process. Theyâre freshly showered and starry eyed, riding the adrenaline high. The two of them shove at each other, and they bump into you in the process.
âGood game, boys,â you tell them, smiling brightly at your friends.
âFucking Piastri, mate,â Lando says, snapping his fingers in a way that makes you wonder if heâs had a shot on his walk here. âI mean, come on!â
Max laughs and shakes his head. You pour another round of shots for the three of you, and Max shrugs, as if to say, why not. You tip them back and all collapse into fits of laughter afterwards.
When you look upstairs, you just barely catch sight of Oscar, disappearing into his room. He makes eye contact with you for just a second, and he smiles softly, cheeks rosy pink. You smile back, and then he turns and shuts the door behind him. Itâs the last time you see him that night. The whole team is talking about him, and heâs not even there. You think that maybe youâll never understand him. You donât have time to worry about him, though, not when your friends are dragging you outside and begging for a round of beer pong. Oscar can take care of himself.
In the morning, you wake up on the couch in the living room. The sun is just peeking through the blinds, and youâre surrounded by empty plastic cups. Someone has tucked a blanket over you haphazardly, and thereâs a hoodie shoved under your head as a makeshift pillow. Max or Charlesâ doing, probably, or maybe a joint effort. Itâs early, far too early, and you close your eyes to try and fall back asleep when you hear it- the noise that probably woke you up in the first place. Someoneâs in the kitchen.
When you lean over the back of the couch and look through the doorway, you find Oscar. Heâs surprised to see you this time, it seems- he stops in his tracks, eyes going wide. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are, too- heâs been crying. After all his pretending you donât exist, you shouldnât care, but the sight of him makes your heart twist in your chest.
âHey,â you say, quietly. âYou okay?â
His eyelashes flutter, and then he closes his eyes and sighs. âMâfine.â
Heâs clad in a hoodie and a pair of shorts, and his running shoes. Heâs carrying a water bottle, too. He probably thought he could sneak out of the house and go on a run before anyone else was awake, and that nobody would even know. But here you are. Watching him fight back tears.
âItâs okay if youâre not,â you say, quietly. âI wonât tell. I get it.â
He opens one eye and stares at you, unconvinced. You nod.
âThe pressure of the first game,â you suggest. âAnd you won, but now the pressureâs even bigger to keep it going. And everyone is talking about you but you donât like the spotlight.â
He nods, chewing on his lower lip. âYeah. Exactly.â
You rest your chin on your hands on the back of the couch. âIt gets easier. Promise. And the guys- theyâre just happy to have you on the team. Itâs not all on your shoulders.â
He lets out a little huff and rolls his aforementioned shoulders. You can tell he doesnât believe you, and for a moment, you wonder how shitty of a team he played with before. Maxâs first priority as team captain has always been making sure his teammates are okay. Winning comes second. You know itâs not always like that for other teams.
âDâyou⌠do you wanna come on a run with me?â He asks, and you blink in surprise.
You groan and flop back down onto the couch so he canât see the way your face twists up. You do want to, actually. This feels like an olive branch. But a run is out of the question for you based on the ache in your right knee. Your physical therapist, Lando, and Max would probably all kill you for saying yes. So you say no instead.
âPiastri, I am violently hungover and I think I fucked up my knee last night, so I think Iâll pass,â you say. You hear him walk towards the door, and when he gets there, he turns back to look at you. His cheeks are still red, but his eyes are less watery. âBut have a good run, yeah?â
He smiles. âThanks.â
You can see him through the front window as he gets ready to take off. His breath curls into misty spirals in the cold morning air, and heâs silhouetted by the morning sun. Itâs a bit breathtaking, really. When he disappears from view, you close your eyes and try to go back to sleep, comforted by the thought that maybe he doesnât hate you, after all.
find part two, Change Of Heart, here!
a/n: i know it feels a little slow rn but we had to do some intro! let me know what you think!!
summary: after surviving the chaos of melbourne and arriving to shanghai under massive scrutiny, mercedes's new driver shocks the paddock by taking her first ever pole position. will this be the end of that rookie luck?
pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader
warnings/tags: smau + irl, smh it always rains in every race she does but get ready for that to be changed in future chapters !
notes: sososososo sorry for the wait !!! the support on driver!yn makes me so happy :))) ty my loves <2
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
yourinstagram â
liked by thefazeadapt, marcmarquez93, and 3,129,473 others
yourinstagram â shanghaaaaii
view all comments
maxverstappen1 Good luck in china đ
user9 MAX COMMENTED HELLO????
user87 he used a thumbs up im crying
user76 max NEVER comments and this is what he chooses to say???
user63 redbull fans figthing merc fans meanwhile yn is just posting shanghai dumps
user20 u dont understand i defended you in 14 comment sections today
user43 her style in f1 >>>
quadrant china vlog when?
user88 OH????
user31 everyone saying "protect her from the media" when she's probably about to make the media WORSE đ
Shanghai arrived beneath heavy clouds and louder expectations.
The moment the Mercedes jet touched down, your phone started vibrating again.
Notifications. Clips. Analyses from people who suddently spoke about your driving like they'd known your potential for years instead of one race.
The paddock Thursday morning was colder than Melbourne had been. Not temperature-wrise, but politically.
You felt it the second you stepped out of the car. The cameras turned too quickly, people stopped conversations when you walked by.
Mechanics from rival teams openly watched you cross the paddock now instead of pretending not to. Ferrari engineers stood in little clusters near hospitality units whispering behind coffee cups. Red Bull personnel looked irritated in a way that almost seemed personal.
Winning changed how people looked at you. Winning beside Lewis fucking Hamilton changed it even more.
"You're trending again," your PR manager informed you while practically jogging to keep pace beside you.
"That sounds threatening when you say it like that."
"Because it is."
He shoved his phone toward you. The screen showed a paused clip from Melbourne. Your overtake. Lewis moving aside. The internet had dissected it frame by frame like it was a Marvel film.
"Former drivers are arguing on TV," he continued. "Half of them think Lewis gifted you the win. The other half think it was just brilliance."
"And what do you think?"
He gave you a flat look. "I think none of them have access to Mercedes data and all of them just enjoy attention."
Fair.
The Mercedes garage buzzed with restrained tension when you entered. Engineers moved quickly between screens while Toto stood near the stratefy room muttering into a headset.
The second he spotted you, he pointed.
"What did I do this time, Toto?"
"Nothing yet." Toto removed the headset. "That is why I'm speaking to you now.
He crossed his arms. "Today will be annoying."
"Let's be specific"
"The media smell blood. They're like sharks."
Before you could respond, Lewis entered through the opposite side of the room with headphones around his neck.
Toto pointed between the two of you.
"You are not enemies."
Lewis immediately sighed. "Oh, God. What are they saying now?"
Toto looked deeply offended on behalf of humanity.
"That you let her pass because apparently, Mercedes have already chosen their future."
Lewis stared at him for three full seconds. "That is the dumbest thing I've heard this week."
"It is Thursday morning," Toto replied. "There is still time."
You snorted before you could stop yourself. Lewis glanced toward you, amused.
"Focus," Toto ordered immediately. "The press conference is in twenty minutes and I would prefer nobody causes an international incident."
Lewis tilted his head. "You say that like it's happened before."
Toto just looked tired.
The press room felt like a furnace.
The second you walked in beside Lewis, the volume rose immediately. Journalists were shifting forward in their seats and camera shutters were firing relentlessly.
It felt predatory. That was the word for it. They smelled controversy and intended to rip it apart piece by piece.
You barely sat down before the first question came flying.
"Lewis, did Mercedes issue team orders in Melbourne?" Straight to the throat.
"No."
Another reporter jumped in immediately. "Then why didn't you defend position?"
"Because she was faster."
It was simple. His answer direct. The room erupted anyway.
"But telemetry showed you lifting on corner exitâ"
"Yes," Lewis interrupted calmly. "Because fighting there would've cost us both time against Max."
"But you surrendered your lead against her."
Lewis' eyes narrowed slightly.
"No," he corrected. "I made a strategic decision."
The journalist pivoted toward you instantly.
"YN, did you expect Lewis to let you through?"
"No."
"So were you surprised?"
"Yes."
Questions overlapped each other.
"Does this create tension inside Mercedes?"
"Do you consider yourself a title contender now?"
"Has the team shifted priority to you?"
Lewis physically pinched the bridge of his nose and you were so close to laughing in their faces.
Then came the dangerous question.
"Lewis, are you comfortable becoming the support driver?"
Every instinct in your body screamed immediately. This was a bad question.
Lewis slowly lowered his hand and smiled. And that was somehow more terrifying than anger.
"I didn't survive this sport for years by being insecure," he said quietly. "And if my teammate is quicker in a moment, I act accordingly."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "That's called racing intelligence. Not weakness."
Silence. Absolute silence. Then another reporter spoke carefully.
"So there's no issue between you two?"
Lewis glance sideways toward you briefly before answering.
"No."
You didn't miss the way the cameras immediately followed the movement, like they were trying to capture something hidden there. Some secret. Some fracture.
But all they found was calm.
The moderator pointed toward another journalist raising her hand.
"You hand exceptional chemistry during Melbourne considering that was YN's debut. Some fans are comparing it to legendary teammate pairings. How would you describe your relationship?"
You opened your mouth, but Lewis beat you to it.
"She annoys me constantly."
You looked genuinely offended. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"Yeah? How so?"
"You ask too many questions during debriefs. You ask Bono questions druing my debriefs."
"Because your setups are weird."
Lewis stared at you in disbelief while the entire press room dissolved into laughter. And just like that, the tension cracked.
Not gone entirely, but loosened enough that the atmosphere finally became breathable again.
lewishamilton â
liked by yourinstagram, lando, and 4,238,850 others
lewishamilton â My setups are not weird, they're experimental.
view all comments
yourinstagram â same fuckin thing
lucaromano Bono would like to formally deny being questioned during debriefs. multiple times.
user41 YN is literally not intimidated by ANYONE and I respect that so much
user8 lewyn dynamic is giving "you're so annoying but i trust you with my life on track"
user90 i need a reality show with just this duo IMMEDIATELY
user42 this is the most entertained i've been by a press conference since forever
user7 Lewis adopting rookie chaos energy is not something I was emotionally prepared for
The rest of media day passed in fragments.
Interviews, sponsor obligations, endless questions about Melbourne. By late afternoon, your social battery was hanging by a thread.
You escaped toward the garage hoping for five uninterrupted minutes of silence. Instead, you found Max Verstappen standing close to the garage.
Well. That couldn't possible lead anywhere peaceful.
He glanced over as you approached. "Congratulations, by the way."
The statement sounded genuine enough to throw you off slightly.
"Thanks."
Max looks toward you car in the garage. "You car looks better in high-speed this weekend."
"You spying on us already?"
"I don't need to spy." His expression stayed flat. "You stay consistent on purple sectors."
You leaned lightly against the garage entrance. "And yet, you still sound confident."
"I usually am."
The conversation settled into something oddly calm after that. Not friendly exactly, but respectful.
You understood each other in a very specific way already. The obsessive mindset, the refusal to settle, the constant calculation happening beneath every surface.
Max studied you for a moment. "The media thing bothering you yet?"
You blinked. "That obvious?"
"They did the same thing with me."
That surprised you more than anything else all day. Not that he said that, but because of the honesty.
"They build narratives because it's easier than actually understanding it." He looked toward the paddock. "Now they want conflict."
"And what if they get one?"
A faint smirk tugged his mouth. "They probably will anyway."
Before you could answer, another voice cut in.
"You stealing our driver now?"
Lewis approached from across the garage carrying a water bottle, sunglasses on top of his head. Max looked unimpressed.
"She talks too much. I'm reconsidering."
"See?" Lewis pointed immediately. "I've been saying that."
You rolled your eyes. Max shook his head slightly like both of you were ridiculous before walking toward Red Bull.
But not before saying one final thing over his shoulder. "Qualifying tomorrow matters more than Sunday itself." Then he's gone.
"He's right," Lewis said beside you.
Shanghai was notoriously brutal for dirty air and track position would matter. A lot.
Lewis leaned beside you. "You nervous?"
You considered lying. "A little."
"Good."
You frowned. "That's comforting."
"It's good that you're nervous." His tone stayed easy. "Means you understand the stakes now."
The stakes. That was the problem.
Because Melbourne had changed everything. At the time, it felt like your win was proof you belonged. Now people will expect victories. Every race would carry weight.
Lewis seemed to read the thought accross your face.
"They'll keep talking no matter what happens," he said quietly. "Win, lose, crash, podium. It won't matter."
You looked toward him. "So what do I do?"
"You just drive faster."
Then Toto's voice echoed across the garage. "We need you two in the briefing room now."
Lewis sighed dramatically. "It's the fun police."
You followed him toward the back rooms of the garage while the sky darkened overhead, clouds gathering heavy above the circuit lights.
Tomorrow was qualifying. And for the first time since entering F1, you could feel the entire grid waiting to see whether Melbourne had been the beginning of something, or its peak.
mercedesamgf1 â
liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and 4,348,349 others
mercedesamgf1 â We've done the work. Qualifying, we're coming.
view all comments
user8 this is either a front row or heartbreak post i can feel it already
user92 this is the calmest threatening caption ive ever seen from a team account
user6 now why is mercedes posting like theyre about to enter a boss fight
user20 this post has no business being this stressful
user72 stress aside look at those FACE CARDS
yourinstagram â posted on her story!
caption: "if i survive Q1 we're calling that progress đ"
The rain arrived sometime after midnight. You heard it from your hotel room first, the soft against the glass at first, then harder, heavier, until Shanghai disappeared behind sheets of water.
By morning, the circuit looked drowned. Spray hung permanently over the track during FP3, visibility collapsing into nothing down the back straight.
And somehow, Max Verstappen was still terrifyingly fast.
"Purple Sector 2 again," Luca informed you through the radio.
You fought the wheel lightly through the final corner as the rear threatened to step out. The car was alive underneath you in wet conditions. Every correction traveled instantly through your fingertips. Every puddle threatened aquaplaning at over two hundred kilometers an hour.
You loved it. Maybe a little too much.
"Careful on throttle application," Luca warned. "You're over-rotating on exit."
"You're sounding stressed, Luca."
"I am stressed."
By qualifying, the rain had eased into a constant mist and the paddock atmosphere felt electric.
Fans packed beneath umbrellas. Mechanics rushed through garages carrying tire blankets and soaked equipment. Every journalist in existence seemed convinced the weekend was about to explode into drama.
Maybe they were right.
Q1 passed cleanly, Q2 less so. Charles spun exiting Turn 9, bringing out yellow flags and triggering chaos across the timing sheets.
You crossed the line P2, three hundredths behind Max.
Inside the garage, Toto pointed a finger at the monitor. "Max is vulnerable in Sector 3."
Lewis, sitting nearby with a towel around his shoulders after finishing P3, shook his head immediately.
"No, his car's eating the tires less through rotation."
You glanced between them. "So which one of you am I listening to?"
"Me," they both answered instantly.
Q3 arrived beneath floodlights and glathering fog. The entire grid rolled out together, tire spray blooming behind every car.
Your heartbeat settled strangely once the visor dropped and everything simplified inside the cockpit.
"Let's build temperature carefully," Luca instructed. "Track grip is inconsistent. Let's be safe out there, okay?"
"Copy."
Ahead, Max began his flying lap. Then Lewis. Then you.
Turn 1 hooked perfectly beneath you, aggressive but balanced. You attacked curbs harder than before, confidence overriding caution now.
Sector 1. Purple. Luca stayed silent
Sector 2. Still Purple. Your pulse kicked harder.
The car slid slightly through the long right-hander entering Sector 3, rear tires skimming the edge of grip before snapping back beneath control.
The line rushed toward you. "That's P1, genius."
Your breath caught. "By how much?"
A pause, then Luca laughed. "Two tenths."
The garage exploded. You heard it faintly even through the helmet. The mechanics were screaming, tables were being slammed, and Luca was laughing loud enough to distort the radio microphone.
Pole position. Your first.
And when you climbed out of the car, Lewis was already there waiting. He grabbed the sides of your helmets before you could even fully remove it.
"That," he said firmly, "was filthy."
You laughed breathlessly. "Good filthy?"
"Incredibly."
The cameras devoured that moment instantly. The championship leader congratulation the rookie teamate who'd just beaten the entire field in qualifying.
mercedesamgf1 â
liked by patriciooward, maxfewtrell, and 5,239,750 othesr
mercedesamgf1 â POLE POSITION IN SHANGHAI. #ChineseGP
view all comments
user76 rookie on POLE in only her second race weekend????
user8 max was QUICK too this is gonna feed generations
user63 are we just going to ignore her repeatedly saying there's smth up w her car?????
user7 RIGHT? and they dismissed her that fast. seeing her in pole truly shows how strong she is
user33 2 tenths over verstappen is crazy
user91 Lewis mentoring a future world champion wasn't on my bingo card
user64 max vs rookie vs title fight in the first two races?????
Race day dawned cold and clear. The rain was gone, but the track still carried scars from it.
Shanghai's long straight shimmered beneath pale sunlight as the grid filled gradually with noise. Fans screamed from the grandstands, generators hummed, helicopters thundered overhead.
Your stomach twisted tighter with every passing minute. Pole position changed everything, now there was no climbing through the field.
The grid began clearing. Mechanics stepped back. Tire blankets came off.
Lewis stopped beside your cockpit before putting his helmet on, one hand rested briefly against the halo.
"First lap matters," he said quietly.
Then he added, "And stop reading comments online."
You stared at him. "How do you know I've been doing that?"
"Because your face yesterday looked like you'd witnessed war crimes."
That made you laugh seconds before the anthem started. The cars fired up shortly afterward, and everything vibrated.
Your ribs. Your teeth. Your heartbeat.
Five red light illuminated overhead. Then, you launched cleanly. The rear tires bit instantly against the asphalt as the field exploaded forward behind you.
Max got a better initial reaction off the line, his car surging alongside approaching Turn 1. You braked impossibly late. So did Max.
The cars entered the corner nearly side-by-side before your car rotated harder through the apex, giving you enough traction on exit to stay ahead.
Behind you, Lewis defended aggressively from both Ferraris while the midfield collapsed into chaos.
By Lap 11, every mirror glance showed blue and red lurking behind you like a predator refusing to blink.
Then came the first pit cycle. Mercedes reacted first.
"Box, box."
The stop was perfect. You rejoined still leading, but only just. Max emerged behind you within undercut range.
Lewis stayed out longer, strategically extending his sting to cover Ferrari. The race split apart after that. Different tire ages, different strategies, constant pressure.
And through all of it, Max never disappeared.
Lap after lap the gap hovered around one second. Close enough to threated, not close enough to strike.
Until the safety car at Lap 41.
"Okay," Luca's voice sharpened. "This restart decides the race. Control the pace, you've got this."
The safety car lights went out, you bakced the field up deliberately through the final corners, forcing everyone into uncertainty.
Then you went. You launched forward violently and Max reacted instantly. The restart became warfare immediately, Max attacking around the outside, you defending late.
Lewis lurked behind both of you, silver car dancing aggressively in dirty air. Then came Lap 48.
Max sent his car down the inside into the hairpin, brakes smoking under impossible commitment. You turned in away and you cars nearly touched.
For one horrifying second it felt inevitable that you were going to colide, instead you somehow emerged ahead by inches.
"How the hell did you hold that?" Luca shouted.
The final laps blurred together after that. Your tires screamed through every corner while Max attacked relentlessly behind. Lewis defended from Ferrari like a man possessed, keeping the podium secure while simultaneously backing the field away from you.
It was the last lap, the final sector, and you crossed the line with your entire body shaking.
The radio dissolved into chaos. Mechanics yelling, engineers shouting, Toto was audibly swearing in celebration.
Two wins. Back-to-back. And this time, nobody could say Lewis handed it to you.
The podium felt louder than before. Not celebratory. Awed.
Even Max seemed quieter during champagne spraying though his eyes stayed sharp with calculation. Lewis stood beside you during the anthem, clapping first when your trophy lifted overhead.
And somewhere below the podium, the Mercedes team looked stunned by its own reality.
Because this wasn't potential anymore. It wasn't hype. It wasn't media exaggeration. This was real.
The championship fight had officially begun.
f1 â
liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, and 6,901,882 others
f1 â BACK TO BACK WINS!
Mercedes rookie YN LN survives Verstappen's pressure, a safety car, and one of the fiercest races Shanghai has seen in years.
The title fight has begun. đ
#ChineseGP #YNLN
view all comments
user7 nah this is already one of the best seasons in years
user63 Lewis was defending the ferraris like his life depended on it LMAO
user5 insiders say she was complaining about her car the whole weekend but no one's is showing light on it.
user23 IVE BEEN SAYING !!! and watch them use it on her in the next press conference
user5 you just KNOW redbull is bringing upgrades next race
user53 something abt the way max looked at yn after podium... yeah
user80 the way toto and luca was swearing and screaming on the radio đđđ LIKE THATS THEIR GIRL
user9 now this was the rookie yall doubted on ????
I wonât apologize that I love being the main character and winning my first race as a rookie. This was too good and I canât wait for the next part with some more dramaaaaa
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤â pairing. simon riley x reader
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤â about.
christmas was something simon had never truly experienced, not as an adult and certainly not as a kid. this year was different, thrown into your familyâs house, surrounded by warmth and love. something he had forgotten he had longed for. (wc: 3.070)
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤.đĽ Ý Ë day fifteen of the lists
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤.á warnings.
angst. comfort. past childhood trauma. age gap (more than ten years). established relationship. chubby reader.
As the smoke drifted away into the cold night, Simon kept his eyes on the house. The lights inside were soft and warm, glowing across happy, smiling faces. Everyone was laughing, talking over one another, while the little children ran around, waiting for the moment Santa would arrive.
It was all so gentle, so bright, so unlike anything heâd ever known. And Simon felt completely out of place.
He had never grown up in a happy family. His childhood had been nothing but traumatic: long, terrifying nights and a body that never seemed to stop hurting. Christmas meant nothing in a house like the one heâd been raised in. Simon had never understood what family time was supposed to feel likeâheâd never had that. Not truly. Sure, he loved his brother and his mother, but it was too late to fix what had been broken, and Tommy had his own family now.
Every year, Simon was invited to his brotherâs house, and every year he declined. It wasnât that he didnât love Tommy or his family. It was that Simon believed he didnât deserve any of it. His fatherâs words still echoed in his mind, even thirty years later.
Years of mandatory therapy had done little to silence them. Eventually, the memories quieted, but they never went away. Especially not during nights like thisânights when families gathered close, laughing, rejoicing, holding on to one another.
âSimon?â Your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
He turned, and the sight of you nearly knocked the air from his lungs. You stood there in a red velvet dress that hugged your form perfectly, the soft fabric stretching slightly over your small, pudgy belly. Sweet patterned tights covered your legs, and your feet were adorned with little black kitten heels.
It had taken everything in him not to drag you back inside when youâd finished getting ready, you were the most beautiful woman heâd ever seen.
What he didnât like, however, was how much of your skin was left bare. Your arms were exposed to the sharp bite of the British winter, and the sight of you hugging yourself against the cold made a deep frown form on his face.
As you walked closer to him, he opened his arms, welcoming you into his warmth. Dropping his cigarette to the ground, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tighter into the safety of his chest.
You had been together for two years, but the first Christmas you were meant to spend together, he had been called away. It had broken Simonâs heart to tell you he needed to return to workâespecially when, to you, his job was nothing more than handling paperwork. He never wanted you to suspect he was cheating, or hiding something darker. But you trusted him. Heâd never given you a reason not to.
Now here he was, standing outside your familyâs home, surrounded by the warmth of people who welcomed him without hesitation. He had met your parents before, but this⌠this was different. This time, he was meeting your brothers, your aunts and uncles, your nieces and nephews, even your grandparents. It was overwhelming. No wonder he had slipped outside to smoke alone for the last ten minutes.
Your presence in his arms made him smile, and he pulled you even closer. He let out a soft gasp when your freezing fingers slipped under his polo and the shirt beneath, pressing against his bare skin.
âYou little minx,â he laughed, though he didnât dare push your hands away. If anything, he drew you nearer.
Still, even after all this time, he couldn't quite understand why you wanted him in your life. Youâa young, bright, joyful thingâhad chosen him, a scarred, hardened man with too many shadows trailing behind him. It didnât make any sense. But Simon had come to accept one thing:
You werenât leaving. And, for once in his life, he didnât want you to.
âYou okay?â you whispered against his chest, resting your chin there.
Simon looked down into your eyes, and as always, he felt himself fall into them. They were always so soft when they rested on him. Too soft, he often thought, for someone like him. Like every good thing in his life, he felt he didnât deserve it. You looked at him as though he were your entire world, eyes sparkling every time they met his. There was never disgust, never fear, never that distance he had grown used to seeing in others. Every scar on his face and body had been kissed again and again by your lips, traced tenderly by your gentle fingers.
It was so different from the touches he was used to. The rushed, impersonal hands of doctors patching him up. The heavy, well-meaning slaps on the back from his captain. And, of course, the ghost of the rough, punishing blows from his late father.
Pain always followed touch, a natural reaction from his brain, except when it came from you. That how he had known.
âHm,â he hummed softly in response, his large hands rubbing your back with slow, deliberate care.
âReady to come back inside, big guy?â you asked, your eyes roaming over his face again.
He couldnât resist you. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft but steady, full of a warmth that settled deep in his chest. His hands rose to your cheeks without him even realizing it, cupping your face like you were something fragile and precious.
He also didnât realize he hadnât leaned down quite far enoughâuntil he felt you rise onto your tiptoes, trying to meet him halfway. Always trying to make things easier for him. Always thinking of his back, especially after heâd been grumbling about it earlier.
âLetâs go,â he mumbled against your lips, unwilling to pull away but knowing youâd both freeze if he didnât.
His eyes couldn't help but linger on your butt when you rushed back inside.
Sitting down on the couch, Simon found himself surrounded by your three nephews and two nieces. They were chattering nonstop about random thingsâstories from school, toys they were hoping for, cartoons heâd never heard of. He didnât care what they were talking about, they just seemed thrilled that he was listening.
Every now and then, Simon made a silly joke, earning giggles from the younger ones and dramatic eye-rolls from the older two. They climbed over the couch, bouncing around him like he was a jungle gym, using his arms as if they were monkey barsâbut he didnât mind. If anything, he found it strangely soothing. Small, soft children, innocent and fearless, unafraid of him simply because no one had ever taught them to be.
No parents whispered warnings in their ears. No adults pulled their children close when he walked by, throwing him wary glances. No little gasps of fear slipped out when he wasnât hiding his face.
None of that existed here.
Here, people didnât know Ghost. And he was determined to keep it that way. Especially from you. You had nothing to do with Ghostâhe belonged to a world you should never have to touch. A world Simon himself didnât truly belong to, either.
The youngest, Ben, was now fully curled against him, clinging to Simon like he was his own personal heater. The boyâs head kept dipping forward, jerking back up as he fought sleep with all the determination a five-year-old could manage. His sisters had told him he needed to stay awake for Santaâonly one more hour until midnightâbut it seemed like the struggle was becoming too much for the chubby little boy.
Gently shushing Ben's siblings and cousins, Simon eased them back onto the floor, clearly not wanting to disturb the sleeping boy in his lap. One of his big, scarred hands rested on Benâs small head, petting him softly. His heart felt unexpectedly full as he looked around the room again.
You were talking with one of your brother, your hands moving in wide, animated gestures like they always did when you were deep in thought. He loved that about you, how expressive you were. Your eyes, your face, your hands⌠everything about you was honest. Thatâs how he always knew you were never disgusted by him. You looked at him with such open admiration that it had terrified him at first.
Your mother kept stepping into the conversation, making you gasp dramatically at whatever secrets she was spilling. From where Simon sat, it was hilariousâhe had no idea what any of you were talking about, but the picture of you all together, alive and warm, was almost enough to make him smile out loud.
âI can take him if you want,â a deep voice said beside him as the couch dipped under a heavier weight.
Turning toward the sound, Simon met the soft, tired eyes of your other brother, NateâBenâs father. Looking down at the sleeping boy in his lap, Simon realized heâd been rubbing the kidâs back the whole time, probably lulling him into an even deeper sleep.
âItâs all right,â he said quietly, offering Nate a small smile.
Both men fell quiet as Nateâs daughters swarmed him, demanding answers about Santa and the gifts he might be bringing. Nate stayed cryptic, smirking as he told them Santa would only come if theyâd been nice this year. When they realized their dad wasnât giving anything away, they scampered back to their cousins, picking up their game again.
It was obvious they were all growing tired. The youngest of the two girls kept glancing toward the couch and her father, losing her fight against sleep before she eventually wandered back to him. Curling up in Nateâs lap, she relaxed instantly, her eyelids drooping.
Simon and Nate exchanged a glance, then a quiet, shared laugh, before turning their attention back to the rest of the kids still awake.
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Nate lean closer.
âTheyâre all gonna drop like flies,â he murmured, amused as the kidsâ enthusiasm and their sugar rush finally began to fade.
Simon let out a soft laugh in response, unconsciously pulling little Ben closer against his chest. And in that simple movement, something settled inside him, something he hadnât let himself feel in years. In forever perhaps.
He longed for this. Not just for a single night a year, but always.
He wanted children to run into his arms when he came home. He wanted to lift them up, hold them close, soothe them when they were tired or frightened. To take away their bad dreams, their worries. To love them the way he had never been loved.
His gaze drifted back to you across the room, and his heart swelled almost painfully. He imagined you round and glowing with his child, stumbling adorably when your belly grew too heavy, softly caressing your bump and laughing whenever the baby kicked. The image hit him with such warmth he could hardly breathe.
He wanted that. Wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything.
All his life, he had sworn he would never have childrenânever drag innocent kids into the broken mess of his family. He couldnât risk repeating the cycles heâd lived through, couldnât risk ruining lives the way his had been.
But then you came along. And somehow, quietly, without forcing anything, you saved him.
Sitting there in the warmth of your parentsâ home, with sleeping children draped over him and you smiling softly from across the room, Simon finally understood what it meant to love beyond limits.
When a soft kiss brushed against his lips, Simon immediately turned toward the touch. And there you were, smiling brightly as your fingers gently stroked the small tufts of hair on top of Benâs head. But the look in your eyes⌠it was different. Something heâd never seen there before.
He was about to ask when another child stumbled onto the couch, squeezing himself between Simon and your brother before leaning heavily against Simonâs arm, already half-asleep. Another tiny fighter defeated.
âLooks like youâre becoming a pillow,â you teased with a soft smile, kissing his cheek again.
Within thirty minutes, all five children had fallen asleepâevery single one. Everyone except you and Simon planned to stay the night, they lived farther away than you did, and every guest room was already filled.
The truth, though, the part only you knew, was that you hadnât wanted to push him too fast. A full house overnight, surrounded by new family⌠you feared it might overwhelm him. So you made the quiet choice to go home together instead.
Now Simon stood outside again, smoking another cigarette as he watched through the window. The adults were carrying children upstairs, whispering not to wake them, while others carefully placed presents under the tree. Gifts were being exchanged between the grown-ups too, soft laughs, warm smiles, grateful hugs.
Simon had nothing to give. Heâd brought a bottle of good wine for your parents as a thank you, but beyond that⌠nothing.
He didnât know you had written his name on every card attached to your gifts. He didnât know that his presents at home were already placed under your own tree, waiting for him tomorrow morning.
Finishing the last drag, he stepped back inside. You settled onto his lap as the adults continued exchanging gifts. Their smiles were gentle, their touches affectionate, their thank-yous soft and genuine. It was heartwarming, almost painfully so. Simon had waited more than thirty years to experience something like this. And knowing youâd grown up with it every single year of your life made something twist in his chest.
A small ache of jealousy. A sting of grief. Why hadnât he had this? Why wasnât he allowed something so simple, so loving? It wasnât fair. He had always been a good boy. He had never done anything to deserve the things he endured.
He knew these feelings came from old wounds, from trauma that still lived under his skin. So he simply shook his head and pulled you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulderâhis small, wordless apology for something you didnât even know he felt.
He made a mental note of mentioning it in his next therapy session.
Lying on his back, Simon waited for you to return from the bathroom.
It was creeping toward 3 a.m., the exhaustion of the day clinging heavily to both your bodies. The party had lingered a while after the kids went to bedâgifts exchanged, soft laughter shared, a few more drinks poured. Simon had politely declined all of them. He was driving home on snowy roads, he wasnât about to risk putting you in danger.
Now he lay there in a pair of joggers slung low on his hips. The shirt heâd meant to put on had been stolen right out of his hands by you, and after that heâd decided not to bother. He ran hot anyway, especially tonight, when he planned on keeping you tucked tightly against him.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them again, your warm, soft body was already pressed against his under the covers, soaking up his heat. The sight made him smile.
Every night, he told you to wear bottoms so you wouldnât get coldâbut you insisted you ran too hot and preferred to sleep in just panties. He never argued with your logic, he simply pulled you closer every time.
âYou okay?â you whispered once heâd drawn you snug against his chest.
âYeah,â he answered immediately, eyes already drifting shut again. âWhy?â
âI donât know⌠I thought maybe it would be too much,â you said gently, careful not to upset him, careful to be understood.
But Simon understood exactly what you meant.
Heâd told you bits and pieces about his childhood, never the full picture, never the darkest details. You knew it hadnât been happy, and you suspected it skirted the line of abuse.
Which, of course, wasnât the truth. It wasnât borderline. It had been abuse.
But you didnât need to carry that weight. He knew you wouldnât pity himâbut your heart would ache for the boy he had been, and he didnât want that for you. It wasnât like you'd ever meet his father anyway.
âItâs alright, lovie,â he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âTheyâre really nice and welcoming. Nothing to worry about,â he said softly.
âThey really liked you,â you replied, your voice warm against his chest.
He felt you smile into him, that tiny, intimate gesture pulling a smile onto his own lips. Even though the party had been pleasant, Simon never wanted anything more than to lie here in the quiet of your space, your body pressed against his.
Thatâs what he missed most when he was away, sleeping in your presence, feeling your warmth seep into him, letting both your souls quietly mend together. He had never slept better than when you shared a bed.
âThink we should get some of our own,â he said before he could stop himself.
The words slipped out faster than his brain could filter. Images of little Ben climbing into his lap, so safe and trusting, replayed vividly, igniting a longing deep in his chest. A feeling he had never known but suddenly recognized as something he wanted with all of himself.
He had been good. He deserved it.
âWhat?â you asked, confused, unaware of the storm turning in his mind.
âKids,â he said, simply.
âOh.â You let the word hang in the air.
A few seconds of silence were enough for his fatherâs words to slither back into Simonâs mind, sharp and venomous. Overwhelming. Destroying all the happy thoughts, all the quiet plans heâd been imagining for the past hours. No one will ever love you. Ugly mutt of a kid. You donât deserve anything nice, youâre bad.
âWe really should,â you murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his chest.
And just like that, all the dark, intrusive thoughts vanished. Only you remained, in this moment, in your shared home.
Closing his eyes, Simon still wasnât entirely convinced he deserved something good. Yet, he knew one thing for certain: it was all because of you.
Šfromsil.
a.n. : simon deserves all the love in the world, and yes... i couldn't kill tommy in this, sorry. he's alive and well with his wife and son.
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤â about.
fate is a strange forceâpushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad ghost. but with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly. (wc: 20.300)
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤.á warnings.
angst. smut. body shaming. eating disorders. ex toxic relationship. anxiety. violence. mention of blood. age gap (reader in mid 20s, simon in late 30s). daddy kink. chubby and insecure reader.
㠤㠤â â â â â 㠤ᯠmasterlist.
Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.
But those treats werenât for you. Not anymore. They hadnât been for a long time. Not since him.Â
On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the dayâs leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routineâwhenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, theyâd rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.
Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.
Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldnât bear.
As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.
He left. He actually left, just like heâd threatened so many times before.
An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldnât be able to forget : Since you donât want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, itâs over.
Neglect. Thatâs what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasnât exactly sculpted or strong, he couldnât even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.
You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life whoâd ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and youâd been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.
All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.
The worst part was, you hadnât gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, thatâs what you thought.
A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.
He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.
And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.
Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasnât anything specialâjust some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.
Some nights, you didnât eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. Youâd gotten used to skipping lunch, too.
But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.
The numbers on the scale never dropped.
And the truth was, the real you didnât even want them to. Youâd been okay with how you looked before him. It wasnât a runway modelâs body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.
Now, it was neither slim⌠nor healthy.Â
Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.
The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.
You were barely holding yourself together.
And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.
It was a strange feeling. Youâd always thought youâd leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.
But the truth was different.
You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.
It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.
So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.
Truthfully, your first âboyfriendâ hadnât been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.
Fat.
That word felt branded on your forehead.
Your mother always told you that you werenât fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You werenât anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.
Fat wasnât just a wordâit was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.
No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.
Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.
Technically, it was your bossâs backyardâshe lived in the flat upstairsâbut she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.
You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did.Â
They always fell.
The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You werenât really living anymoreâjust surviving. And the worst part was, you werenât even sure why.
The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.
On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.
You hadnât dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would âchange everything.â
You had been grateful you never joined.
So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.
You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.
They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers youâd ever seen.
And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.
Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldnât be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.
But to you, it was beautiful.
This wasnât a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombsâanything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.
Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.
He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.
And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.
A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.
There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.
You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.
He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.
You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.
More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didnât see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.
Your ears were ringing, and you couldnât make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldnât even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your armâa cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didnât smoke. It didnât fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.
Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body.Â
You didnât remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.
Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. Youâd passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your homeâs safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.
Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.
That night, you ate.
It was automatic. You couldnât do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.
It had been weeks since that day.
It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm.Â
The strangerâs cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadnât been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.
It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldnât walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until youâd had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.
And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.
A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.
You couldnât.
It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didnât fit neatly into your routine.Â
And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.
You wouldnât let him win. You couldnât keep letting him dictate your life, not after heâd walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadnât.
So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.
Tired of letting him win.Â
Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.
It looked exactly how youâd imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designsâskulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.
The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.
A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt.Â
Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.
You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.
You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.
It was all a stupid idea.
You shouldnât even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone elseâs idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?
Sure, the flowers were pretty⌠but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you werenât. And what if you couldnât even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldnât be cheap.
The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.
You didnât even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didnât hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.
Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you âweak.â Said it made you âa burden.â You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didnât notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.
And then, silence.
Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb.Â
He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others werenât. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadnât seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didnât like that. It wasnât outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface.Â
Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men youâd ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubtâthis was Ghost.
The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.
And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the othersâ, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didnât bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.
âWell, LT,â the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, âLooks like yeâve been hidinâ things, wee bugger.â
The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.
âFuck off, Mactavish,â Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.
Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.
You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress heâd called âten years too oldâ, words that still echoed in your mind.
Before him, it used to be your favourite one.Â
âWhat dâyou want?â His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.
You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. âUm⌠I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.â
Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if youâd just said something absurd.
He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing youâd mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didnât recall ever drawing sunflowers.
You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.
Maybe he hadnât drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But youâd lived in this town for years, and youâd never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.
âFuck,â he let out with a sigh, walking over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. âListen, darlinâ, I donât do that sort of stuff no more. Look âround, find something you like, Iâll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ainât me work.â
Oh no.
This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.
The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. Youâd even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But youâd already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.
Youâd been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, itâd always been a struggle.
âUh, itâs okay, mister,â you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. âI donât want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,â you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle fingerâa stress habit.
His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.
Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didnât take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling heâd only experienced when his teammates were in danger.
âAlright then,â he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. âTell me where you want it, the size and all that. Iâll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,â he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.
With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you werenât quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.
At the mention of âwidth,â the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasonsâcovering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.
But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.
After gathering all the details you wanted, which werenât many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, âGot any other tattoos?â
A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something youâd never felt before, not even with him.
âCome âround in a couple days, aye?â he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, âIâll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.â
âYeah,â you sighed, biting your lip nervously. âOkay.â
ââNeed time to do something nice for you,â he said with a small smirk. âWouldnât wanna fuck it up.â
Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldnât be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.
Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.
âYou donât want a deposit?â you asked, confused.Â
Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.
Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.
âSomethinâ tells me you ainât gonna make me waste my time, flower,â he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. âDonât you worry your little head âbout that, just come back in a few days.â
And with that, he sent you on your way.
As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.
There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone youâd ever known before.
And you found yourself longing for more.Â
Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.
In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.
It made you want to prove him right. To please him.
His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.
After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back inâusually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.
But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer.Â
âLittle dumb naive girl,â he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.
And despite everything, that voice still echoed.
You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked outâslim, glowing, confidentâcarrying something you had always been told you lacked.Â
He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didnât start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.
"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.
You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized youâd let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didnât mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.
You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.
The shop was empty. Silent.
It felt almost sacred, like youâd stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.
A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.
You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.
Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression.Â
It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.
You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.
He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.
Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft youâd first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.
He hadnât just redrawn the flowers. Heâd turned them into something tender. Something yours.
They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.
It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet preciseâeach stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.
What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flowerâs heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasnât just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.
It made your chest ache in the best way.
The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturallyâunafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.
It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didnât make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So⌠you.
There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicateâheâd always had the skillâbut he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew heâd made the right call. Heâd been right not to turn you away.
The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.
Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didnât want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you werenât sure you deserved to be heard.
He recognized the signs. Heâd seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you werenât enough, or worse, that you were too much.Â
But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.
A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.
And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you canât always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.
And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.
âPicked one, flower?â he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.
"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it biggerâbig enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.
Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.
You hadnât expected it to happen today. You werenât ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.
There was no turning back now.
Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
âRelax. Not gonna tattoo you today,â he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. âJust testing out the size, yeah?â
âOh,â you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. âYeah⌠yeah, thatâs okay,â you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldnât seem to shake.
After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasnât awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.
What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, heâd probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?
Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.
With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.
Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.
Youâd worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.
âThe left one, yeah?â he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.
You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.
"Alright," he said once heâd finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficientâlike this was just another task in his day.
And why wouldnât it be? He didnât care about your insecurities. He didnât even know you. You were just another client. Youâd come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.
Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.
"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.
Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.
You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.
Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.
You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.
He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.
"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.
There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.
To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.
And yet, you couldnât see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.
"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.
He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.
"This is just so the stencilâs ink sticks to your skin. Itâs just a gel, but itâs gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab heâd applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.
Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didnât want to break.
No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.
As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.
It looked so small against the stretch of skin. Heâd used the medium size, but it was still far from what youâd imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.
âBigger?â he asked, watching your reaction closely.
You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.
The largest version heâd printed wasnât much bigger than the one youâd just seen. Heâd have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldnât bear to look at it alone.
Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.
Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.
After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. Heâd added more details with each versionâmore leaves, more petalsâto better match the vision youâd had in your head.Â
And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.
It felt right.
A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.
âItâs perfect,â you said at last, your voice soft but certain.
Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. âYeah?â He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again.Â
You nodded. âYeah.â
âGreat,â he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. âOnly took, what⌠seven tries?â he added with a teasing lilt.
âSorry,â you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like youâd wasted his time, been too picky.
âDonât be,â he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. âTell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and weâll set a date.â
âOkay,â you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.
âPerfect, then,â Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. âItâll wash off eventually, donât worry.â
And with that, you were sent on your wayâa flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.
A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.
Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.
It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.
You told Ghost you were ready.
He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a dateâtwo weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.
He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didnât scare you anymore. He couldâve asked for two thousand pounds and you still wouldâve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number.Â
While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
âWear comfortable clothes,â heâd said. âBring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.â
That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.
Snacks. You hadnât had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.
Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, âWhat do you mean?â
He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didnât want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.
You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldnât follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were⌠complicated.
Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldnât show up with anything. And he wasnât about to let you faint on his table.
He also wasnât about to let you slip through his fingers.
He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe.Â
He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time heâd known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadnât touched in years.
You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.
The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfastânerves twisting your stomach into knots.
But you needed to eat. Heâd told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.
So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.
Youâd eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.
But you didnât.
This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.
Somehow, heâd see it in your eyes. And you couldnât bear the thought of disappointing him.
Youâd chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldnât draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.
Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.
You could handle a few hours of discomfort. Youâd endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.
When you crossed the threshold, you didnât feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.
You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandmaâs voice echoed in your head: âShow up on time and youâre already late.â
It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.
The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.
Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. âA bit early, flower, aye?â he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. âGet comfy, Iâm almost done.â
Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.
You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.
Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.
You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. âSemper fi,â the man added as he left.
Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.
âFucking Marines,â he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear.Â
Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. âCome on then,â he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.
You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.
You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, âBrought this for you.â
You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple ĂŠclair. Youâd chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked ĂŠclairs... right?
Well, he didn't like it.
âThanks, didnât have to,â he said casually, taking the box from your hands.Â
He didnât hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, heâd already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.
âItâs good, flower,â he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. âMade it yourself?â
All you could do was nod, stunned.
It was almost... pornographic, the way heâd eaten it. Like he didnât care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing heâd eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.
Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before heâd even touch it.
This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.
After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.
âShall we get going?â he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.
Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work.Â
âGonna shave your skin first, alright?â he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.
He hadnât told you to shave. You shouldâve known, you shouldâve looked it up beforehand. Your skin shouldâve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like youâd already messed everything up.
âStop,â he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. âStop overthinkinâ. Thatâs on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I donât care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they donât lose sleep over it.â
Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "Thatâs perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.
Gloves. Ink. Needles.
Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.
You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.
âIâm not much of a talker, yeah?â he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. âBut you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I wonât get distracted, donât worry.â
It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.
âIt might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But youâll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.â He motioned toward a small table you hadnât noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.
âSnacks and waterâs over there too. No excuses,â he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.
Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadnât said a word, and still, heâd thought ahead. Heâd prepared for you.
You werenât used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.
It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.
It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.
The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.
His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.
Heâd started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasnât pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.
The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, youâd glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.
But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.
After a few minutes in that position, you couldnât help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.
Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.
And then the voices came back. Your exâs voice.
Fat. Ugly. Big.
"Okay, letâs stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Canât do anything if you keep moving like that."
Dread hit you like a wave.Â
Youâd ruined it. Youâd let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.
Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.
Youâd never come back. You couldnât. Youâd find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasnât perfect anymore? You didnât deserve perfect anyway.
When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.
Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldnât even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.
Glancing down, you saw how little had been doneâthe center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why youâd ruined it.
A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.
You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.
âAlright, sweetheart,â he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. âBreathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasnât lying. His eyes werenât hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.
"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. âNot at you, anyway."
He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. âDrink,â he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.
You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like thatâhis tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his postureâwouldâve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldnât let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.
Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.
"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.
You blinked at him, stunned.
"Nice little restaurant,â he went on. âYouâre gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."
You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.
He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. Youâd filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.
âAlright,â he said, final and firm. No room for argument.
The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.
He let out a soft humâsomething like approvalâthen turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.
Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. âHow much do I owe you?â Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.
âDonât worry about that,â he answered quickly, without even glancing back. âBe ready at seven, yeah?â
You didnât get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you mightâve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didnât feel like rejection.
âIn the meantime, get some rest,â he added softly, pausing before the door. âTake a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?â
There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.
You didnât mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.
Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked.Â
But deep down, you knew you wouldnât.Â
Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldnât keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.
Thatâs how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.
Except this was a fancy all blackânot the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.
When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your âold womanâ dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.
The first few minutes had been awkward. You didnât really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.
The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.
âYou didnât listen, did you?â he asked. His tone wasnât patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. âYou didnât eat.â
This time, it wasnât a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.
No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt⌠strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spokeâthey felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.
He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadnât made him happy. Not once.
âCare to tell me why?â Simonâs voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.
âTook a nap⌠didnât have time toâbefore I had to get ready,â you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like youâd done something wrong.
And in a way, you werenât lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.
Simon being upset because you hadnât eaten wasnât one of them.
That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.
Now, you just felt⌠empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.
Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.
Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.
Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, âWeâll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.â
Then his eyes were back on youâsteady, unreadable, and unwavering.
Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadnât eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like youâd known each other forever.
At first, you didnât say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.
When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like heâd done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.
And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything heâd ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.
Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasnât. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actionsâthe way he simply took charge without making a show of itâthat made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.
And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didnât say a word.
He just kept feeding you.Â
With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon⌠something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldnât mock you. He wouldnât laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldnât pity you for still struggling now.
So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edgesâthe outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way heâd keep pushing for sex even after you said no⌠until youâd finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You werenât ready to open that door. Not yet.
But you told him everything else.
And as the words spilled out, you didnât even notice when your pizza arrived. Didnât realize youâd eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.
No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.
Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.
And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.
He didnât say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. Heâd even gently suggested once that an ex mightâve been the cause.
But he hadnât imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.
So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.
No pressure. No rushing.
Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didnât feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasnât something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.
Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.
When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yesâbut youâd been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.
But it felt wrong.Â
The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. Youâve already eaten too much. Youâre already too fat. You donât need the extra sugar.
Simonâs finished eating anyway, he probably doesnât even like sweets.
As you spiraled, againâfor what felt like the millionth time todayâSimon watched you quietly. Heâd noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.
He hadnât known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.
So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. âOne tiramisu,â he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. âTwo spoons.â
Another silence settled between you.
âYou know youâre gorgeous.âHis voice cut through it, steady and sureâtaking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. âEasily one of the finest bodies Iâve ever tattooed.â
Simon wasnât poetic. His words werenât flowery, but they werenât crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasnât the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.
And right now, he thought you were beautiful.
You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.
âYou donât have to say that,â you murmured. âJust because you feel bad for meâŚâ
He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challengingâlike he was daring you to keep going.
âStop thinking youâre in my head, flower,â he said, voice low and steady. âI'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. Iâd get no pleasure out of that.â
There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didnât ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.
âIâm past playing little boysâ games,â he added, his gaze steady.
The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others youâd known. More mature. More grounded.Â
âOkay,â was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
Too shy to admit you still didnât quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.
Youâd never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoonsâone by each of your sides.
Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didnât even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.
His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite.Â
He'd been right. Spot on.
You didnât need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.
Simon was more than ready to be that person for you.Â
And he had no intention of going anywhere.
Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.
You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldnât cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simonâs. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.
You werenât even sure how youâd found the courage to invite him up.
After the shared dessert, heâd paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part youâd eaten. Heâd only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.
Then he offered to drive you home. Youâd accepted.
And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.
He didnât hesitate. He just said yes.
The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.
Simon didnât speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.
Not at your apartment, not at the space heâd just entered for the first time.
You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.
It wasnât fleeting or coy. It wasnât something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.
And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that beforeânot even the two men youâd once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.
Simon didnât move. Didnât rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.
A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.
Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoesâthen yoursâthen back again.
His eyes never left you. Not once.
You didnât know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. Youâd never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.
âI donât know howâŚâ you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. âIâve never really⌠humââ
The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterlineâtears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. Heâd leave. You were sure of it.
But then, across the space between you, he growled: âFuck it.â
And suddenly his lips were on yoursâhot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasnât just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.
He didnât rush. He didnât devour. He anchored you.
And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.
His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They werenât taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.
One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.
The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didnât matter. As if this momentâyouâdeserved to be savored.
Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.
The moment you granted him entry, Simonâs tongue slid against yours with the same care heâd shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasnât frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasnât just about pleasure, but presence.Â
Being here. With you.
His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.
You made a soft sound in the back of your throatâpart surprise, part wantâand he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.
There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.
Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.
Simonâs back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didnât pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.
He shouldâve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.
But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.
One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
âSimon, no⌠Please,â you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.
âPlease what, lovely?â he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: Youâre safe. Iâve got you.
âYouâll hurt yourself,â you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.
âIâve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,â he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. âTrust me, flowerâyouâre the lightest thing Iâve ever held.â
You stilled. Breath catching.
Because it wasnât just what he said. It was how he said itâlike it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.
"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head.Â
Simon mustâve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.
âBreathe,â he instructed softly. âFeel this. Me. Here.â
He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen.Â
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didnât ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.
The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didnât break again.
His hands didnât leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.
âItâs just me, love,â he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.
He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.
You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.
Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simonâs mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.
Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.
When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didnât ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.
The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitantâbut beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.
âGonna take this off, alright?â he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.
Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.
âLook at me,â he saidâsharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. âWhen I ask you something, I need words. Understand?â
You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
âYes,â you added, voice barely above a whisper.
âYes, who?â
ââŚYes, Simon.â
That would doâfor now.
You werenât ready to give the answer he truly wantedânot yetâbut heâd tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadnât. Still, he didnât hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep insideâthe part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.
But he wouldnât push.You werenât ready. And he understood exactly why.
He hadnât earned it yet. Hadnât proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you⌠without ever taking more than you were ready to give.
"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.
Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.
âCute,â was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.
His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectlyâso perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.
You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. Youâd never been this wet before, never felt this⌠eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?
Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.
The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chestâfingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lipsâwas nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.
"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.
"Yes, Simon," you whisperedâno, whinedâthe need threading through your voice.
"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didnât even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.
There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didnât have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.
With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breastsâmarking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.
Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.
The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simonâs in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.
The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.
"SorryâŚ" you whispered, your breath shaky.
That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, heâd thought you were enjoying this.
"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.
"The noises⌠I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."
Simonâs gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.
âNo,â he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. âDonât apologize for that.â
His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.
âI like those sounds,â he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. âThey tell me what you like⌠what feels good. Donât ever hide that from me.â
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. âI want to hear everythingâevery moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Donât you dare keep it from me.â
The way he reassured youâwith that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.
You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.
Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.
And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.
His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. âIâll take care of you,â he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. âAll you have to do is feel.â
When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.
Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadnât quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over againâkisses, licks, gentle bitesâwhile his fingers never lost their rhythm.
And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.
A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadnât bothered to shave, never imagining youâd end up here, under him like this. But he didnât hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.
And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.
Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.
This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasnât just touching youâhe was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.
You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.
When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knewâit was time to move on.
He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention heâd been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.
His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.
With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, âIs thisââ
âYes, Simon, yes⌠please,â you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.
He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. âGood girl,â he whispered. âThatâs what I like to hear.âÂ
There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it.Â
Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions.Â
Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.
âFuck,â he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tightâpainfully soâbut he didnât look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didnât quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one.Â
The reflex hit before you could stop it.
âYou want me to suck your dick?â you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.
Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.
âHey,â he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. âLook at me.â
You did.
âYou donât owe me anything,â he said firmly. âNot your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I donât want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.â
His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. âIf you ever get on your knees for me, itâs gonna be because you want it. Because youâre desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?â
Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.
For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.
Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patternsâa silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.
But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldnât stay still.
He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.
Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like youâd been holding your breath for hours.
Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, the words instinctive.
âDonât be,â he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. âStop apologizing.â
His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.
But Simon didnât rush.
He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.
You werenât sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasnât enough.
Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.
Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasnât enough.
He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. âGot any protection, sweet girl?â
He didnât want to break the moment, didnât want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.
But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didnât lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled âNoâŚâ against his throat.
He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didnât pull away.
With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. Heâd half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remarkâbut you said nothing.
You were deeper in your headspace than heâd realized.
You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldnât stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.
Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.
Just in case.
He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if theyâd need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.
Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, heâd be there. No hesitation.
Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.
But he could feel that wasnât what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.
He wasnât going anywhere.
For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like himâolder, scarred, and worn at the edges.
It almost felt twisted. But it wasnât.
Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.
And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.
Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldnât stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.
There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didnât fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.
But with Simon, that part felt⌠right.
It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.
So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. Heâs finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead⌠he shifted.
He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.
Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.
And then his voiceârough, low, but gentle. âWant you like this, yeah?â His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. âSo you can control it. Take whatever you want.â
That took your breath away.
The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins⌠it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.
You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone elseâs pleasure, someone elseâs needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power youâd never been allowed to hold.
âIâve never⌠I donât know how to do this,â you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. âIâll mess it up,â you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.
But Simon didnât let you.
His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. âYou wonât,â he said, voice low but firm. âItâs not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.â Then, softer, he added. âBounce. Rub. Sit still. I donât fucking care. Whatever you want, âm yours to use.â
With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.
As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness youâd left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadnât been this hardâthis desperateâin a long time.
Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasnât intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady Youâve got this.
You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowlyâcarefullyâbegan to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.
It didnât hurt.
It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yesâbut there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.
âDoesnât hurt,â you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldnât quite believe it.
Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low.Â
âShouldnât hurt, baby,â he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. âNever.âÂ
You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldnât hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.
Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You werenât even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simonâs breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.
âThatâs it, good girl,â he murmured, voice filled with lust. âJust like that. Youâre doing so good for me.â
That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.
He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curiousâlifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.
âFuck, sweetheart⌠just like that,â he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. âTake your time. This is all yours.â
You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying.Â
It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.
Simonâs hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firmâdrawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.
That shouldâve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places youâd been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.
But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.
Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simonâs hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didnât make you flinch, didnât make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.
That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.
Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.
And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.
Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.
It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.
Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that soundâdeep, low, sinfulâa chuckle rumbling from his chest.
The hottest thing youâd ever heard.
A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.
"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear.Â
The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.
Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didnât care.
âYes, yes, please,â you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.
âYes who, baby?â he taunted, ready to give you everythingâyou just needed to say it.
"Yes, daddy." You finally let out.Â
"Good girl."Â
Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.
His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.
As if he could feel itâand you were sure he couldâhe groaned.
âJust let go, yeah?â His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. âIâve got you.â
That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit.Â
Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simonâs chest.
âThatâs it. Good fucking girl,â he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.
By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythmâlike he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.
And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didnât even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure youâd buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing youâd carried for so long.
Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.
Still, he didnât stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. âJust let it all go, sweetheart.â
âI donât know whatâs happening,â you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.
Simon didnât say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.
It was his way of telling you he was here.
That he wasnât going anywhere.
That you were okay. That you were enough.
Lying there felt almost therapeutic.
The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. Youâd been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.
Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always thereâsteady, patientâsilencing them with his presence.
So now, nearly bare in Simonâs tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.
Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. Heâd been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wantsâhe wasnât about to make you feel ashamed of them now.
The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadnât booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadnât expected anyone else, either.
Still, he turned back to your sunflower.
When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.
âAll done, baby. Go take a look,â he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.
It felt like dĂŠjĂ vuâbut this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.
The sight took your breath away.
It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
âSo,â he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, âwhatâre you thinking? âCause if you ask me, Iâd say thatâs my fucking masterpiece, aye?â A smirk tugged at his lips.
âItâs so beautiful, Si,â you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kissesâanywhere your lips could reach. âEven better than I imagined.â
âAlright, alright, little minx,â he chuckled, gently guiding you back. âStay still a little longer, yeah?â
He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didnât go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.
Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. Heâd expected it.
And honestly? He was no better.
âJust let me check whoâs at the door,â he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. âAnd thenâŚâ he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, âIâll take care of you.â
Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.
You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattooâhis masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.
That voice.
The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.
No. No, it couldnât be.
He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldnât be here. He wasnât supposed to be here.
But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.
Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.
Youâd thought it was over.
Youâd thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesnât mean forgetting. And the past doesnât always stay buried.
An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.
You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simonâs broad back, the solid comfort of his presenceâbut then your gaze locked onto him.
Your ex.
He was really there. Actually there.
The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.
âWhat the fuck are you doing here?â he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom.Â
That was all it took.
Simonâs entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.
He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.
Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasnât to talk. It was to eliminate it.
And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.
Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.
He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.
âGet. The fuck. Out.â Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice youâd never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.
And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.
Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.
He didnât speak, didnât need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.
He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.
He knew what was coming.
So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what youâd endured. Maybe this couldâve been avoided. Maybe you shouldâve stayed behind that curtain.
But none of that mattered now. He didnât blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.
Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.
You had come so far since the day Simon met you. Heâd seen you break, seen you rebuild. Heâd offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.
And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.
Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤â about.
after almost two weeks off, you came back for the night shift. however with your luck, it started as a terrible nightâone you could only hope would get better. (wc: 13.400)
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤.á warnings.
smut. fluff. domestically. age difference (eleven years). car accident (nothing major). medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. injuries. bruises. some insecurities. chubby reader.
㠤㠤â â â â â 㠤ᯠfirst part. duo masterlist. main masterlist.
It wasn't like you to be late, so you forced your legs to move faster even as sharp pain flashed through your hip and thigh. Of all days for this to happen, it had to be todayâyour first shift back after a week and a half of medical leave. And now you were walking into the emergency department nearly an hour late.
Of course, on the very day you were finally coming back to work, you'd been hit by a car.
It hadn't been a major accident, and it hadn't even been the driver's fault⌠but the impact had still been hard enough to hurt, and most likely bruise.
You'd already been running late, so you'd rushed across the street without noticing the light turned green. One second you were hurrying toward the crosswalk, the next a car had slammed into you or rather, you had slammed into it. The vehicle hadn't been going very fast, but it had hit you hard enough to knock you onto the pavement.
Your elbow had taken the fall on the concrete while your hip had taken all the car's force straight into it. On the floor, you felt the little pebbles breaking your skin while you could already imagine the giant bruise on your hip.
A crowd had gathered almost instantly, trying to assess your injuries as if you weren't a nurse yourself. Some people had even suggested calling an ambulanceâwhich you fiercely refused, insisting you were fine and explaining you worked at a hospital anyway.
It had taken several minutes of convincingâand you showing off your nurse badge from PTMCâbefore the crowd and the driver finally let you leave, especially since the poor man looked terrified you were about to sue him. You'd reassured him repeatedly that you wouldn't, because the accident had absolutely been your fault and you definitely didn't have the money to pursue anything of this sort.
Still fifteen minutes away from the hospital, you'd texted Dana to let her know you were running late but were still coming in. Since being late was completely unlike you, you already had five missed calls from different staff members by the time you arrived, so you asked Dana to warn them you were coming as well. She only replied with a simply "Okay".
The moment you stepped inside, you headed straight for the staff room as quickly as you could. You shoved your dinner into the fridge, peeled off your jacket, tossing it onto the coat rack before a sharp sting shot through your elbowâthe opposite side from where your hip ached.
Looking down, you realized the skin was scraped raw and streaked with drying blood.
"Argh, I don't have time for this," you muttered with a sigh, heading for the sink.
You rinsed the scrape under cold water, biting back a groan as the sting intensified, then dried it carefully with a paper towel. It had already stopped bleedingâit was only a minor woundâbut it still looked rough.
Shaking your head, you grabbed the white long-sleeved shirt you always kept in your bag. As quickly as possible, and without flashing any of your coworkers, you pulled it on beneath your scrubs to cover itâhoping hard it wouldn't taint the shirt.
Finally satisfied that your injuries were hidden well enough, you left the room and headed straight for the nurses' station.
"I'm so sorry," you said as you approached Dana, who looked up at you over the rim of her glasses.
As gentle as ever, she pulled you into a quick hug and assured you it was fineâthat these things happened to everyone. Even so, you could see the exhaustion on her face. It must have been a rough day shift, which usually meant an even rougher night ahead. You silently prayed for a quiet evening.
"I'll come in early next shift if you're working," you promised as she gathered her things after explaining what had happened today.
"You don't have to, sweetie. Just make sure you're alright," Dana replied with a soft smile before heading out for the night.
"Better yet, come in at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, okay? So I don't feel so bad," you teased, giving her your best puppy eyes.
"Don't threaten me with a good time, kid," she joked, shaking her head with a laugh.
After she left, you immediately went to Shen and asked how the beginning of the night had been. He assured you everything was running smoothly while sipping his usual coffee. His nonchalance used to annoy the hell out of you, but over time you'd gotten used to it. It was oddly soothing to have someone this chill and relax while everything around here always turned into chaos.
You also knew Jack was working tonight, and you were doing your absolute best to avoid him.
First, because you knew he'd immediately notice something was wrong with you as he noticed everything. And second, more importantly, because of the very last text he'd sent you.
Good girl.
Two fucking words that had haunted you for the past week and a half.
Sometimes you'd be grocery shopping or curled up on the couch reading, and suddenly your mind would drift back to that text. Instantly, warmth would spread through your entire body going straight between your legs.
It was absolutely ridiculous how two simple words could affect you so much, but you couldn't deny the reaction they triggered.
Your cheeks would burn so hot it almost felt suffocating and you'd suddenly have the overwhelming urge to slip your fingers beneath your panties.
Which was exactly why avoiding Jack Abbott seemed like the smartest possible decision.
Four days ago, when you'd returned to have your stitches removed, you'd specifically chosen to show up during the day shift, when you knew he wasn't scheduled. You knew how unpredictable he could beâshowing up on his days off and lingering around the hospital for hours wasn't unusual for himâbut arriving at one in the afternoon had felt like a safe bet that he'd hopefully be in bed... or just far from the hospital.
And thankfully, you had been right.
Getting the stitches removed had been quick, and you'd been more than happy to chat with Samira while she worked. You'd insisted a student nurse could handle it, but she'd waved the idea off, claiming she needed the break. Naturally, you'd indulged her.
Now, walking through the department with an iPad in hand, checking that every patient was where they should be, receiving the right treatment, eating properly, and generally comfortable, you found your thoughts drifting back to Jack once again.
The number of time you had imagined his deep voice saying those two words were shameful, but you couldn't help it. If anything it had been the bastard's fault and he should be the one feeling guilty. If guilt was even what you were feeling.
Shaking your head, you forced yourself to refocus. At home, obsessing over him was one thingâyou weren't responsible for an entire staff and people's lives there. But this was work. Here, you needed to stay professional.
Hearing your name, you turned toward the sound and met Mateo's eyes. You gave him a small nod, waiting for him to speak.
"North 12 is getting discharged, and South 3 is still waiting on results, but upstairs isn't answering," Mateo explained as he pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a nearby trash can.
"Okay, I'll call when I get the time," you replied, already discharging North 12 on your iPad.
Still sensing Mateo lingering beside you, you looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Anything else?"
"HuhâŚ" he started, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Abbott's looking for you."
"Tell him I'm busy," you answered as casually as possible before turning back to your screen.
The second Mateo was out of sight, you bit down hard on your lip, trying to control the immediate reaction that shot through your body at the mention of the older man. You usually weren't like this. But Jack was just⌠something else.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself so effortlessly, never ashamed of his actions, never trying to hide his interest in you. He was confident about itâopenly soâand somehow that only made him more dangerous.
God, that old man was infuriating.
After finishing your rounds, you were almost surprised by how calm the night still was despite the packed waiting room and ED. Returning to your desk, you sat down to update the department boardâwhich beds were free, who was waiting on scans, who was ready for transfer, and who still needed treatment.
"Vivi," you called as she passed by.
She immediately stopped and turned toward you.
"North 7 needs blood test."
"On it," she replied with a bright smile before hurrying off.
Watching her leave, you shook your head fondly. You really did have an incredible team of nurses. Then you sensed someone approaching.
Looking up, you saw Abbott making his way toward your desk, hands clasped behind his back in that rigid military posture of his.
You were absolutely not prepared to talk to him, especially not in the middle of the ER but there was no escaping now. Short of divine intervention, you were trapped.
And somehow, you got exactly that.
Behind you, the red emergency phone rang loudly enough to cut through the chaos of the department. Abbott glanced toward the phone with a raised eyebrow while you immediately rolled your chair back and stood.
"PTMC Emergency, charge nurse," you answered, deliberately looking anywhere except at Jack, who remained standing directly in front of your desk.
As the paramedic spoke, your brain instantly started reorganizing the ERâeyes running everywhere in the room except on Abbot. "We'll be ready."
The second you hung up, you turned back, relieved to see Abbott had been joined by Ellis.
"Bar fight incoming," you summarized quickly, already moving toward the trauma bays. "One guy has part of a beer bottle lodged in his skull, and the other's unconscious with an open radius fracture."
Leaving the doctors behind, you pushed open the door to Trauma 1 and found Shen and Toomarian working on a patient who, thankfully, didn't seem critical.
"We need the room in two minutes," you said.
Your nurses immediately nodded.
"Alright, boss," Shen replied before looking back at his patient. "Let's go on a little trip!"
You rolled your eyes at his complete lack of seriousness while walking back toward the desk, only to hear an enthusiastic "Weeee!" behind you as Shen rolled the patient out of the room.
Taking the phone out of your breast pocket, you quickly composed the neuro number before putting the phone to your ears.
"Dr. Walsh," a voice answered on the other end of the phone a moment later.
"Was supposed to call neuro," you replied, confused as to why she had picked up instead.
"They're tied up. What have you got?" Emery asked immediately, skipping all pleasantries.
"Open head trauma with the bottle still embedded, and another patient with a open fracture," you explained while leaning over your desk and rearranging beds on the board.
"That sucks," the surgeon replied dryly, pulling a quiet laugh from you. "I'll come down in a few and page ortho on the way. Neuro's gonna be difficult tonight, but I'll see what I can do."
"You're the best," you mumbled, eyes fixed on your screenâand meaning every word.
Emery Walsh was one of the reason you missed being a surgery nurse sometimes. People found her dry and hard, but working with her, you'd learnt that she was a really good person.
"Yeah, I know. See you soon." Then the line went dead.
The phone stayed wedged between your shoulder and ear while you typed, barely noticing it anymore. Around you, the department shifted into controlled chaos as trauma rooms were cleaned, supplies restocked, and doctors prepared for the incoming patients.
Bar fights were common enough. The outcomes, however, were never predictable.
Slowly, you felt the phone slipping from your shoulderâuntil it disappeared completely. It didn't crash onto the desk or floor. Instead, someone gently placed it beside your keyboard.
You looked up and found Abbott standing there, right by your side, watching you with a slight smile and his head tilted faintly to the side. His eyes were soft but teasing staying on, what you were certain, were wide doe eyes.
"Walsh is coming down," you explained immediately quickly getting back on your feet while sticking strictly to work-related conversation. "Hopefully with ortho. Neuro's unavailable right now."
"We'll make it work," he said softly, voice deep and grounding.
That voice. The exact same calm, low tone your brain had replayed for a week and a half alongside those two words.
Good girl.
It was genuinely becoming a problem.
You nodded quickly and started to turn away so you could brief a few nurses, but Jack stopped you again.
"How's the hand?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
Wanting to get through the conversation as quickly as possible, you answered immediately. "Never better."
"You did come, right?" he pressed, his eyes dropping toward your hand.
Ever since that text, your mind had been completely corrupted.
Even though his gaze was clearly fixed on your hand resting near your hip, your stupid brain instantly interpreted it differently⌠going to a very different place than you fucking hand. That absolutely did not help your obsession with that man.
"What?" you blurted out, louder than necessary.
"You didn't remove the stitches yourself, did you?" he clarified, clearly confused by your reaction.
"Oh." Your eyes widened as realization hit you. "No, no. Samira did it."
Frowning slightly, Jack looked at you with a strange twist to his smile, something dangerously close to a smirk. "Samira? From day shift?"
"Yeah, wellâŚ" You shrugged awkwardly. "I was off for more than a week. It's crazy how quickly your body adjusts back to a normal schedule."
The joke came out clumsier than intended.
You glanced at his eyes, immediately looked away, then stupidly looked back again before darting your gaze elsewhere for a third time, your anxiety practically written across your face.
"Right," Jack replied slowly, amusement clear in his expression.
"Okay," you sighed with an overly tight smile before quickly turning around and walking away.
Why did you have to be this awkward? Of course he hadn't been making some crude comment in the middle of a shift with half the ER around. Jack was bold, sure, but not that bold.
Your brain seriously needed to calm the hell down before you lost your mind completely.
Unfortunately, too distracted to pay attention to where you were going, you walked straight into Walsh as she strolled into the department.
"Wow," she blurted, eyes widening in surprise. "You good?"
"Huh? Yeah. Just getting ready for the traumas!" you called over your shoulder, not slowing down for even a second.
Forcing yourself back into work mode, you started assigning nurses to incoming cases and gathering supplies that were missing from the trauma rooms. By the time you finished restocking everything, the EMTs were already wheeling the patients in through the ambulance bay.
"Trauma 1 and 2 are clear and ready!" you shouted as the teams split apart and rushed into their assigned rooms.
Finally getting a brief moment to breathe, you called about the lab results Mateo had mentioned earlier, only to discover they'd somehow been lost in the system and were now being resent. Seconds later, the files appeared on your iPad.
Perfect timing, too, since Dr. Porat, R2 of the night shift, wasn't tied up with the trauma teams. After forwarding her the results, the front desk called your extension.
"Charge nurse speaking," you answered while scrolling through charts waiting to be reviewed.
"Jim Burlt's family is here," Chantana said softly over the line.
"Who?" you asked automatically, not recognizing the name.
"The truck driver who got electrocuted. He passed earlier, during day shift, I think." Her voice lowered so the family wouldn't overhear.
"Fuck," you whispered, letting your head fall back for a second. "Okay. I'm coming."
It wasn't that you didn't want to handle itâyou just had no idea where the man's body had been taken. Dana hadn't mentioned it during handoff, and since you'd missed rounds, you were completely behind.
Pulling up his chart in the system, all you found were three cold words:
Dead on arrival.
With no better option, you headed into Trauma 1, since it sounded like the quieter room of the two. The moment you pushed open the door, Abbott looked up at you immediatelyâas though he'd sensed your presence before even seeing you.
"Know a Jim Burlt?" you asked, unable to stop yourself from instinctively checking the patient's vitals first. Stable.
"Yeah. Robby's patient," Jack replied, eyes already shifting back toward the trauma bed.
Patient. The word twisted uncomfortably in your chest. The man had arrived dead. There had been nothing anyone could do besides call the time.
"His family's here. Do you know where he is?"
"Morgue," Jack answered, finally looking back at you with sympathetic eyes. "And it's not a pretty sight. Especially for the family."
"Fucking perfect," you muttered under your breath before turning to leave.
As you headed toward the waiting area, a warm hand settled gently on your shoulder, stopping you mid-step.
You turned around to find Jack standing close behind you.
He'd already stripped off the bloody gown, gloves, and protective glasses from the trauma room. Without all the gear, he looked unfairly goodâcalm, composed, and for once actually rested.
"I'll do it," he said quietly, nodding toward the waiting room.
"It's okay. I can handle it. You clearly have your hands full." You assured him, painfully aware of the warmth spreading through your neck where his hand still rested close by on your shoulder.
"Robby already explained the case, and they don't need me in there anymore," he replied lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting.
Even though you'd initially thought Jack was highly professional and not nearly this bold, he quickly proved you wrong as he stepped closer, leaning toward you. His lips hovered far too close to your earâclose enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your neckâwhen he finally spoke. "But this place will fall apart without you."
"HuhâŚ" was the only sound your brain managed to produce.
When he finally stepped back, there was a teasing smirk tugging at his lips before he simply walked away, leaving you stranded in the middle of the hallway like your system had completely rebooted.
Your eyes struggled to focus on anything.
His words. His voice. That stupid charisma. It all tangled together until your thoughts turned into static.
The loud laughter of a drunk patient somewhere down the hall finally snapped you back to reality. Within seconds, you were moving again, heading toward your desk while taking a deep shaky breath.
It was genuinely unfair how easily he could throw you completely off balance while you seemingly had nowhere near the same effect on him.
Fucking diabolical.
Hours later, after working nonstop without a break, you finally stole a few precious minutes for yourself in the stairwell. It was quieter than the break room and safer than the ambulance bay. Here, nobody bothered you.
You still kept your phone nearby in your chest pocket, and never disappeared for longer than ten minutes, but at least you could drink your coffee in peace. You'd warn the attending and your nurses before just disappearing.
Only three hours remained in your shift now. Close enough to the end that you could finally see it.
Eyes closed, head resting against the stair railing, you sipped your coffee slowly while focusing on your breathing exercisesâyour usual way of bleeding off the stress that came with the job.
The hospital staff were used to finding you here during night shifts, so when the stairwell door creaked open and footsteps started approaching, you barely reacted at all.
"Abbott's looking for you." Walsh's voice shattered the brief moment of peace you'd managed to find in the stairwell.
"When is he not?" you sighed, taking another sip of coffee.
You only opened your eyes when you heard Emery groan dramatically as she dropped down beside you on the steps. She looked exhaustedâbut then again, who in this hospital didn't? Even so, there was still something sharp and alert behind her tired eyes.
"I'd kill for a cigarette," she muttered, rubbing both hands down her face.
"Stay strong," you laughed softly. "If you relapse, you'll drag me down with you."
It wasn't entirely true, but you still remembered the nights you'd both decided to quit smoking together. Back then, she'd sneak out through the ER ambulance bay and wait for you outside. For five peaceful minutes, the two of you would talk about life, relationshipsâanything except the chaos happening inside.
"Oh, fuck no," she smirked, side eyeing you. "I do not need cowboy doctor on my ass."
You turned toward her immediately. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Play innocent all you want," she dismissed while standing up, brushing the non existing dust of her pants. "And please don't call me for the rest of the night."
"Not my decision," you called after her as she disappeared up the stairs.
Laughing quietly to yourself, you finally pushed yourself to your feet and stretched your stiff limbs.
Huge mistake.
Pain exploded from your hip all the way down to your knee while your elbow throbbed sharply in protest. You should've expected this. Since the second you'd been hit by that car, you hadn't stopped moving long enough for your body to fully register the damage.
Now, after ten minutes of sitting still, it absolutely had.
Walking back to the ER without limping turned out to be significantly harder than expected, but somehow you managed it. You smiled tightly at nurses, greeted techs, gave instructions to interns, the usualâall while pretending nothing hurt.
By the time you reached the sink to wash your coffee mug, you were quietly breathing through the pain. At this point, the shift simply couldn't end fast enough.
All you wanted was for Dana to arrive on timeâwhich she always did, though you had told her she could come in late⌠You were fucked.
"Why are you limping?" The deep voice behind you made you flinch so hard you nearly dropped the mug.
"Jesus Christ," you let out, your heart racing.
Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with Jack Abbott, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back like always.
"I'm not limping," you dismissed immediately. "Maybe you need glasses, old man."
Not wanting to deal with his scrutinising stare, you turned back toward the sink and focused intensely on cleaning the mug.
"So that's definitely not blood on your elbow," Jack replied dryly, his tone carrying that specific kind of sarcasm that really meant don't bullshit me.
Twisting your arm enough to see your elbow, your stomach dropped. A smear of blood stained the sleeve of your white shirt. You must've bumped it against a wall without noticing. And of course you'd chosen the one white shirt you owned.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, too quietly for him to hear. Then louder: "Old stain. Hard to get out, you know how it is."
With your back still turned to him, you prayed he'd just accept the lie and leave.
But miracles clearly had limits, and you'd apparently already used yours for the night. No one interrupted. No emergencies pulled him away. So he stayed.
He didn't move closer, but you heard the irritated click of his tongue behind you.
You deliberately took far longer than necessary washing the mug, dreading the moment you'd have to turn around and face him properly. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to find out you'd been hit by a fucking car.
That would mean another medical leave. And beyond the fact that you absolutely couldn't afford more time off, you genuinely didn't want it.
"So we're lying now?" Jack asked as you finally turned toward him.
There was something unreadable in his voice, not exactly anger, not exactly amusement either. His arms were crossed over his chest now, head tilted slightly as though challenging you. Instinctively, you mirrored him, crossing your own arms while raising an eyebrow in return.
You were not about to snitch on yourself. And judging by his expression, he clearly wasn't planning on dropping it.
"I guess it's your problem if you don't believe me," you replied with a smile so forced it practically hurt.
Before Jack could answer, Sophie stepped into the roomâonly to freeze immediately under the weight of both your stares. Her eyes widened slightly with concern.
"I'm just getting water," she explained cautiously, like she'd accidentally interrupted something terrible.
"Of course," you replied instantly, your tone softening. "Take ten if you need."
Then you looked back at Jack. The smile you gave him this time was entirely differentâtight, restrained, and far less friendlyâbefore brushing past him and leaving the room.
As you walked away, you heard Jack reassuring Sophie that she'd done nothing wrong and that she should take whatever break she needed.
The rest of the shift passed surprisingly smoothly, even if the pain stubbornly refused to fade. It was honestly impressive how well you managed to hide it from everyone.
Everyone except Jack.
He never brought it up again, but for the remainder of the night, you could feel his eyes on you every single time you wincedâeven slightly. Every time your limp slipped through before you could correct it, you caught him watching with furrowed brows.
Now, finally sitting down near the end of shift, you chatted quietly with Robby while the rest of the night crew signed off one by one.
The only person still missing was Dana. Because you had stupidly told her to come in late.
At least you'd warned Robby ahead of time so he wouldn't panic about being left without a charge nurse. You kept working through the final charts and updates, determined not to leave Dana with a disaster just because you were exhausted and hurting.
You'd pushed through for hours already. There was no point falling apart now when the end was finally in sight.
The moment you saw Dana walking through the ER doors, relief washed over you so strongly you almost sighed out loud.
The older woman chewed lazily on her gum, glasses already perched low on her nose while her stethoscope hung around her neck. Even the way she walked radiated competence. The second she reached you, you wrapped your arms around her and let out a tired groan into her shoulder.
For the next ten minutes, the two of you made rounds together while you updated her on the nightâwho'd been admitted, who'd gone upstairs, who'd died, which beds were opening up. The usual end-of-shift rundown.
Once you finished, she gently nudged you toward the corner where you'd dumped your belongings hours ago.
"Off you go, kid," she said simply before turning back toward the department.
And honestly? Sleep had never sounded so good.
Even if getting home meant enduring a painful fifteen minute walk, you figured you could survive it. You'd spent the entire night running around nonstopâwhat was another few minutes on your feet?
As you headed toward the exit, already dreading having to come back later that night, you pulled out your phone to check your texts and emails.
A sharp whistle suddenly pulled your attention away from the screen. Confused, you looked up. Standing in the ambulance bayâlike he'd apparently been waiting there for a whileâwas Jack Abbott.
Which made absolutely no sense.
He'd left on time for once, along with most of the night staff, so why the hell was he still here? Even stranger, his car was parked right beside the ambulance entranceâsomething nobody was allowed to do, not even for five minutes.
"Forget something?" you asked innocently, nodding toward the illegally parked car.
"You," he answered immediately.
You scoffed automatically, but the sound died quickly when you realized he wasn't joking.
"What?" you deadpanned when he made no move to smile.
"I'm taking you home," he said calmly. "And you're going to tell me what happened to you."
It wasn't phrased like a question. Not quite an order either, but there was absolutely no room for argument.
"Jackâ" you started, fully prepared to fight him on it anyway.
"Nope. In the car."
Then he casually walked around and opened the passenger side door for you.
When you still didn't move, he simply tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. There really was no escaping this. With a deep sigh, you shook your head and walked toward the open door.
The second you sat down, Jack gave a satisfied little nod, like he was pleased you'd listened, before closing the door for you.
A minute later, after he climbed into the driver's seat, you noticed your address already programmed into his GPS.
"How did youâŚ" You trailed off, pointing weakly at the screen.
"From the Uber last time," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"RightâŚ" you murmured, smiling despite yourself.
Being trapped in such a small space with him felt oddly intimate. The car smelt like him, a smell that was oddly comforting, messing with you. And unfortunately, your exhausted brain didn't help much more, immediately fixated on his hands resting on the gear shift as he put the car into drive.
You were far too tired to stop yourself from staring for a second longer than necessary. Then a thought suddenly crossed your mind.
"Can you even drive with your leg?" you asked as the car rolled forward. "Well, I mean, obviously you canâŚ"
That made him laugh, a real laugh. Warm and genuine enough that you immediately turned your head toward him. And honestly, if you could've seen yourself right then, you were pretty sure you would've looked completely smitten.
"Was that rude?" you asked, giggling softly when you noticed how bright his smile had become.
"Not coming from you," Jack replied gently, sending you another small smile before looking back at the road.
That alone was enough to make you grin like a teenager.
Your cheeks and neck warmed instantly, heart beating embarrassingly faster just from the softness in his voice.
Resting your elbow against the door, you propped your head against your hand and stared out the window while gently rubbing your forehead. Your elbow protested immediately, but at this point everything hurt anyway.
Your hip had been throbbing for hours, a migraine lingered behind your eyes, and all you wanted in the world was a shower and your bed.
"God, I'm so tired," you whispered, knowing perfectly well he'd hear you.
"Want to tell me what happened now?" Jack asked, still using that same quiet voice.
Rolling your eyes toward the window, you let out a long breath.
Of course he wasn't going to let it go, you should've expected this. Honestly, it had been predictable from the moment he'd noticed you limping. Still, you'd hoped exhaustion might make him back off for once.
"Seriously?" you groaned, finally turning your head toward him with narrowed eyes.
"Surprise," he shot back with a smirk, knowing deep well none of you were actually.
Closing your eyes briefly, you felt exhaustion and pain mixing together until lying almost felt too difficult to bother with anymore. And really⌠what was the point?
He wasn't going to stop asking.
Turning back toward the window, you watched the sunrise spill soft orange light across the quiet city streets.
"Got hit by a car," you said suddenly.
Silence filled the car immediately afterwards, which definitely wasn't a good sign. But it was peaceful while it lasted.
"Come again?" Jack asked slowly, sounding like he genuinely thought he'd misheard you.
"I got hit by a car crossing the street. My fault entirely," you clarified casually, like it wasn't a huge deal. Because honestly? It wasn't.
You were alive. Nothing was broken. Nothing life-threatening had happened.
At worst, you'd end up with an ugly bruise on your hip, a scraped elbow, and aches for a few daysâit could've been so much worse.
"I landed on my elbow, which explains the blood," you continued before he could interrupt. "And my hip took most of the impact, which is why I'm limping." You shrugged weakly. "I'm alive and mostly intact, Jack. Nothing to worry about."
"You should've said something," he growled, shaking his head.
"So you could've sent me home?" you shot back immediately. "I handled the shift just fine."
"You handled it," he agreed tightly, nodding while his jaw was tightly set. "But now you're limping, and I'm willing to bet your hip's killing you."
He sent you a dark look before focusing back on the road. Before you could argue further, the car pulled up in front of your building.
You weren't about to pretend you weren't grateful not to walk the rest of the way home. Turning toward him, you opened your mouth to thank him and wish him goodnight, ready to forget it all about the previous conversation.
Only to frown when his car door slammed shut. Seconds later, he was already on your side of the car, opening your door for you.
"You don't have toâ" you started while pulling your seatbelt off.
"Don't," Jack warned simply as he leaned inside to grab your bags.
It was ridiculously sweet. And it also made you feel slightly guilty because you knew his own leg had to be hurting after such a long shift too, but he didn't show even a hint of discomfort.
He just straightened back up with your bags in one hand while holding the car door open with the other, waiting patiently for you to get out.
Getting out, you knew there was no point arguing with Jack, so you simply started walking toward the building's main door. Turning back toward him, you walked straight over and reached into your bag without even asking for it back, you already knew he wouldn't give it to you.
Once your keys were in hand, you unlocked the door and headed straight for the elevator. When Jack stepped into the small space beside you, you realised he was actually walking you all the way to your front door.
It felt strange being trapped in such a narrow space with him, but he seemed completely determined to make sure you got safely inside your flat, as if something terrible might happen between his car and your front door. You supposed you never really knew, but it still felt highly unlikely.
The ride up to your floor was quiet and slightly awkward, despite how quick it was.
Standing in front of your door, you unlocked it and suddenly felt far too awkward to simply say goodbye there. So you stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you as a silent invitation.
"Want some water?" you asked, breaking the silence as you made your way toward the kitchen. "You can leave that by the door," you added, pointing to the bags still hanging from his hands.
"I'll take some water, yeah. Thanks," he replied softly.
When you returned to the living room with two glasses of water, Jack was standing in the middle of the room, relaxed as though he belonged there. He was looking around at every little detailâevery book, every picture, every vinyl recordâstudying it all with quiet attention.
Watching him in your space made the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Your mind instantly started imagining him there all the time, as if his belongings naturally belonged beside yours, some jazz vinyl mixed in with your indie pop collection, his medical books stacked beside your fantasy novels. It would fit so perfectly.
Shaking the thought away and forcing a soft smile, you stepped closer and handed him his glass.
"Thanks," he murmured, his gaze drifting slowly from your head to your toes without the slightest hint of shame.
The two of you remained standing in the middle of the living room, slowly sipping your drinks. Locked in each other's eyes, the tension quickly became unbearable, yet neither of you looked away. Jack held your gaze openly, his expression soft and calm. Gone was the tired, sarcastic man you usually worked with. This version of him felt entirely different, but oddly comforting.
After a few seconds, he stepped closerâwith a slight limp of his ownâand set his glass down on the nearby table. Gently, he took your own empty glass and placed it beside his.
"I know the best treatment for your hip," Jack said, his voice low and deep. His eyes gleamed with something you couldn't quite name.
"Yeah?" you asked, your voice embarrassingly shaky. Ridiculous, you were a grown woman.
"Relaxation," he whispered, lust filling his eyes. That had been what you couldn't name before.
As soon as the word left his mouth, his hands rose to your cheeksâwarm, soft, safeâbefore he leaned in. His lips hovered just above yours, not quite kissing you, but making no effort to hide how badly he wanted to.
The second you felt his warmth so close, your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation and, without even realising it, you rose slightly onto your tiptoes to meet him halfway. A few long seconds passed before you finally felt Jack's lips against yours.
They were soft and unhurried, as though he was trying to ease you into it while slowly pulling himself closer. His warmth completely surrounded you now, his chest pressed lightly against yours. You weren't even sure when he'd moved that close, only that it felt incredibly good.
He was everything you had imaginedâsteady, solid, groundingâwhile your own hands shook where they rested against his chest. His hands had slipped from your cheeks to your hips as carefully as possible, mindful not to hurt you while gently tugging you closer.
"Let's go sit down, yeah?" He murmured against your lips.
You hadn't even realised you'd started shaking. Your legs felt weak, your thoughts racing so fast you could barely keep up with them. No one had ever made you feel like this beforeânot once in your life had someone unsettled you so completely.
"Mmh," you hummed against his lips before leaning up to kiss him again.
Both of you laughed softly into the kiss as Jack began stepping backward. When the backs of his knees bumped against the couch, he paused for a second before sitting down. You moved to sit beside him, but his hand stopped you.
Spreading his legs slightly, he guided you to stand between them instead. His face hovered near your stomach, immediately making you self-conscious. But the moment his lips pressed soft kisses there through your shirt, the butterflies in your stomach only grew wilder. Your breathing turned uneven as you stared down at him.
His eyes lifted to yours while his lips continued trailing slow kisses over your stomach.
"Can I?" he asked quietly, his voice rough with restrained need.
It was unfamiliarâfeeling this wanted by someone who wasn't rushing straight toward sex. There was something comforting about the patience in him, about the way he seemed to want more than just your body. His fingers rested lightly against the hem of your shirt, playing absently with it, waiting for permission.
When you noddedâa little too quickly, you'd admitâmischief flickered in Jack's eyes as he raised a single brow in silent warning. The effortless dominance he carried so naturally made your head spin.
"Yes," you managed to say, breathless, earning another quick kiss in return.
Agonisingly slowly, Jack pushed your shirt upward, his lips following the rising fabric. Once it was high enough, you tugged it off yourself, suddenly standing half-naked in front of the man you'd been hopelessly crushing on for months.
You still hadn't dared look directly at him, but the second you heard him click his tongue in disapproval, your stomach dropped. Had he imagined your body differently? Was he disgusted by what he saw? Was the soft weight on your body suddenly repulsive once shown without clothes?
"No fucking wonder you're limping," he muttered, sounding almost irritated.
Looking down quickly, you were met with a patch of darkened skin peeking out from beneath your pants. The bruising already looked terrible, staining your skin in a way that made it obvious to anyone that it hurt like hell.
"Oh," you breathed out shakily, finally releasing the breath you'd been holding.
He wasn't disgusted by you at all, he'd simply slipped into doctor mode. You weren't even sure he'd realised it, but one of his thumbs was slowly caressing the bruise while his eyes remained fixed on yours.
"Did you at least get their name?" he sighed, shaking his head.
"It wasn't his fault," you explained quietly.
"He should still pay for the medical treatment. You were a pedestrian, it was his fault anyway," Jack continued scolding gently, resting his chin against your soft stomach while keeping his eyes on you.
Scoffing, you shook your head. "What medical treatment?"
"Still," the older man muttered stubbornly before glancing back down at the bruise.
As carefully as he could, he tugged your pants down a little farther, revealing more of the dark purple mark. It wasn't pretty, but at least it was only a bruise and not a broken hip. That would've been a nightmare.
"Does it hurt?" His voice softened again, slipping back into the soothing tone he always seemed to use around you.
"Not right now," you whispered, far too distracted by the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin again.
He kissed around the bruise as though he could somehow heal it with tenderness alone. Every soft press of his mouth made your heart skip wildly in your chestâa feeling that was becoming dangerously familiar whenever he was near. At first, it had annoyed you but now, standing half-undressed in your living room, it felt exhilarating.
He chuckled softly at your answer before pressing another kiss to your skin.
Then, before doing anything else, he leaned back against the couch. His warmth barely left your body, yet you missed it instantly. Once he'd settled farther away, his hands moved to the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.
The sight nearly stole your breath.
This manâolder than you by more than a decadeâhad a better body than most men your own age you'd ever been with. His chest was broad and toned, scattered with freckles that made you ache to trace every single one with your fingertips. His stomach was firm too, though softened slightly by a thin layer of fat that somehow only made him more attractive, more real. It made you want to bite into it.
And his arms, God. They'd already been distracting enough at work, but seeing them like this, bathed in the warm sunlight filtering through your curtains, was almost unfair.
"Wanna sit down now?" he teased, his thumb still stroking over your hip. "Because this must be killing you."
Nodding, you finally dragged your gaze away from his chest and smiled sheepishly when you met his eyes. You felt no embarrassment about being caught staring, and judging by the smugness on his face, he was thoroughly enjoying the attention. Then again, he had no shame eitherâhis own eyes had drifted toward your breasts more than once already.
"How about we take these off first?" he murmured teasingly, lightly snapping the waistband of your pants against your good hip.
"Sure," you replied, feeling strangely at ease around him now. "Just warning you⌠I'm not wearing my best underwear today."
"Oh no," Jack said dramatically, shaking his head in fake disappointment.
His hands betrayed him completely, though, as he carefully slid your pants down your legs, making sure not to brush too hard against the bruising. Once they passed your thighs, the fabric dropped to the floor on its own.
Leaning back against the couch, Jack rested his hands low on your hips while he looked at you with quiet hunger. His gaze wandered slowly over every inch of you, from your face down to your knees, taking everything in with patient, gentle attention.
And weirdlyâfor probably the first time in your lifeâyou didn't really feel self-conscious. You'd made peace with your body years ago, but old insecurities from your teens and early twenties still lingered in quiet corners of your mind.
Yet there was no judgment in his eyes. No disgust. His gaze moved over your stretch marks, your soft stomach, your love handles, the natural curve of your breasts, and the faint hair peeking out around your panties without hesitation or discomfort.
If anything, he looked captivated.
Smiling softly, he leaned forward to press another kiss against your stomach before settling back comfortably against the couch again. Once he was fully relaxed, he patted his thighs lightly, eyes never leaving you.
You hesitated awkwardly, standing there half-naked in the middle of your living room. Even if he clearly liked your body, a small part of you still worried you might be too heavy for him. Buying yourself time, you bent down to pull your socks off.
"Come on," he coaxed with an amused smirk. "You're not gonna break me."
Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn't realised your thoughts were that obviousâyou'd always been good at hiding your insecurities and fears. Perhaps, it had been that your partner didn't really pay attention.
"You think too loudly, sweetheart," Jack said, his teasing smile softening. "And you're way too pretty to waste time worrying about stupid things."
As if to reassure you even more, he patted his thighs again before his hands slid back to your hips, guiding you closer inch by inch.
His gentleness and words made you smile despite yourself, your eyes dropping shyly toward the floor. Once you reached the couch, you slowly lowered yourself into his lap, your legs settling on either side of his hips. He was so broad that the stretch tugged slightly at your sore hip, painful but strangely pleasant too.
Your hands rested uncertainly on his shoulders, still hesitant to put your full weight on him even though your hip was throbbing. Jack solved the issue himself by gripping your waist and pulling you down firmly onto him.
The second your full weight settled in his lap, a sound escaped himâa rough mixture between a groan and a moan that instantly sent heat rushing through your body. As a reflex, your thighs pressed together, or tried to. Instead, the movement rocked you lightly against him, your body brushing over the hardening shape still trapped beneath his cargo pants.
The reaction it pulled from both of you was immediateâa long shared breath, shaky and warm.
The moment your eyes met, laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Jack laughed too, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. Meanwhile, his hands slid slowly up your back. Without thinking, you melted into him, your arms slipping around his neck automatically.
The hug felt dangerously close to home.
He was so warm, so solid, comforting in a way you couldn't even explain. Like curling beneath a blanket on the coldest winter night. Safe. Easy. Real.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, your thoughts betrayed you again, instantly imagining what it would feel like to fall asleep wrapped in this warmth every night. To wake up curled into his burly arms, head lying on his chest.
"You're so warm," you whispered against his neck before pressing a soft kiss there.
Jack laughed quietly under his breath and pulled you even closer in response. He kissed the top of your head again, slow and absentminded, the kind of affectionate gesture that felt almost painfully domestic.
The hug, the forehead kisses, the quiet closenessâit made your heart race uncontrollably. And with your ear pressed against his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding faster than normal too.
His hands slid from your back to settle on your ass. They didn't grope or squeeze greedily, they simply rested there, warm and steady. Grounding. And at the same time, impossible to ignore when his now hard cock was pressed right between your thighs.
Lifting your head from his neck, you kissed him again. This time the kisses turned deeper, messier, more desperate. Teeth brushed lips, tongues tangled slowly and warmth spread through your entire body until you felt dizzy with it.
When it became too much, you instinctively rolled your hips, searching for friction.
And friction was exactly what you found.
His dick, hard beneath the fabric of his pants and your panties, rubbed perfectly against your clothed clit. It had been so long since you'd felt someone against you like this that greed started creeping in before you could stop it.
Pressing your hips down harder against his, satisfaction bloomed in your chest when a rough groan escaped him. His hands remained on your ass now, kneading softly while guiding your movements, encouraging every slow grind against him.
The feeling of skin, heat and pressure was intoxicating. Too much and somehow not enough at the same time. The rough fabric of his pants against the backs of your thighs suddenly became unbearable though, you needed it gone.
Without really thinking, your hands slid from his shoulders down toward his waistband. Rising just enough, you started tugging at them.
Rising slightly, the loss of friction made you whine immediately, even though it had been your own doing. But before you could get very far, Jack's hands gently stopped yours.
You froze at once. Your fingers hovered shakily above the waistband of his pants, your stomach dropping.
"I'm sorry," you whispered quickly against his lips. "Sorry."
Your pulse thundered painfully now, not from desire but embarrassment. Maybe you'd pushed too far. Maybe kissing had been fine, touching had been fine, but thisâ
"Shhh." His voice was soft and immediate, reassuring. "Relax, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."
But you still couldn't look at him. Your gaze darted everywhere except his face until one of his hands gently cupped your jaw, carefully guiding you back toward him. His eyes looked exactly the same as before: warm, patient, hungry in the gentlest way imaginable. No discomfort. No anger.
"You know about my leg, right?" Jack asked quietly. After a hesitant nod from you, he nodded too. "But you've never seen it," he continued softly. "I just don't want you to be surprised, okay?"
For a second, you simply stared at him. Then laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Real laughter, the kind that shook your entire body.
Was he seriously worried you'd be disgusted by his prosthetic? By an amputated limb?
Jack leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, head tilted while he watched you laugh yourself to tears. A small smile tugged at his lips, like he understood you'd needed the release after panicking.
Once your laughter finally settled, tears prickling lightly at the corners of your eyes, you looked back at him. Relaxed against your couch, shirtless and warm in the dim morning light, he looked strangely comfortable there.
"You know I'm a nurse, right?" you asked in disbelief.
He answered with one slow, firm nod. Eyes blinking softly in a cat like way.
But then doubt crept in anyway, irrational and sharp. It made no sense for him to think you'd care about his injury, which meant maybe he was only saying it because he wanted to stop. And if he wanted to stop, that was okayâbut the thought that he might be searching for an excuse instead of simply telling you hurt more than it should have.
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you shifted back slightly until you were sitting more on his thighs than directly against his crotch. His thumb still stroked gently along your jaw while he studied your expression carefully.
"We can stop if you want," you said softly, though the voice barely sounded like yours. "We don't have toâŚ"
The words trailed off awkwardly. Your toes curled restlessly against his skin while you fought the urge to fidget with your fingers.
"What if I don't want to stop?" His voice dropped lower again.
You stayed quiet, only staring at him while he searched your face.
"Do you want to stop?" Jack asked.
His gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away this time.
Blinking quickly, you shook your head. "No."
"Then come back here," he murmured, teasing warmth returning to his tone so suddenly it sent heat rushing between your legs again. His tone wasn't commanding, but it had that natural dominance that didn't really let you do anything but what he said.
At some point his hands had slipped back onto your ass, stroking lightly until you shifted closer once more, settling back properly against his lap. Relief flooded through you when you felt him still hard beneath you, still wanting you just as much as before.
A soft moan escaped you as you rolled against him again.
"Good girl," Jack said deeply, voice raw.
The words hit you like a lightning strike.
Your entire body reacted instantlyâthighs tightening around him, your breath catching embarrassingly hard while a pathetic little moan slipped free before you could stop it. Mortified, you buried your face against his shoulder while instinctively rocking your hips again.
"Didn't you want this problem solved?" Jack teased lightly.
Between your legs, you felt his hands playing with the waistband of his cargo pants. Deliberately, the back of his hand brushed against your clothed clit, adding just enough pressure to make you whine again.
A soft laugh rumbled through his chest beneath you.
Then your next roll of your hips dragged another rough groan out of him, lower this time, almost strangled. The sound sent a thrill straight through you.
"Who's laughing now?" you asked breathlessly, unable to stop yourself from grinning.
The light smack he gave your ass was the only answer you got before his palm rubbed soothingly over the spot afterwards.
A moment later, he tapped lightly against your thigh in silent request. When you lifted yourself just enough, Jack awkwardly tugged his pants off the rest of the way beneath you.
While he worked them free, you occupied yourself by kissing along his neck and shoulder slowly, patiently. You didn't want him to feel rushed or self-conscious. Nothing about this had felt hurried from the start, and you weren't about to change that now.
Once the discarded pants landed somewhere across the living room, his hands guided you back down onto him carefully so you wouldn't strain your sore muscles for too long. Your hip was definitely starting to ache again.
Settling comfortably against him once more, you kissed him deeply while your hips resumed a slower, steadier rhythm.
The soft fabric of his boxers felt infinitely better against you than the roughness of his cargo had. Even more intoxicating was the warmth of his bare skin against the backs of your thighs.
Combined with his wandering hands and his mouth against yours, it all became overwhelming in the best possible way. You weren't inexperienced, but somehow this felt entirely newâraw and exciting enough to make you feel like you were discovering sex for the first time all over again.
Between your legs, heat and dampness had already soaked through your panties, probably staining his boxers too. Normally that thought would've embarrassed you. Right now, though, you barely cared.
Maybe Jack sensed it too, because his hand suddenly slipped between your bodies, easing beneath the cotton of your underwear.
His fingers moved slowly through the soft hair there without hesitation, without comment, simply exploring you gently. The lack of judgment alone made something in your chest loosen. No criticism, no awkward remarks.
For several long seconds he only teased you lightly, fingers wandering until a shaky moan of his name finally escaped your lips.
You felt his smirk against your mouth immediately afterwards.
Then his fingers slid lower.
The second they found your clit, your entire body jolted. You'd been half convinced he'd drag it out and tease you endlessly, but instead he touched you with immediate purposeâslow, tight circles that stole the breath straight from your lungs.
Your kisses quickly fell apart after that, little gasps and broken sounds replacing them as you struggled to focus on anything except the feeling of his fingers working between your thighs.
Soon enough, the kisses became one-sided in the best way possible. Jack simply nipped and licked lazily at your lips, a smug smile tugging at his mouth while you struggled to breathe through the pleasure rolling through you.
From watching him at work, you'd hoped his hands would be skilledâsteady, strong, careful. You'd been completely right.
A man his age, as experienced as you'd imagined him to be, clearly knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't fumble around searching for your clit or rush too quickly to the point of slight pain. Everything he did felt deliberate and perfectly paced, like he already knew your body despite never touching you before.
It was insane how naturally you fit together.
Sure, you'd known each other for over a year. You'd flirted shamelessly for most of it. But you never could've imagined actually being with him would feel this good. This easy. Like two puzzle pieces assembling.
"Feels really good," you breathed out between shaky moans against his lips.
"Yeah?" he teased softly before kissing you again.
"Mhm." You nodded rapidly, biting your lip as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.
"Good." That simple word, paired with the soft kiss he pressed to your forehead afterwards, made warmth spread through your chest just as much as between your thighs.
His fingers never left your clit, never broke their steady rhythm. Eventually it became impossible to focus on anything except feeling, Jack didn't seem to mind in the slightest. He wasn't asking for anything back from you, wasn't trying to make you perform for him.
Instead, his mouth wandered lower.
You couldn't exactly blame him when you'd been arching into him shamelessly, practically pressing your chest into his face every time pleasure jolted through you. Gently, his lips moved across the swell of your breasts while his teeth tugged teasingly at the fabric of your bra, letting it snap softly back against your skin.
He did it again. And again.
Finally, blinking through the haze, you looked down at him.
His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them beforeâheavy with hunger. You'd seen him irritated, exhausted, sarcastic, even angry at work. But this version of him? This was entirely new.
And it was all because of you.
"Wanna take this off for me?" Jack asked, his voice calm and grounding despite the way his fingers kept working between your legs. "How does that sound?"
"Good," you moaned immediately when his touch pressed a little harder against your clit.
With trembling hands, you unclasped your bra and let it slide off. Cool air brushed over your bare skin instantly, your nipples already hard from both the temperature and the overwhelming pleasure building inside you.
The second your chest was fully exposed, Jack let out a slow breath.
"You're absolutely breathtaking," he murmured.
And then he kissed you there.
You barely even processed the compliment because the moment his mouth closed around one nipple, your thoughts scattered completely. His free hand cupped your other breast, rough thumb stroking over the sensitive peak without mercy before rolling it between it and his index finger.
It was too much. Completely overwhelming.
His mouth, his hands, his fingers between your legsâit felt like he was everywhere all at once. Yet the idea of him stopping felt unbearable too. Something tight and hot was building low in your stomach now, pressure winding tighter and tighter with every movement of his hand.
"Jackâ" You moaned loudly.
The warning barely left your mouth before his teeth grazed your nipple a little harder. At the same time, his fingers sped up slightly against your clit.
That was all it took.
Pleasure crashed through you so suddenly your back arched hard against him, thighs clamping around his while your nails dug helplessly into his shoulders. The sounds leaving your throat were embarrassingly brokenâhigh, shaky whines mixed with uneven breaths as you struggled to recover from how hard the orgasm hit you.
Recovering only became more difficult when Jack spoke again.
"Good girl," he murmured against the skin above your pounding heartbeat. "You just needed to relax."
The bastard absolutely knew what he was doing.
Especially when he could clearly feel the way your pussy clenched again at his praise while his fingers still rested between your thighs. Dropping your forehead against his shoulder, you let out a breathless laugh before lightly biting at his skin.
"You fucker."
Chuckling softly, Jack slowly slipped his fingers back out from your underwear before settling both hands comfortably on your ass again, as though they naturally belonged there. His other hand drifted soothingly along your back while he rested his head lightly against yours.
"Don't be mean now, sweetheart," he teased before giving your ass a playful slap. "You know you love it."
You opened your mouth to deny it automatically, purely out of spite, but his lips brushed against your ear before you could get the words out.
"I can still feel you clenching to it," he whispered, voice so low it sent a full-body shiver through you. As if your body wanted to prove him right, you felt your pussy involuntary clench afterwards.
"Just like that," he praised softly, along with a little laugh.
Groaning, you bit his shoulder again while trying desperately to steady your breathing.
For several quiet minutes, neither of you moved much. You simply stayed tangled together on the couch, half-dressed and warm, breathing each other in. It was soothing enough to make you sleepy.
And maybe that should've scared youâthe intimacy of it, the domestic softness settling so naturally between youâbut it didn't. If anything, it made you want to stay there longer.
Jack seemed perfectly content to follow your lead. Even with that effortless dominance wrapped around everything he did, he never pushed or demanded. He simply let you decide where things went next.
Still, despite the warmth and comfort, you wanted more.
Which meant eventually you had to get up.
Carefully pushing yourself to your feet, your shaky legs protested immediately as you stretched your arms over your head. Once again, you found yourself standing between his spread thighs while his gaze wandered openly over your nearly naked body.
Jack let out a low whistle of appreciation that made you roll your eyes instantly.
"Shut up," you muttered, fighting back a smile as you turned toward your bedroom. "I'll be right back."
When you returned a minute later, your heart skipped unexpectedly at the sight waiting for you.
He was still exactly where you'd left him, relaxed against the couch cushions with his legs spread comfortably. Like he belonged there, the thought crossed your mind again.
And he didn't seem remotely uncomfortable about his prosthetic being visible now that his pants were gone. The human body really was incredible in the way it adapted.
As you approached, Jack said nothing at first. He simply patted his thigh again in invitation.
Smiling softly, you settled back into his lap without hesitation this time, all your earlier self-consciousness gone. Once comfortably seated, you held up what you'd brought back with you.
A condom.
His smile widened immediately, surprise and clear approval flashing across his face.
"You're not tired?" he asked quietly.
You doubted he even noticed how instinctively his hands had already settled back onto your hips the second you sat down. It seemed neither of you could stop touching the other for very long.
"I have trouble sleeping," you teased lightly, tilting your head. "What about you, old man? Getting tired already?"
Clicking his tongue, Jack tried and failed to hide his grin. Accepting the challenge, he took the condom from your hand before pulling you firmly back against the hard length between his thighs.
"You'll get tired before I do," he warned, voice low against your lips.
And the way he kissed you afterwards made it sound dangerously close to a promise.
It was a rushed kiss, overflowing with longing and want. His tongue slipped immediately into your mouth, tangling with yours while your teeth brushed together clumsily in your desperation. His hands kept pulling you closer and closer until there was no space left between you at all.
Chest to chest, you could feel everythingâhis heartbeat hammering beneath your palms, the rise and fall of his breathing, the twitch of dick between your thighs whenever you rolled your hips.
It only took seconds before the grinding started again, though "dry" hardly fit anymore. Not when both of you were already flushed and overheated from everything that had happened. Anf from how soaked you felt between your legs.
One of Jack's hands tapped lightly against your ass before slipping lower, tugging your panties down as far as he could manage.
"Okay, okay," you mumbled between kisses, with a breathless laugh as you lifted yourself enough to help.
You hurriedly kicked the fabric off while Jack tugged his own underwear down as well. The second you noticed how neatly trimmed he was, self-consciousness crept back in unexpectedly.
"You don't⌠uhâŚ" Your eyes dropped nervously between your legs. "You don't mind, right?"
Jack looked almost offended by the question.
"What do you take me for?" he asked seriously, immediately shutting the doubt down before it could grow. "Come here, sweetheart. Stop being silly."
The warmth in his voice made you smile despite yourself.
Settling back over him, you hovered there for a moment with your hands braced against his shoulders while he rolled the condom on carefully. You couldn't stop staring at his hands, at the way his fingers moved along himself with practiced ease. Anticipation curled low in your stomach instantly.
He wasn't the biggest man you'd ever been with, but somehow you already knew he'd fit you perfectly. No painful stretching. No discomfort. Just right.
"Ready?" he teased, stroking himself once more while his eyes gleamed mischievously up at you.
Nodding quickly, you shifted closer with a shaky breath. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost felt ridiculous. You couldn't remember the last time sleeping with someone had made you nervous like this.
Then again, you'd also never spent months hopelessly crushing on someone before finally ending up in their lap.
Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him.
The first stretch pulled a soft gasp from both of you. Just like you'd expected, he fit perfectly, full enough to make you shiver, but immediately comfortableâwarm and right. Jack's fingers tightened instinctively against your hips, hard enough to make a small sound of pain slip from your mouth before he immediately let go.
"Fuck, sorry, sweetheart," he breathed, his hands dropping quickly to his own thighs.
"It's okay," you reassured him softly.
Missing his touch almost instantly, you grabbed his wrists and guided his hands upward onto your chest instead. Somewhere safer. Somewhere he wouldn't be afraid to hold you tightly.
On instinct, his palms squeezed gently while his thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing another shaky breath from you.
Once fully seated in his lap, neither of you moved right away. You simply sat there breathing together, staring at each other as the reality of the moment settled over both of you.
Then, almost at the same time, you both laughed quietly. The nervous tension melted immediately after that, and something about knowing he was just as affected as you were made your chest ache warmly.
Unable to resist, you leaned down to kiss him again.
The kiss deepened quickly, soft turning hungry within seconds, and your hips began moving instinctively against his. At first you only rocked slowly, getting used to the feeling of him inside you.
But soon you pushed yourself up carefully on your knees, lowering yourself back down in a slow rhythm. Every movement dragged him along your walls in a way that made little moans spill helplessly from your mouth into his.
Jack wasn't much quieter.
Soft groans vibrated against your lips while his grip flexed against your body, and every now and then he hit a spot inside you that made your thighs tighten around him uncontrollably.
Still, after a few minutes, exhaustion was already catching up to you. Between your long shift, your bruised hip, and the emotional rollercoaster of the night, your body was starting to give out.
You tried to hide it by kissing him deeper, slowing your movements into lazy rolls of your hips instead of proper thrusts. But of course Jack noticed immediately.
"I told you you'd get tired first," he teased softly against your mouth.
Before you could protest, his hands slowed your hips until you were sitting still against him again. When you tried moving once more, his grip tightened gently around your waist, holding you in place.
"Jack," you whined quietly, attempting to squirm free.
"Tsk." He clicked his tongue before deliberately shifting his hips upward just enough to make you gasp. "You're exhausted and your hip hurts," he scolded calmly. "We're not pushing it."
With a defeated sigh, you finally stopped fighting him.
Searching his expression nervously, you expected to find disappointment somewhere in his face. Frustration maybe. Annoyance. Instead, all you found was softness, warmth and concern. Desire still lingering there too, but patient now instead of consuming.
The sudden tenderness made your eyes sting unexpectedly.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, looking away before he could see you tearing up.
"You don't have to be." Immediately, he pulled you gently against his chest again. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart."
The second he wrapped his arms around you, your body seemed to finally give up entirely. Tension melted straight out of your muscles as though all you'd needed was his warmth to feel safe enough to let go.
One of his hands rubbed soothingly up and down your back while the other reached for the blanket tossed over the couch earlier, draping it carefully around your shoulders.
Only then did you realise you'd been trembling for the past minute.
Shock, stress, adrenalineâyour body had probably been running on fumes since the accident earlier that night. Then there'd been Jack coming to your apartment, all the emotional chaos of finally crossing this line with him⌠It had been a lot.
"We can keep going," you whispered weakly against his skin anyway.
You felt him shake his head against your hair. "Nope."
The simple firmness in his voice somehow made you relax even more. Your eyes still sting with unshed tears, but you were finally getting your breathing back to normal. A minute later, your stomach growled loudly enough to break the silence entirely, both of you burst into laughter instantly.
"I feel sore everywhere," you complained dramatically as you finally pushed yourself upright a little.
The mood had shifted already, softer now, calmerâbut you still didn't want him to leave. Some irrational part of you worried that if he walked out this morning, this whole thing would disappear with him.
"Go take a shower," Jack said gently, kissing the top of your head. "I'll make us something to eat."
"You're staying?" The question came out far more vulnerable than you intended.
Jack scoffed softly, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. His hands settled back onto your ass automatically.
"You think that little of me?" he asked quietly. There was a smile on his lips, but this time it looked faintly hurt around the edges. "I care about you for a hell of a lot more than sex, okay?"
His thumbs stroked lightly against your skin.
"If you want me gone, I'll get dressed right now," he continued gently. "But I don't think that's what you want."
It took your brain a few seconds to fully process the sincerity in his voice.
"I want you to stay," you admitted softly, suddenly embarrassed you'd doubted him at all.
Jack answered by kissing you again. Not hungry this time. Not desperate. Just soft and reassuring enough to quiet every lingering fear in your chest.
"Go take your shower then," he murmured against your lips.
Once you were finally standing again, wrapped in the blanket and still trembling slightly, you watched Jack sit forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Do you need help?" you asked meekly, nodding subtly toward the space between his legs.
Laughing softly, he leaned closer until his forehead rested against your stomach. The edge of the blanket brushed against his skin while your fingers slipped gently into his hair. The gesture soothed both of you instantly. Soft. Familiar already.
"No, I'm fine," he replied before pressing a quick kiss to your stomach and nudging you toward the bathroom.
You disappeared down the hallway with one last glance back at him.
Once alone in the bathroom, waiting for the water to warm, you finally looked properly at the bruise blooming across your hip. It looked awfulâdark spreading across your skin in uneven patches. Even brushing against it hurt. Walking had become nearly impossible without limping, and you already knew the next few days were going to suck.
After a quick shower, you returned to the living room wearing soft pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt. Your body felt heavy and relaxed now, though your hip still throbbed painfully.
The second you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped.
Jack stood by the stove, shirtless, cooking scrambled eggs like he belonged there.
You hadn't been prepared for the sheer domesticity of it. Somehow, seeing him casually cooking in your kitchen felt more intimate than everything that had happened on the couch. The fact that he was doing it shirtless only made it worse.
Now that you were dressed again and no longer overwhelmed by desire, it felt easier to slip back into yourself. Easier to joke. To breathe.
"I'm pretty sure cooking without a shirt isn't medically recommended, Doctor," you teased, leaning against the doorway.
"Don't worry," he replied without missing a beat, glancing back at you briefly before returning to the pan. "I've got the best nurse around to take care of me."
Then he winked.
You rolled your eyes instantly, fighting a smile while he turned the stove off. Dinnerâbreakfast or whatever this meal counted as, was ready.
As you reached into the cabinet for plates, a huge yawn escaped you. It was ridiculous how completely your body had relaxed after an orgasm, a hot shower and finally letting yourself feel safe. Earlier, you hadn't lied when you said you had a hard time falling asleep, but now it felt like you might pass out standing up.
The meal itself passed in easy conversation.
You talked about work, books stacked around your flat, music from your vinyl collection. Jack teased your taste in indie pop while pretending not to know half the artists already. The eggs were ridiculously good too, which annoyed you a little.
Once you'd finished eating, he immediately forced you back onto your seat while he cleaned up. You'd protested, arguing that if he cooked then you should do the dishes, but he'd refused the second he noticed your limp worsening.
So instead you sat there with your cheek resting against your hand, watching his broad back move beneath the warm sunlight while he washed dishes at your sink.
It was such an ordinary sight. And somehow that made it unforgettable.
"You know," you started quietly, eyes still fixed on him, "I have one of those plastic stools if you want to shower."
"Yeah?" You could hear the smile in his voice immediately.
Relieved he hadn't taken offence, you nodded awkwardly. You knew he wasn't secretive about his disability, but you still didn't want to accidentally say the wrong thing.
"It's not exactly a disability shower thing, butâŚ" you trailed off carefully.
"I'd like that," he replied easily, turning toward you. "A stool's fine. Don't worry."
Once he reached you, he leaned down and tilted your chin upward gently. A small kiss brushed your lips. Then another. Finally, one soft kiss landed on the tip of your nose.
"You're waiting in bed, though," he murmured with a wink. "Doctor's orders."
After showing him where the stool was, locking the front door, and turning off the apartment lights, you finally made your way toward your bedroom.
The room glowed softly from the bedside lamp while the sound of running water drifted from the en-suite bathroom. You'd left him a towel and a spare toothbrush without even thinking about it. Neither of you had outright said he'd stay the night, it had simply happened naturally, like an unspoken agreement.
At some point, exhaustion dragged you under.
The sound of the bathroom door opening startled you awake. Disoriented, you blinked sleepily toward the doorway where Jack stood, shirtless and damp-haired beneath the soft light.
"Sorry," he whispered immediately.
"It's okay," you mumbled, pushing yourself up slightly. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."
Jack smiled softly before walking toward the bed. The limp in his step was more noticeable now, and guilt twisted in your chest immediately. You suddenly hated how little your apartment offered to make things easier for him.
"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, glancing toward the prosthetic.
"Been worse," he replied with a faint smirk before his expression softened. "It won't make you uncomfortable if I take it off?"
The vulnerability in his eyes startled you more than the question itself. You'd never seen Jack uncertain before. At work he was always composed, teasing, confident.
"Of course not," you answered immediately, giving him the gentlest smile you could manage.
Nodding once, he carefully removed the prosthetic and placed it beside the bed. You watched him massage along the scar absentmindedly for a moment before he finally slid beneath the blankets and leaned back against the headboard.
"I left the stool in the shower," he said after a beat, voice quieter than usual. "Hope that's okay."
"It's fine," you replied softly, reaching over to take his hand. "You can actually lie down, you know."
Laughing under his breath, he finally stretched out beside you. Slowly but visibly, his entire body relaxed more and more the longer he settled into the mattress.
"This bed is terrible," he announced after a few moments of silence.
Scoffing dramatically, you smacked his chest lightly. "Do you know how expensive mattresses are?"
Pulling his hand from yours, he wrapped his arm around your back and tugged you closer until your head rested against his chest.
"You'll come to mine next time," he murmured sleepily, eyes already half-closed.
"Next time?" you teased, tilting your head to look up at him.
Like this, relaxed and exhausted, he somehow looked younger. Softer. His freckles stood out beautifully across his face in the low light.
"Oh, definitely," Jack replied, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. "A bruise like that takes weeks to heal. Lots of relaxation."
"Oh, sure," you laughed, shaking your head. "The bruise. Right."
Still smiling, you leaned over to switch off the lamp before settling back against his chest. His breathing rocked you gently while your fingers traced lazy patterns up and down his stomach. Trying to comfort him the same way he'd comforted you all evening. And somehow, wrapped up in the warmth of the biggest crush you'd ever had, you fell asleep faster than you had in years.
All because of one stupid, unexpected accident. Honestly, you couldn't bring yourself to complain about it.
Šfromsil.
i know this one came up terribly late, but im still dealing with some depressive aftermath. hope you enjoy it though, cause i kinda rewarded your waiting with a 13k second part hihi (yes it's a pattern that they never get to cum... if you noticed, no you haven't.)
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ Park x Reader
Chapter Six: Made for Me
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: Once Brendon has you safe and comfortable at home, your shared heat and rut take over. You finally learn the perfection that comes with accepting your fated mate.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, scenting, mating time yay, oh god so many smut tags here we go, musk kink, fingering, fisting, piv, riding, mating press, missionary, creampie, breeding (they even talk about it youre welcome), knotting, mutual mating bites, multiple orgasms, everyone cries during sex, just so much smushy lovey pillow talk
Content Warnings: smut smut smut, minor blood (from bites)
Author's Note: i love this one so much everybody be nice!! also i Think this is the final chapter but i Might write an epilogue
Word Count: 7.6k
Brendonâs on high alert until he has you â softly crying, anxious, needy â safe in his car, strapped in, protected from the rest of the world. Even then, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, unable to relax while youâre still so upset. He holds you close with his right arm, tugging you to his chest, kissing the top of your head at every red light.
Meanwhile, youâre restless. Your hormones and your emotions are all over the place. Arousal pools in your gut and spills out between your legs while anxiety grips your brain stem. Thereâs an unreality that youâre not sure how to deal with in the liminal space of Brendonâs car. All you know is that you need him. So you keep your nose at his neck and try to breathe.
Once Brendon has you inside your apartment, the scents and sights and sounds familiar, the anxiety slips behind the raw need that comes with your heat. As Brendon gets his bearings in your space for the first time, you follow him around like a lost puppy, your limbs getting weaker and your brain going squishy. While he puts your things away from your backpack, you yank on his scrub top and stand on your toes to kiss him.
Brendon wraps you in an all-enveloping embrace, his huge arms sturdy around your shivering form. You whine and palm at his cock through his scrubs, consumed by how badly you need him, but he catches your hand and presses kisses to your knuckles instead. âNot yet, baby, youâve gotta relax a little first. Your nervous systemâs fried. Weâre gonna eat something and then weâre gonna sleep a bit and then you can have whatever you want whenever you want until your heatâs over.â
You grip his shirt tight and your eyes are wide and teary. âYouâll stay with me?â
Heâs never felt his heart splintered in so many pieces. This is the time where he can turn all your fear to safety. Solemn and assuring, he cradles your face and vows, âNothing on earth could stop me from being with you.â
âPromise?â
âI promise.â Tilting your chin upward, he kisses you. Sweet and warm and slow. You melt against him. Suddenly, you can see sturdiness in his eyes, complete authority that you can yield to. Looking down at you sternly, knowing that youâre beginning to fold into the role of omega to his alpha, he asks, âNow what do you want to eat, sweetheart? We can order in or I can make something from what you have here for now.â
You shake your head and reply, âYou pick. Canât think.â
Brendon sighs and brushes your cheek with his thumb. âThat bad already, huh?â
âI always have a hard time,â you start, trying hard to focus on what you want to say. âDuring my heat, I mean. With talking.â
He gives you another soft kiss. âThatâs okay. Iâll take care of everything.â
When you gaze up at him this time, he can see any of your worries evaporating and turning to nothing but trust. âI know you will.â
So Brendon steps away from you and into the kitchen. Immediately, you whine at the lack of closeness. Brendon knows why, of course, because youâre his. So he smiles, rolls his eyes overdramatically to make it clear heâs playing, and opens his arms for you. âCome on, koala, hop up.â
You let out a happy squeal and jump onto him, wrapping your legs around his hips and your arms around the back of his neck. You nestle your nose against his scent gland and breathe deeply as Brendon walks around your kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and fridge to see the state of things. Heâs pleased to find that youâve definitely been preparing for your heat. Not only is the place loaded with baked goods from your days of nesting, but there are plenty of groceries. All your favorite snacks, fruits and vegetables, the works.
Brendon presses a kiss to the side of your head and says, âGood girl. Iâm really proud of you for taking care of yourself.â You grin and squeeze him tightly, all awash in happy chemicals having him in your space and, frankly, having an alpha strong enough to carry you around like itâs nothing in the first place. Brendon collects a Tupperware of baked goods and a few Gatorades before telling you, âAfter you get a little rest, youâll need to eat something with protein and nutrients, but thisâll do for now. Whereâs your nest, kitten?â
You nod over toward your bedroom and he obediently goes that direction, one arm beneath your ass and the other balancing the snacks. He can balance your whole weight with only one of his huge arms. His strength is intoxicating.
After pushing open the door to your bedroom, Brendon sees your nest and stops in his tracks. Youâve always been a little intense about your nest and it doesnât necessarily match with the cutesy homemaker image that a lot of omegas aspire to when it comes to designing their space. Instead of dreamy, gauzy linens and low lights, itâs a bit moreâŚchaotic. Like youâve turned your bed into a blanket fort. The bed is pushed into the corner and youâve tented it in beneath sheets and blankets tied to your ceiling. The far wall has built-in shelves where youâve painstakingly arranged everything you could possibly need during your heat in overflowing baskets: All your sex toys, your favorite snacks, lotions you like, scents that make you happy, a speaker you can connect to your phone with its own remote.
On the opposite side of the bed from the bookshelf, Brendon notices a large swath of canvas rolled up and attached to the ceiling; with just a bit of observation, he realizes that, when it comes down, you can use it as a screen with a projector on the bookshelf. Your own personal movie theater. Thereâs an ocean of stuffies in the far corner, mostly Jellycats, and he wonders how youâd decided which ones to collect. Among them, thereâs a collection of lots of fuzzy blankets and favorite pieces of clothing. Youâve got miniature paper lantern string lights criss-crossing along the top of the whole space, their pastel colors shining soft rainbows on everything.
A serene smile spreads over Brendonâs face as he takes in the space, imagining himself curled up with you as often as youâll have him. You pull your face from his neck, eyes wide with worry at the idea of being rejected, and whisper, âI know itâs messy.â
He squeezes you tight, meets your eyes seriously, and assures you the way he always does and always will, âItâs perfect, princess. I promise.â
As Brendon sets you down on your own two feet again, you straighten up and give him a sweet, proud smile. âYou really like it?â
âI really do,â he confirms. As his eyes chase every detail of your most intimate space, thereâs a vibrant enthusiasm about him right now that you havenât seen before. His energy is high and bright and addictive. Now that youâre totally safe, away from any real or perceived danger, he can relax into being the loving, supportive, affectionate alpha he really is. âEverything is just soâŚyou. I love that; it feels so special.â He draws a step closer and breathes deeply. âAnd, god, it smells fucking incredible.â
Before he can fold into the incredible display of coziness, you wrinkle your nose, nudge him in the bicep, and tell him, âNo outside clothes.â
Brendon nods like that makes sense. To him, it does. Youâre his perfect, precious girl and everything you do is just as perfect and precious as the rest of you. So he strips off his scrub top and discards it in the nearby hamper. Then, seeing your pupils dilate as you get your first real look at his body, Brendon turns to you with a cocky smile on his face. He steps out of his pants and kicks them away, leaving him in only his tight heather gray boxer briefs.
On his next breath, the mild, sweet scent of your slick coats his lungs. Beside himself as your pheromones unfurl into their most primal level, Brendon grips the door frame to your en suite bathroom and groans, âOh, fuck. You smell so- God.â
He surges forward without thinking and grabs you. His fingers find yours and he lifts your wrist to his nose. Youâve never seen such a peaceful, ecstatic expression on his harsh features as when his nose touches the scent gland at your wrist. He knows that, between your legs, itâll be ten times as intense, your slick and your sweat and your scent all mingling into a cocktail designed specifically and exclusively for him to consume.
Your hands go uselessly to the tie on your scrub bottoms to try to get your clothes off, but your fingers are shaky and awkward. You pout and demand, âHelp.â
âYes, maâam,â he chuckles, taking the reins for you. Brendon makes quick work of your pants and then your tee. When he has you in only a sports bra and frumpy panties â thankfully your heat stops you from feeling any embarrassment that you arenât wearing something âcuteâ underneath your clothes â Brendon can hardly breathe for how gorgeous you are. Itâs his turn for shaky hands as he tentatively touches your waist, not wanting to push you too hard too soon. He breathes out slowly, âYouâre the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen.â
You bite your lip and glance down at the floor, swaying gently under his praise. âThank you.â
Brendon tilts your chin up, needing to see your eyes, and checks, âDo you want to put on some pajamas?â
With a sheepish, flirtatious smile, you shake your head no and start to remove your bra and underwear. Brendon steps forward to help you, thinking of nothing but making sure youâre comfortable. Itâs strange, this rut. On one hand, the sight of you naked in front of him has his cock throbbing with desire. But, on a much deeper, more visceral level, the singular focus on his mind is ensuring that youâre safe, comfortable, loved. He thought heâd want to claim and mark and fuck his mate until you were both numb, but, first and foremost, he wants to give you whatever you need. It goes beyond âwant,â actually. If you arenât perfectly content, he canât even breathe.
So, when he steps out of his own boxer briefs to join you in nakedness, it doesnât even feel sexual to either of you. Itâs comfort, simply speaking. You take his hand. Unable to disguise your nerves at the vulnerability, you pull him into your nest, immediately curling your arms around your knees because it feels so intense to have an alpha in here. To have his heady spicy scent filling the cracks and crevices of all your most beloved things.
Noticing your strained posture, Brendon rubs your back and murmurs, âYou donât have to be worried about anything, pup. This is the happiest Iâve ever been. Right now. Just being with you here. Letâs just relax a while, okay?â
You smile easily at that and suggest, âMusic?â
âMusic sounds good,â he confirms. He takes your phone from your discarded clothes, connects to the speakers with bluetooth, and scrolls through your playlists. He smirks and offers, âHow about âHeat Waveâ? Is that for your heat?â
You giggle and nod, so he hits play. As âGood Old Fashioned Lover Boyâ flits through the speakers, Brendon nestles backwards, sprawling out his large body, and pulls you to his chest. You sling your leg over his, your warmth permeating him, and everything starts to make sense for the first time today. You take a deep breath and let it out. Finally. Skin on skin. Body on body. Self on self. This is what youâve needed to fully relax.
Brendon canât believe how calm he feels. The irritation, the anger, the restlessness are all gone with your weight on him. When heâs had to deal with his rut alone, heâs always so damn frustrated that he can barely breathe, let alone think. He thrusts into fleshlights or his hand until his cock canât do anything more, but heâll still be agonizingly turned on, seeking out something to fuck.
Now, though? With you? He can feel the pulse of his cock, a quiet hum reminding him of what he craves, but it doesnât feel urgent or consuming. Just there. Because itâs yours now, not his. His rut isnât something to fight through; itâs something to give to you. Itâs his biology knowing how to protect and nurture yours.
After a few songs swing by, your breaths are even and slow and you start to purr. Brendonâs whole body shimmers when he feels that soft vibration against his chest. He kisses the top of your head and checks, âFeeling better now, sweet girl?â
âMhmm,â you coo, eyes still closed. âYouâre comfy.â
âThatâs what Iâm here for,â he chuckles, shifting his weight so you can have even more of his body as a pillow. As he adjusts, his hand moves to your comfort pile, where he finds a pair of suspiciously familiar basketball shorts. And a navy tee. Followed by a white tank top and boxer briefs. Eyes widening with surprise and amusement, he straightens up slightly to get your attention. âBaby, are these mine? When the hell did you steal these?â Tears prickle at your eyes and you whimper, guilt tightening around your throat at the idea that he might be upset with you. But he laughs and hugs you close, flipping you into his lap, quick to assure, âNo, donât cry, itâs okay. Iâm not mad at all. Itâs really sweet. IâmâŚimpressed, honestly. Iâm so crazy about you that I didnât even notice my fucking gym bag going missing.â
You giggle and avert your eyes, telling him dreamily, âThey smell good.â
âYeah?â With you seated on his thighs now, Brendon rests his hands on your lower back, nips gentle kisses up your neck, and teases as you smile, âMy gross gym clothes do it for you?â
His joking tone dies in the air when you pull back to answer. Your pupils are blown so wide he canât see the color of your irises at all. Youâre not teasing or bashful anymore. Every feature reveals pure and simple lust.
You nod slowly, the admission not at all shameful with your heat prickling through your body. Without thinking, following desires that donât have names or words, you take his hands in yours and lift them up above his head. He just follows your lead with wide eyes; heâs not going to stop you from doing anything you want to him. With him. For him. Heâs yours.
With heavy lids like youâre high, you nuzzle into his armpit, breathing deeply. After morning surgeries and the high intensity of his search for you, Brendon smells like his gym clothes. Warm, masculine, animalistic. It adds a richness to all the smells that have already sent your logical brain far, far away. His breath catches in his throat and his cock twitches against your stomach. Heâs never been wanted so viscerally and it has his hips bucking involuntarily, his toes curling into your sheets, his mind racing.
You lick a long stripe up the center of his chest, chasing a bead of his sweat until the salt coats your tongue. His breaths speed up until heâs on the border of panting. His eyes lock onto your drunken expression while you burnish his chest with your cheeks, scenting him and inhaling him at the same time. You move lower, no agenda or intention to your movements. When you reach his thick, dark pubic hair, you brush your nose deep against his skin. The mix of his pheromones has slick dripping from your core.
Not a thought in your pretty little head as you lavish at the scent glands of his inner thighs, you rub your bare cunt over his shin because itâs the closest thing you can get friction with.
Brendonâs hand goes to the side of your face. You look up at him with nothing behind your eyes. Breathless, he groans, âChrist, baby, youâre gone, arenât you?â
All of a sudden, as your alpha, he understands what you need more deeply than you do. His logical mind wants to make sure youâre fed and clean and well-rested, wants to make good on his initial plan, but itâs like he can see through you right now. And he knows that you need him. You wonât even feel the hunger or the tiredness until that first, most primal need is filled.Â
So he orders in his lowest, most wanting voice, not disguising the plain want, âCome here, omega.â
Your brain tingles. You crawl upward and sit in his lap and wait patiently. In the next millisecond, he locks his mouth with yours. Heâs all teeth and tongue and you let him claim every millimeter of the kiss, leading it, demanding from you. The smell of your slick is overwhelming, soft and almost floral and spreading like a secret you only want to share with him.
His dominant hand drops between your bodies, fingers plunging into your ample wetness. With no resistance, he twists his wrist to curl his two middle fingers up into your cunt. For all the times heâs imagined your hot wet pussy inviting him in, he still couldnât have gotten all of the delicious, divine details right. Everything is in technicolor, ultra high definition, his brain operating on a different frequency than itâs ever been able to access before. You cry out when he adds his third finger, feeling your need, and you both already need so, so much more. Against your mouth, he growls, âFuck. Fuck.â
His thumb barely touches your clit and youâre in outer space. Your hips chase his touch and your tits bounce in his face as a result and he has to take one of your nipples between his teeth or heâll fucking die right here and now. His free hand flies up to grab your other breast as he sucks and nibbles your sensitive nub relentlessly. Moans drip down the edges of your lips and he drowns in them as they pour over your tits.
Brendonâs sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your breast and you gasp. He shoves you forward, flopping you onto your back, without releasing you for a single second. His nails dig into your hip as he holds you down, mouth going to the other side to torture you equally. He shoves a fourth finger into your cunt and you wail in response. It doesnât hurt, not when youâre in heat, but it stretches and it sings. Your back arches and pleasure zaps up your spine alongside the pain. You throw your head back as your clit thrums and your cunt devours and your whole body vaporizes into delicious agony.
You cum without warning and without preamble, swallowing his hand nearly to his knuckles. Your thighs thrash back and forth as ecstasy strangles you. The presence of your mateâs pheromones, his presence, his eyes locked on you, his everything, shatters you.
âYouâre doing so good for me,â Brendon purrs as you clamp down around his fingers over and over, the orgasm refusing to let up until he does. And heâs not going to. The hand on your hip crushes you into the bed, refusing to let you squirm away. His thumb leaves your clit and you whine from the loss â until his thumb joins his other four fingers inside of your sopping cunt.
Tears crest over your waterline out of nowhere. The intensity of having most of Brendon Parkâs massive, surgically precise hand inside of you has your brain on fire. But you breathe through it. You grab at his hair and yank to ground yourself, forcing him into another kiss. This time, youâre the one who bites at his lips, his jaw, his throat, his ear, whatever you can get. When you tighten your teeth around his trap, biting down hard enough to draw blood, Brendon growls, âThere you go, pup. Good fucking girl. Donât you ever hold back with me.â
Your thighs clamp around his wrist as your cunt tightens again, if it ever even stopped in the first place, and he chases you up the bed, not letting you get away. With the orgasm at its peak, beside yourself, unable to think of anything else, you cry, âBreed me, Bren, please. I need- I need your knot right now. Right now.â
Brendon snarls and pulls his hand from inside of you, using the slick that drips from his fingers to lube his fat cock. You realize with a thrill that he needed to use all his fingers to warm you up like that because his cock is positively monstrous. In his full rut, it has to be the size of a can of Monster. Fitting. Even with your heat making you loose and drenched, you have a hard time imagining it fitting between your legs. But all doubt dies when Brendon shoves your legs back next to your ears and lines himself up with your entrance.
He straightens up just enough to watch, rapt, as he slides his cock into you for the first time. It stretches you wide. The sight of your slick coating him, the sight of each inch sinking into you, the sight of your eyes closed and your mouth open in rapture â itâs all too much for him to bear. His hand slams into the wall above you, the drywall cracking and chipping beneath his cruel fingers, and he finally bottoms out at your cervix.
When he actually starts to thrust, each one opening you like never before, your hands scramble upwards, nails clawing into his biceps. He shivers when you leave behind harsh red lines that trail down his stomach before grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him in impossible closer.
âBaby, Iâm not-â He gasps in a breath when you moan, unable to handle him using pet names while heâs deep inside of you. âI donât have an implant or anything. You could actually- Fuck. Fuck. Jesus. You canât- you canât grab me like that, honey, I wonât last.â
âDonât care,â you pant, rolling your hips up to meet every pump of his cock. You need him closer. Deeper. More. More more more. You manage to find words only because theyâre identical to your thoughts: âWanna give you so many pups, Bren. Wanna be yours for good.â Your voice breaks and you beg, âPlease, alpha, please. â
âYou donât have to beg. You never have to beg for anything from your alpha,â he rumbles. His lips go to your neck and his cock drills into you and he swears warmly, âAnything you want, princess. Anything. Itâs all yours. Everything I have is yours now.â
âKnot,â you gasp. Back arching. Lungs burning. Stomach flipping. You can see fireworks in your mind and Brendonâs eyes are so fucking intense as they bore into you and all you can do is whine and groan, âNeed your knot. All I need.â
When you feel him beginning to swell, his balls tightening and his thighs stuttering, your brain goes totally flat from everything but pleasure and need. Itâs a white-out of thought and logic. Nothing exists but Brendon and the fact that only he can give you what your body truly craves.
His lips connect with yours one more time as his cum paints you with vibrant adoration. Your breath is his breath and your body is his body. You hold his knot so well, immediately wrapping your legs around his hips to encourage him to stay there, with you, as long as he can. His chest against yours. Breathing together. Lazily kissing and scenting and nuzzling each other. Youâd stay here forever if you could.
âBrendon,â you whisper reluctantly against his ear, âthis is really nice, but youâre squishing me to death and I need to pee.â
His low chuckle vibrates your whole body. Without taking his cock from your body, he slides his knees forward so he can take more of his own weight on his legs. It relieves the pressure on your chest just enough, but heâs still playfully holding you down. He kisses the tip of your nose and teases, âIs that better, princess?â
Not quite able to get to a better comeback, you cut back, âIf you want me to piss myself.â
âMmm. Donât tempt me. Iâm pretty sure I could get off on anything youâd give me.â As you laugh, he gives you one more kiss, deep and knowing, and shifts off of you as his knot softens. You reach up with grabby hands and he smiles as he tugs you out of the bed and into his arms. Cum and slick drips from you and onto his skin as he steadies you against his torso. God, youâre burning up. They donât call it heat for no reason. Bringing you to the en suite bathroom, he touches the back of his hand to your forehead and murmurs, âYou want a nice cool bath, sweetheart?â
You nod with heavy lids. âMhmm. Sounds nice.â
âGood.â He sets you carefully on the toilet â your limbs are clearly still out of commission for the time being. Brendon draws you a bath, swirls in some sweet-smelling oils, and helps you in once youâre finished. With a firm kiss to your forehead, he orders, âStay here a minute to get your temperature closer to normal. Iâll change the sheets and get you something to eat, okay?â
You nod again, happy to do whatever he tells you.
While you soak and get sleepier and sleepier, Brendon does what he said, yes, but he also indulges in some behaviors he knows are maybe slightly silly alpha things. He checks your door locks over, makes sure your windows are properly secured, checks to see if there are batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. Youâll forgive him for feeling a bit crazy right now. When youâre not in his arms or in his sight, the edginess returns, something at the base of his brain stem insisting that he do anything he possibly can, no matter how minor, to care for you.
By the time he goes back to the bathroom to collect you, youâre asleep in the tub, head against the wall, mouth open slightly. Brendon takes a minute to gaze at you, so open and vulnerable, certain that youâre completely safe with your alpha in your apartment. He rumbles a bit with pride at knowing he makes you feel that way â fucked out and content.
Ever so gently, he kneels down and touches your cheek. You stir slightly, turning your head and giving him a sweet, innocent smile. Then you once again lift your arms for him. Brendonâs addicted to the sight of you so easily expecting his strength. He guides you to your feet, helps you step out, and then dries you off with the closest soft towel he can find. All the while, you put your weight on him, trusting him, yielding to him. Your brain is fuzzy and happy and your body is loose and calm.
Brendon guides you back into your nest, where heâs replaced your sheets with the ones he found in your laundry room specifically for your heat, extra silky soft and moisture-wicking. You sink into the coziness, thoughtless in the most wonderful way. Before joining you, he pops into the kitchen for a minute and then presents you with a makeshift charcuterie board on a plate that heâs put together from your fridge, focusing on meats and cheeses to try to get you enough protein and fat to get through your heat comfortably.
The moment you see the food, you realize that youâre ravenous. Your stomach growls loud and Brendon laughs affectionately as you snatch the plate greedily from him. Looking for all the world like a wild animal, you wolf down food fast and furious until your stomach stops screaming for more.
Brendon rubs your back as you eat, praising, âGood girl. Need you nice and strong.â
When youâve finished the actual food Brendon wanted you to eat, you look at him with bubbly hope and ask, âDessert?â
He grins and cracks open the container of your homemade snickerdoodles, chewy and pillowy. You open your mouth obediently and he happily feeds you a piece, taking another for himself. He groans loud, âI hit the fucking mate jackpot; these are insanely good.â
You preen like a peacocking alpha as he feeds you another cookie, happy and giggly in the best way. As you lazily lick the extra cinnamon sugar from his fingers, lips wrapping around his digits, he watches with dilated pupils and praises, âThatâs my good girl.â
You giggle and lean forward to nuzzle his neck with yours, mixing your scents unabashedly now that itâs just the two of you in your happy cocoon. âYou already said that.â
âItâs still true,â he murmurs, leaning forward to pull you into a kiss. He sets the container aside and then takes your hand in his. âNow that youâre with me again, sweetheart, I need to ask if you were being serious earlier. About- about giving me pups.â He cradles your face in his hand and studies your expression. You canât quite read all the details of his. âI can send someone to pick up some emergency contraception for this week that was just-â
âI was serious,â you tell him softly. Your eyes run over his, wide, needy, scared of rejection. Searching for love and stability in the one place you need to be able to find it. âBut if- if youâre not ready to do that with me, or if you donât want-â
âI want to,â he whispers. It sounds like an admission, like something heâs never been willing to say â or maybe something heâs never been allowed to want. He touches his forehead to yours and, so soft you can barely hear, he says, âI love you.â
You maul him with a hug, shoving him onto his back. He catches you with a wheezing laugh as your weight knocks the wind out of him. As your hands push down his broad shoulders, your tentative smile glows into something huge. âYou do?â
With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, he rests his hands on your waist and tells you, âI knew I loved you the day you shoved your finger in my chest and chewed me out for being an ass to Frankie. Nobody talks to me like that.â Then, much more urgently, he goes on, âIâve been working to be good enough for you every day since. So if- if you think Iâm good enough to be- if youâre willing to give that to me.â He can barely breathe as he almost cries, âYes, please.â
You throw your arms around the back of his neck and nestle into his chest and say, on the verge of giggling and crying at the same time as it bubbles out of you, âI love you so much, Bren. Youâre gonna be such a good dad.â
âI donât know about that,â he replies with a sigh, âbut I think, maybe, if I follow your lead, I could become one.â He kisses your forehead and murmurs, âNow get some rest, princess. Your bodyâs working really hard; gotta keep your energy up.â
You nod and shift onto your side, bringing him to face you. All teasing and sweet, you tangle up your limbs with his and ask, âDoes this mean youâre gonna buy me a nice house and a big fat diamond?â
Needing to kiss you again, he nods and holds you and promises, âAnd anything else you could ever want. They pay me way too much money at that damn hospital; you need a new car and a better place and a huge âfuck youâ ring that stops other alphas from even looking at you.â
âMmm.â Your eyelids start to feel heavy as that settles into your cells. You have it now. The mate, the life, the dream youâve always had. Sleepy and adoring, you breathe, âTell me you love me again.â
Brendon kisses your cheek as he cradles your head, making sure youâre comfortable no matter how you position yourself. âI love you, cherry.â
When youâre woken up by the need pulsing between your thighs, youâre curled up between Brendonâs legs, enveloped by his body that seems much larger in rut. Heâs sitting up straight, watching the door like a hawk, with his hands resting on your hip and your waist like heâs ready to scoop you up and haul you to safety at any second. He notices the change to your breathing and focuses all his attention on you right away.Â
âHi, baby.â With gentler hands than you wouldâve thought him capable of, Brendon cups your flaming cheek and murmurs, âYouâre burning up. What can I do?â
Your tongue feels weird and heavy in your mouth again, your brain flickering away as another wave of heat starts to wash over you. Itâs always been hard for you to put words together when youâre in heat. So you just sit up, turn yourself around, and maneuver so youâre in his lap. He instinctively shifts his weight to make space for you, arms coming to rest on your lower back. You drop your mouth to his neck, lap your tongue over his scent gland until you feel his cock rapidly hardening beneath you. Right against his ear, you whine, âKnot.â
Brendon kisses you warmly, like heâs greeting you after a long time away. His hands trail down to your hips and he manhandles you to push your hips back and forth, your slick running over his shaft. âYour wish is my command, princess.â
You nod your heavy head and feel your cunt beginning to pulse just from the way heâs looking at you with complete adoration in those blue eyes. As he lifts you up a bit by the waist so he can notch himself against your entrance, you coo, âMy alpha. Love you.â
Brendon plunges into you in one slow, needy thrust. An uninhibited wine spills from his lips when heâs once again enveloped in your perfect warmth. He slowly grinds his hips up into yours, groaning with every little twitch of your pussy, âFuck, kitten, Iâve never- never felt this good with anyone. Itâs like you were made for me.â
Beginning to bounce on him because you canât stand any teasing right now, you whimper, âI was.â
Brendon snaps when he hears that. When he knows it down to his core. Because this isnât a choice between the two of you. Not really. Itâs destiny. Itâs fate. Itâs fucking magic. You were always going to mold to him. His cock was always going to be the only one that could satisfy you fully.
He growls under his breath and flips you onto your back, needing to have you closer. Youâre powerless to his strength, limp, and thatâs exactly how you want it. You want to be a small, helpless thing that he takes charge of. Protects. Possesses. He links his fingers with yours above your head, holding you down but grounding himself, too. With his lips hovering above your scent gland, he asks softly, âThat better, baby?â
âPerfect,â you moan. âYours.â
âThatâs right.â His thrusts speed up, the sound of his cock plunging inside of you obscene in the timeless quiet of your bedroom. âAll mine.â
Brendon drops one hand to your clit and the contact has you keening upward. Your legs snap him in closer, locking around his muscular ass. Your eyes close and your back arches and you can only moan and take whatever heâll give you. Finally, finally, youâre being taken care of the way youâve always wanted, your whole body held and tended to and ravished.
As your orgasm threatens, in Brendonâs complete and total control, a droplet of water hits your chest and your eyes flicker open. Itâs not sweat from his shiny forehead like youâd thought, though. When you look up at Brendon, you find his forehead wrinkled, his eyes pink, his breaths shaky. You reach up and brush his cheek, bringing his focus back to you. Barely able to speak with everything swirling around your mind, you breathe, âYouâre crying.â
He nods and sniffles and swallows hard, trying to come up with the words. Unable to stand making eye contact while heâs being so fucking vulnerable, he buries his face in the side of your neck and nearly weeps, âNever thought Iâd have this. Never thought Iâd have a mate as perfect as you. Never thought I could deserve a woman whoâs so fucking beautiful and kind and smart and who wants to give me a family and I just- I just-â
His voice chokes off as a wave of pleasure billows through you, making your cunt clamp down around him. Feeling overwhelmed with light and softness and adoration, you tilt your head to the side and whimper a request Brendon Parkâs been waiting his whole life to hear without even knowing: âBite.â
He doesnât second-guess you. He doesnât challenge you.
He bites.
Brendon doesnât fuck around with claming you once he has permission. When he hears your true need for his ownership. His cock is pistoning like a machine designed for your pleasure and heâs thrumming on your clit with his thumb and his teeth donât hesitate to pierce your neck. You loose an orchestral crescendo cry when the perfect, blissful, heavenly pain stamps you as his. Thereâs no stopping the orgasm that slaps you across the face and holds you down by the throat while Brendon grips your hand above your head, keeping you in place while his teeth forever mark you as his possession.
As he tastes your blood â strangely sweet with your hormones swelling â Brendon kisses your neck, leaving the shape of his lips all over your skin. Youâre whimpering and crying and you can hardly move with the intense, addictive pleasure thatâs boiling you alive. He flips you so heâs on his back and youâre in his lap, barely able to keep yourself upright, insanely cute to him in your woozy lust. Then he tilts his head to the side and taps his own scent gland with two fingers. âYour turn, princess. Donât be shy.â
Heâs expecting you to protest, to giggle, to turn bashful at the idea.
Not you.
Not his omega.
You bend down, rolling your hips all the while, and kiss your own blood off his lips before lathing your tongue up his neck. You drag your teeth over his pulse, his tendons, breathing his scent deeply and licking up his sweat. Youâre drunk on him. On the pheromones you can only produce together. When your teeth graze his scent gland, you feel him shiver beneath you. His hands lock onto your hips to keep your bodies grinding together as you lose control at last.
Opening up your mouth wide, you start off by sucking his flesh into your mouth, enjoying the way his breath stutters and his thrusts deepen with each added sensation. By the time you add your teeth, you can feel his knot starting to swell up as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm to stay with you longer, panting and groaning and right on the edge with your teeth meeting his skin.
When you break the skin, tasting the fat and iron of his blood, Brendonâs world explodes into the second Big Bang. Sparks and stars and fire. Everything is you. Every molecule, every atom, every neutron and quark and particle. You pull off him with a proud smile, his blood at the corners of your thrilled lips. His pupils turn to pinpricks so he can memorize it, the light of your bedroom a flashbang that burns the memory into the film of his soul. Heâs never cum so hard in his life, his knot quickly filling and locking the two of you in place.
You collapse onto his chest and he holds you so close. His soft voice is a constant stream against your ear as his hands run up and down your back and sides. I love you. I love you. I love you. Your sopping pussy keeps gently pulsing around him, the aftershocks still rattling you both. Thereâs no ecstasy like the one that comes after mating. Neither of you need to speak to know it to your cores: This is it. Itâs the end of dating, the end of craving, the end of begging. Never again will you go without.
As the haze of broken skin begins to recede, you gently kiss across Brendonâs chest. You bring your lips to his and you both half-smile against each other. Itâs perfectly simple, the two of you, and it makes more sense than anything youâve ever known. Still hard inside of you, Brending shifts you both upwards so he can hold you in his lap. His hands roam lazily, happily, knowingly. Heâs learned the curves and edges of you now.
With both your brains turning on again and your bodies still intertwined, Brendon kisses your temple and murmurs against your ear, âYouâve known all along, havenât you? About us?â
You brush your thumb over his chin â thereâs evening stubble there now, rakishly handsome â and admit gently, âI knew the first time we met.â
With a sigh, he asks, âWhy didnât you say anything? We couldâve been together so much sooner.â
You give him an âas ifâ sort of look. âBecause youâre kind of an asshole, Bren.â
âFair enough,â he laughs. âGod, Iâm sorry, baby. I canât imagine my life without you now.â
âI know. Me too.â You go back to kissing him for another minute, unable to resist with him completely at your mercy. After a minute, you explain further, âI just wanted to see if we liked each other beyond, yâknow, the whole biology thing. If we could fit together.â
âI always liked you,â he says back, fingers tracing beads of sweat that fall down your body, âeven before I could smell you.â
You giggle and smack his chest. âLiar.â
âNo, I swear,â he insists urgently. Even though heâs softening now, neither of you goes to move, too enamored with one another. âI thought you were competent. Good with patients. Funny. Pretty.â
âThose are just facts, Brendon. Everyone thinks Iâm wonderful.â
âAnd I thought you were so modest,â he needles. While your laugh brushes against his skin, he tells you, much more softly now, âEvery time there was a page for me to the ED, I hoped it was you because, every time we worked together, I left so fucking frustrated.â
You scoff and tease, âWerenât you trying to say youâve always liked me a second ago?â
âNo, baby, I meanâŚâ Brendon struggles to find the right words, but you wait patiently, beyond curious. Nobody gets to see this version of him: Reflective, sweet, innocent. He meets your eyes again and tries to explain, âI wasnât frustrated the way I always am with Robinavitch or the Ken doll or the mousy one or- God, theyâre all so fucking stupid compared to you,â he laughs, making you do the same. âI would leave every consult with you frustrated that I wasnât good the way you are. Frustrated that you put people at ease without trying while everyoneâs scared of me even when I try to be softer. Frustrated that you donât let anything stop you when sometimes I get so fed up I have to punch a wall. Frustrated because you made me want to be better â a better doctor, yes, but a better man and a better alpha, too. Nobodyâs ever made me feel like that.â
You pout your lower lip and hold back tears. You canât help but kiss him. There are no alternatives. And he really, really likes being kissed by you. With every touch of your lips, he can taste the rest of his life. When you pull back at last, youâve sniffled back the tears and replaced them with an adorable, mischievous smile. You tell him cheekily, âI didnât like you back then, if you were wondering.â
âYou made that plenty clear, baby,â he chuckles, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze. âWhat changed your mind?â
With a soft shrug, you give him the truth: âYou told Frankie youâd go to his track meet.â
âIt meant that much to you?â
âYeah,â you murmur. It feels like a secret, but you want to tell him all your secrets, especially the ones youâd never share with anyone else. âBecaues you listened to me. Apologies donât count if you donât change your behavior â and you did. But I could tell it wasnât just for me. You really wanted to make it up to him. To fix what youâd broken.â You gingerly trace the harsh angles of his face with your forefinger, memorizing the lines. When you touch his lower lip, he sighs and smiles contentedly. You tell him, âThatâs the sign of a good man, I think. A good partner apologizes and means it. A good father screws up and then fixes it. I didnât have a choice in being your mate, but I made the choice to love you.â
Brendon blinks hard. He covers your hand with his and kisses each of your fingers. Rough and thick with love, he breathes, âChrist, kitten, are you trying to make me cry here?â
You kiss him so softly it could be a butterflyâs wing. âYou already did, softie.â
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot
pairing jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
summary after jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you donât let it stay theoretical for longâwhat starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when robby gets pulled into the space you and jack have built together. (#threesometime #neverforgetchallengers) (ao3)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship with you and jack, living together, unlabelled jack and robby sexualities (bi?), attempt at a true love triangle (et tu, challengers (2024) except no cheating & u and jack r <3. but rabbot under(over?)tones), unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (f/m, m/m), masturbation, praise & teasing, dom!ish robby, bratty!ish reader, lowkey switch/softdom jack idk, finger sucking, domestic, drinking, brief hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), porn with... context?, hint at robby internalised homophobia? possibly ooc for jack sorry, title reference to the 1975 but not inspired by the song more just bad pun bc... paris... threesome... get it
wc 18.3k words
spin off of the fic: my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot - can be read solo!
Robby doesnât look confused so much as⌠unconvinced.
He sits back in the booth, one arm slung along the backrest, beer loose in his hand, eyes moving between you and Jack like heâs watching a consult go sideways.
ââŚYou two wanna try that again,â he says, slow, âbut in English this time?â
Jack huffs under his breath, already regretting opening his mouth. He drags a hand over his jaw, glancing at you like heâs half-tempted to pull the plug on the whole thing.
âTold you,â he mutters, low. âBad pitch.â
You nudge his knee under the tableânot hard, just enough. Donât bail.
Robby catches it. Of course he does. His eyes flick down, then back up, something sharpening.
âOh, donât tap out now,â he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. âYou brought it up. Iâm listening.â
Jack opens his mouth againâ
ââNo,â Robby cuts him off, not even looking at him. âShe talks.â
Thereâs that tone. The one he uses with residents when theyâre dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just⌠direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactlyâmore the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.
Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.
You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.
âItâs not⌠open,â you start, careful. âWeâre not looking toâchange anything. Not really.â
Robby watches you the whole time. Doesnât interrupt. Doesnât fill the silence for you.
âItâs justââ you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, ââwe trust you. Both of us do. And youâve been⌠there. With us. For a while.â
âUnfortunately,â he mutters.
Jack snorts. âSpeak for yourself.â
But Robby doesnât look away from you.
You hold his gaze. âItâs not random. Itâs not⌠about finding some person to fool around with. Itâs you.â
That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesnât disappear, but it tightens around the edges.
ââŚRight,â he says, slower now.
Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. âItâs not a free-for-all,â he adds, dry. âWeâre not pitching some kind of ER orgy.â
âShame,â Robby says flatly.
You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.
Jack shoots him a look. âBe serious for one second in your life.â
âI am serious,â Robby says. Then, to youââIâm just making sure I understand what the hell youâre asking me.â
His gaze drops brieflyâto your hands, the way theyâre curled loosely around your glassâthen back up again.
âWhat are you actually offering here?â he asks.
You hesitateânot because you donât know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.
âItâs not just sex,â you say, quieter now.
Robbyâs brow lifts. âNo?â
You shake your head. âItâs⌠us. Still us. Justââ you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, ââwith you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.â
Thereâs a long beat.
Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.
âYou two have been together, what,â he says, glancing at Jack, âtwo years now?â
âNearly three,â Jack corrects.
âNearly three,â Robby repeats. âYou know, you⌠you live together. Donât kill each other. Thatâs impressive.â
âThank you,â you say, dry.
His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this timeâbut heavier, too.
âAnd youâre both telling me this doesnât⌠complicate things.â
Jack answers this time, steady. âEverythingâs already complicated. This wouldnât change what weâve got. Weâve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.â
Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. Thereâs history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.
ââŚYouâre serious,â he says finally.
âYeah,â Jack says.
Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like heâs trying to reset his brain.
âJesus Christ.â
You donât rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, itâs different now. Less amused. More⌠considering.
âYouâre asking about the three of usâŚâ he tries, trailing off.
You nod. âYeah.â
His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jackâs, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.
âAnd youâre both just- youâre⌠good with it,â he says.
Your voice is quieter when you answer. âWouldnât be sitting here if we werenât. Youâre attractive, smart, funny. And I think youâve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.â
Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.
â...Christ,â he mutters again, but thereâs a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.
Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.
âYou always this persuasive?â He wonders.
You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âOnly when it matters.â
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.
âYeah,â he says. âI can see that.â
Jack shifts beside you, not tenseâbut alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.
Your phone buzzesâonce, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.
You glance down, already half-standing. âIâve gotta go. Park needs meâIsla called in sick.â
Jack doesnât even hesitate. Heâs already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. âTake the car. Iâll ride back with him.â
You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. âThanks, baby.â
You lean downâmeant to be quick, but it doesnât quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.
Thereâs a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turningâ Robbyâs already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.
âMichael,â you say, softer, a small nod.
He repeats your nameâflatter, rougher, like heâs testing how it sits in his mouth.
You donât linger. You head out.
The door swings shut behind you.
Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like heâs resetting.
Robby doesnât look at the door. He looks at Jack. Thereâs a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just⌠processing.
âAlright,â he says. âWhoâs idea is it?â
Jack doesnât bother pretending. âMine.â
Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. âYouâre kidding.â
âNope.â
âWhen?â
Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. âRemember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?â
Robby snorts. âYeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself Iâve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.â
âAppreciate that.â
âWalking around likeââ Robby gestures vaguely, ââlike a cat in heat.â
Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. âYeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our⌠you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -â
â-get to the point,â Robby says, with a slight snicker.
âSome point, I mention⌠I donât know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and⌠weâre just talking.â
âTalking,â Robby repeats, deadpan.
âYeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.â
âHard pass.â
Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. âIt came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What weâd be into, what we wouldnât.â
âAnd you landed on me,â Robby says.
âYeah.â
Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. ââŚBoth of you.â
âBoth of us.â
That lands differently.
Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking nowânot just reacting.
âThatâs your girl,â he says finally. âYouâve built something there. Iâm notââ he shakes his head slightly, ââIâm not interested in screwing that up.â
Jackâs expression doesnât change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.
âI wouldnât be asking if I thought you would.â
Robby glances at him, sharper now. âYou donât get to decide that for me.â
âNo,â Jack agrees easily. âBut I do know you.â
A beat.
âAnd I trust you,â he adds.
it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.
ââŚYeah,â he mutters. âThatâs the problem.â
Jackâs brow lifts, faintly amused. âThat I trust you?â
âThat I donât take that lightly,â Robby shoots back.
Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.
âAnd youâre fine with it,â he says. Not a question. âMe and her.â
Jack doesnât flinch. âYeah.â
âReally.â
âYeah.â
Robby studies himâsearching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesnât find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasnât a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.
ââŚSheâsââ he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. âYou know what she is.â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âYeah. I do.â
âTwenty-something,â Robby continues. âSmart. Looks likeââ he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. âYouâve seen her.â
Jack smirks faintly. âI have, yeah. A lot of her. Itâs great.â
Robbyâs mouth twitches despite himself.
âAnd she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,â he adds.
Jackâs expression softens just a fraction. âSometimes.â
Robby nods once, slow. Thenâ
ââŚYou really telling me youâve never thought about it? About herâ Jack asks, casualâbut not careless.
Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.
âThatâs not a fair question.â
Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.
Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like heâs debating how honest he wants to be.
Then he looks back at Jack.
ââŚWell Iâm not blind,â he says.
Jack doesnât react much. Just watches him.
âSheâsââ Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, ââsheâs a lot. Sweet.â
Jackâs mouth ticks. âShe is⌠You ever think about her while jerking off?â
Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, theyâre being honest. âYes.â
Robbyâs a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable.Â
âWhat?â Robby scoffs. âYouâre cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is⌠what, some sort of line being crossed?â
âI didnât say anything, alright. Iâm all good here. Just didnât think youâd admit it,â Jack nods with insistence. âWhat about during sex? Thought about her then?â
â...On occasion, yes, Iâve- sheâs popped up there, yeah.â Robby admits with brief hesitance.Â
Thatâs as far as he pushes itâbut itâs enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesnât threaten anything.
âFair,â he says.
Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. âYouâre taking that a lot better than I thought you would.â
Jack shrugs. âSheâs hot. Youâre not dead. Tells me youâve got a working dick, at least.â
Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.
Jack took a sip of his beer, thenâbecause he wasnât finished, because he never really was with Robbyâtilts his head slightly.
âWhat about me?â
Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. âOh, come on.â
âNo, seriously,â Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. âNo shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.â
Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âHave you?â Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.
A pause.
Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.
ââŚYou first,â he mutters.
Jack doesnât even blink. âYeah.â
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.
âMan, itâs not evenââ Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. âHalf the time that shit doesnât mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesnât make you anything.â
Robby let out a short, humourless huff. âRight.â
âWhat,â Jack presses lightly, âyou worried about the gay implications?â
Robby shot him a look. âDonâtââ
ââWhat? Say âgayâ?â Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.
Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.
âWeâre talking about whether Iâve jacked off thinking about another guy,â he says, flat. âYeah, the⌠âgayâ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.â
Jack just nods, like that was fair.
âI just⌠I guess, I didnât realiseââ Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. âI mean, you know, are youââ
Jack shrugs, easy. âIâve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Donât really care to.â
Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. âFigrues. Army man.â
âYeah, well,â Jack mutters. âYou donât have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesnât have to mean anything bigger than it is.â
âIâm aware,â Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieterâlike it cost him somethingâ ââŚItâs crossed my mind.â
Jackâs mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruelâjust⌠satisfied.
âCrossed your mind,â he repeated. âInteresting wording.â
âDonât start,â Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âIt was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. Thatâs saying something.â
âFuck you,â Robby mutters, rolling his eyesâbut there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.
Jack shrugs, taking another sip. âOptions apparently on the table.â
Robby shakes his head, but didnât argue. Didnât fully look away, either.
Something in the air had shiftedâsubtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.
Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history thereâyears of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.
Jack didnât push. Just leaned back, easy.
âThink about it,â he tries. âOr donât. Nothing changes.â
Robby nods once, short. âYeah.â A few seconds of quiet. ââŚYou still need that ride home?â he asks.
Jack snorts. âOh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.â
âShut up.â
âFlirting now, are we?â
âYou are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, donât think otherwise,â Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.
â â â
2 WEEKS EARLIER
threesomenoun â three¡some â ËthrÄ-sÉm
1: a group of three persons or things : trio
2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately
3: a sexual encounter involving three people
âAre you trying to say you wanna play golf?â Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.
The kitchen smells like garlic and butterâonions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. Heâs got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.
Youâre perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.
âYes,â you say dryly, scrolling. âIâm deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the ballsââ
ââI get it,â Jack cuts in. âYou want a threesome.â
You look up at him, unimpressed. âI donât want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.â A beat. âBut Iâm not opposed to⌠expanding the sample size.â
Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. âExpanding theâJesus. Thatâs how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?â
âYou brought it up,â you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. âDonât act like this wasnât your idea. âOh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notesâââ
âI did not sound like that.â
ââIf anything,â you continue over him, âI think you wanna fuck your best friend.â
âAlright,â Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. âNot what I sound like. And câmonâyou know youâre all I wanna fuck.â He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. âI think these are done.â
âTheyâre not.â You donât even look up when you say it. âAnyway⌠I doubt heâd even be down for it,â you say. âI barely think he likes me as a friend.â
Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.
You narrow your eyes. âWhat?â
âI think heâd fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,â Jack says, like itâs obvious. Then, distracted againââI really think these are done, hon.â
âTest the carrot,â you say, still scrolling. âIf itâs soft enough, itâll break with pressure.â
He presses the spoon into one. It doesnât budge.
ââŚNeeds longer,â he admits.
âHow do you know that?â
âI just did what you said, Iââ
âNo,â you interrupt, looking at him properly now. âHow do you know Robby would fuck me?â
That slows him down.
Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.
âI know him,â he says. âTwenty years of it. And I know you.â A beat. âThereâs something there. A thing. Youâve always had good chemistry.â
You huff lightly. âA vague⌠thing, maybe.â
You hesitate, thenâbecause you donât really do half-truthsâ
âI did have a bit of a crush on him,â you admit. âBefore I met you.â
Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.
âI donât anymore,â you add quickly. âIt faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was earlyâbefore I started coming down to ED properly. Heâd come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was justâŚâ you shrug, searching, ââŚolder. Authority. Bit of an asshole.â
Jackâs mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.
âGlad to know you donât have a type,â he mutters.
You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.
âHey,â you murmur. He glances up at you. âI like them a little shorter,â you say softly.
Jack blinks.
Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips.Â
â â â
The thing about a thirdâabout this thirdâwas that it⌠kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.
It wasnât sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.
Robby had never been separate from Jack.Â
Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edgesâthis is where I end, this is where you beginâbut that had never been the case with them.Â
Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either.Â
Theyâd dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settledâsomehowâinto their forties without ever untangling.
They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.
And Robby had always lived in that tension.
He didnât soften easily. Didnât trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that ruleâsteady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didnât mean absence.
There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didnât exist, but because saying them wouldâve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding.Â
It was easier to file it under something elseâloyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didnât have to be examined too closely.
Then you came along. And you didnât disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it.Â
You didnât wedge yourself between them, didnât ask Jack to choose, didnât look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.
And Godâthere was something about you.
Not just that you were beautifulâthough you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.
The way you saw Jackâfully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.
And worseâ
The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.
Heâd noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didnât pull back when he got too close, didnât flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.
You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And thatâmore than anythingâwas what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.
That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.
But wanting you like thisâin the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didnât have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines heâd spent years pretending werenât there.
And JackâŚ
Jack, who didnât do anything halfway, who didnât offer things he wasnât sure aboutâwas sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasnât a risk so much as⌠an opening.
That was what threw him. It wasnât the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.
And Robby didnât trust himself nearly that much.
That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simpleâbut real in a way that resisted being dismissed.
Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.
Not in the way people usually were about relationshipsâcareful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasnât built like that. He didnât gush, didnât sentimentaliseâbut if heâd had a couple drinks in him and itâd been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.
Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.
In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there.Â
The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.
Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasnât discomfort exactlyâmore like⌠he didnât know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jackâs mouth like that that sat strange in his chest.Â
âWhat the fuck do you mean six times?â Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.
They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadnât aged out of itâbacks damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didnât talk about sat heavier.
It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasnât being watched over by the hospital.
Jack didnât even open his eyes. âI mean she came six times,â he said, easy. âWorking up to eight.â
Robby snorted. âYouâre talking like itâs a personal best.â
âIt is,â Jack said. âYou donât set goals, you stagnate. Thatâs what my therapist says.â
âJesus Christ.â
Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. âWhatâs your number?â
Robby shrugged, taking another sip. âI donât know. I donât have a number.â
âYes, you do.â
âNope.â
âBull.â
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. ââŚFour. Maybe.â
Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.
âFour,â he repeated.
âSome of us arenât treating it like a competitive sport,â Robby muttered.
Jack huffed. âItâs not me,â he said. âItâs her. Sheâs a natural.â
âShe really that good?â Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack wouldâve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.
There was a beat.
Robby stared up at the sky like it didnât matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.
âSheâsââ he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didnât sound ridiculous and failing. âShe pays attention. Like sheâs studying you. Figures out what works and thenâjust⌠doesnât let up. Like Iâm constantly high around her. And man, she-â Jack cleared his throat. âShe does this thing with her tongue.â
Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.
He didnât say anything.
âShe swirls it, right around the underside, traces itâthe entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then sheâllâfuck,â Jack had mused. ââŚSheâll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I canât describe how good it feels,â Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. âFucking⌠incredible.â
Robby couldnât have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.
âShe makes the prettiest noises, like a⌠I donât even know,â Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. âMoans and screams, and so⌠Christ. Like she doesnât even realise sheâs doing it, possessed.â
âAlright, thatâs enough,â Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.
Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. âYou asked.â
âI didnât ask for a breakdown.â
âSemantics.â
Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.
A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Thenâ
âWhatâs the deal with you and Noelle?â Jack asked, casual in that way that wasnât casual at all.
Robbyâs jaw shifted.
âSheâs⌠fine,â he said.
Jack cracked one eye open. âThat sounds promising.â
Robby huffed. âItâs notââ he cut himself off, shook his head. âDonât think itâs going anywhere.â
Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like heâd expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself
âYeah,â he said. âBummer.â
Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.
âDonât think Iâm built for it,â he said finally.
Jack didnât move. âFor what?â
âThis,â Robby gestured vaguely. âRelationships. The staying. The⌠showing up part.â
Jack was quiet for a second.
Thenâ
âNow thatâs bull,â he said, not unkindly.
Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. âYeah?â
âYeah,â Jack said. âWeâve known each other, whatâtwenty years? Youâve stuck around that long.â
âThatâs different.â
âIs it?â
Robby didnât answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.
âYou donât get to pretend you canât do something just because you havenât done it right yet,â he said.
Robby scoffed lightly. âDidnât realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.â
âYeah, well,â Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. âHate to break it to you, man, but youâre not some unfixable case.â
Robby laughed at thatâshort, real.
âGarcia said Iâd make a good ex-husband,â he said.
Jack snorted. âSee? Even she thinks you can commit.â
âThatâs not what that means.â
âClose enough,â Jack sighed. âLie down, will you. Youâre so damn tense.â
Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second.Â
The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.
They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after yearsâno need to fill it, no need to perform.
âAw, you two are so cute.â
Jack sat up immediately.
You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlampâscrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like youâd been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jackâs old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there.Â
For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason theyâd been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.
âHey, baby,â Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. âYou finish alright?â
You just nodded, already moving toward him.
You didnât hesitateânever did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.
âMiss me?â you murmured, barely pulling back.
âAlways,â he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.
Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.
You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediatelyâinstinct, habitâsliding over your arms, grounding, checking.Â
Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.
You exhaled like youâd been holding it all day.
âJesus,â you muttered. âKeep doing that.â
âYeah?â Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.
âMhm.â
You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.
Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always gotâhalf amused, half something else he never quite named.
âRobby,â you said, glancing over at him, âhow the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.â
âSometimes a drinkâs all you get,â he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flickedâbrief, involuntaryâto where Jackâs hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. âOrtho mustâve been a dream, though.â
You let out a dry laugh. âOh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.â
âSounds about right,â Robby muttered.
Jackâs hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.
âCareful,â he said. âYouâre gonna fall asleep right here.â
âHonestly?â you said, eyes half-lidded now, âtempting.â
There was a beat. Quiet againâbut different this time. Fuller.
You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.
Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.
You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.
ââŚYou been talking about me?â you asked.
Jack snorted, immediate. âWhat?â
âYouâve got that look,â you said, squinting at him. âAnd heâs looking at me weird.â
âI always look at people weird,â Robby said, flat, from the grass.
You didnât even look at him. âYeah, but this is a different weird.â
Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. âWe were just talking about yourâwhat was itâimmense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.â
His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldnât quite help himself.
Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. âItâs not far off.â
You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.
âWhat did you say to him,â you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasnât entirely seriousâbut not entirely not.
Jack leaned in, said something under his breathâtoo quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.
You smacked his legâright on the prostheticâwith a sharp thwack.
âJack.â
He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.
âIf you actually told him that,â you said, pointing at him, âI swear to god Iâll take this thing off and beat you with it.â
âThatâs dramatic,â Jack murmured, still holding your hand. âAnd also physically unlikely.â
âItâs true, though,â he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. âYouâre very good at it.â
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.
Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadnât agreed to sit through, but couldnât quite look away from either.
âSo the tongue thingâs real then?â he asked, almost idly.
Jack groaned. âAlright. Weâre done here.â
You laughedâbright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of youâand turned into Jack properly this time.
It wasnât quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.
Robby looked away. Not fast enough.
You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jackâs.
âIâll drive,â you said quietly. âYouâre drunk.â
âIâm not drunk,â he said automatically.
âYouâre pretty drunk,â you corrected.
A beat.
ââŚAlright. Could be a little drunk,â he conceded.
You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.
âDonât lose the car,â he muttered.
âNo promises.â
You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.
âYou good?â you asked, softer now.
He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.
âYeah,â he said. âIâm good.â
You nodded like you believed him.
âNight, Michael.â
There was a flicker at thatâsomething small but real.
âNight,â he said.
Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.
âText me when you get home,â he called back to Robby.
âSure. Have fun with your girl.â Robby had said, lying back down.
âI definitely will,â Jack nodded.
You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laughâsomething private, something just for him.
Robby watched you both go.
Didnât move.
The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.
So, when you and Jack finally put it to himâcornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you hadâRobby wasnât as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably shouldâve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermathâthose were the things a smarter man mightâve led with. But that wasnât where his mind went first.
It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.
Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruelâif he held your head down and made you choke on him?
And Jack⌠steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robbyâs hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?
It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasnât even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.
About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existedâintimate, closed, completeâand being told there was room for him inside it.
And thatâmore than anything elseâwas what made it difficult to dismiss.
â â â
Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.
The patient is already underâintubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.
âYeah, thatâs a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,â you say, pen tapping the screen. âYou can see the displacement here, and the overlapâthis is why the leg looks shortened clinically.â
Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. âFuck.â
You shake your head. âIt looks dramatic, but itâs stable from what weâve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.â
Santos lets out a breath.
You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. âWeâll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But sheâs straightforward.â
âThank god,â Santos mutters. âI was so not bothered to call for another consult.
A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.
Robby.
Heâs already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.
âOrthoâs down in ED?â he says.
âYeah,â you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. âSantos messaged me. Femur fracture.â
He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shiftsâclinical, but not entirely neutral. Heâs tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.
âLooks like a clean nail,â he says.
âAssuming ortho behaves,â you reply.
He huffs something like a laugh. âThey wonât.â
âNo,â you agree. âWe never do.â
Santos clears her throat. âWhile Iâve got youâHuckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.â
You pause slightly.
âA Parisian party?â you repeat.
âYeah,â Santos says, warming to it. âParis-themed. Like⌠French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.â
Robby makes a quiet sound behind youâalmost a laugh, quickly disguised.
You glance at him, but heâs still looking at the scan like nothing happened.
Santos continues, mildly confused. âHave either of you been to Paris?â
âNo,â you say.
Robby: âNope.â
Santos nods like that still tracks logically. âYeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.â
Thereâs a beat.
âAnyway,â She adds, already backing toward the door, âYouâre invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. Youâre all closeâ
â...Sounds good, Santos, weâll let you know,â Robby says with a nod. âNorth Twelve?â
âConsider it done.â Santos says dry, nodding.
The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back inâclean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that youâre aware of him in a way you shouldnât be during a trauma consult.
He glances at the CT again. âParis-themed party,â he repeats flatly.
âDonât even,â you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.
âWhat?â he says innocently.
You turn slightly toward him. âI know exactly what youâre thinking.â
He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. âIâm not thinking anything.â
âYouâre absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.â
âIâm thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,â he says.
âLiar.â
That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.
âYou think youâll go?â he asks.
âNo,â you say. âJack and I have the night off. Weâll be busy.â
âRight,â he nods.
A beat.
âYou?â you ask.
âIâd rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,â Robby says with a quiet exhale. âSo, no.â
âCome over then,â you offer, stopping at the nursesâ station.
Robby gives you a look. âThought you said you two were busy.â
âYou can be busy with us,â you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. âOr just Jack. Or just me. He told me youâve thought about it either way.â
A faint sigh leaves him. âRight. I forgot he canât keep anything to himself.â
He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the stationâDana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like sheâs clocking something she hasnât labelled yet.
âHave you?â he asks softly.
âThought about you? In that way?â you clarify.
He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.
You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.
âYes,â you admit. âYouâre tall. Kind. Your beardâs nice. Youâre probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.â
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.
âAbbotâs a lover boy at heart,â Robby says. âGives in easily. âSpecially for you.â
You nod, like that tracks. âMost of the time, yeah.â
That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, âIs it true you had a crush on me?â
You tilt your head. âGod, he really justâ Doesnât keep anything to himself.â
Robby exhales through his nose. âNot at all. Iâve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.â
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.
âWas it a yes?â
âTo the crush?â You consider it. âYeah.â
That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.
âBefore Jack,â you add, like it matters in a technical sense. âOlder, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable⌠I think I might just have a pattern.â
Robby hums, low. âTracks.â
Thereâs a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, âAnd now?â
You donât look away when you answer. âNow, itâs just⌠different.â
That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.
You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.
âIâll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.â
And then youâre goneâalready walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.
A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.
Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like sheâs been waiting for exactly this moment.
âWhatâs with that?â she asks.
â...Whatâs with what?â he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.
âI mean,â she says slowly, âwhatâs with flirtinâ with Abbottâs girl in front of everybody?â
He doesnât look at her when he answers.
âThatâs not flirting,â he says evenly. âWe were just talking.â
Dana hums, unconvinced. âTalkinâ real close.â
âYeah,â she says, nodding toward the bay. âJust rolled in. Need you over there.â
âAlright,â he says.
And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.
â â â
ââHey. Hold on a second,â Jack says, breath a little uneven.
âNo, donâtâdonât hold on,â you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waistâfirm, grounding, stopping you.
âHey. Easy.â A breath. âJustâgimme a second, alright?â
You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit. âThis better be good.â
He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. âYeah, Iâll try not to waste your time.â
A beat. He looks at you properly nowâfocused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.
âJust⌠wanna get this straight,â he says.
Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. âOkay. Then say it.â
He nods once. âHe can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.â A pause. âBut there are lines.â
You tilt your head, watching him. âSuch as?â
His grip tightens just a fractionânot enough to bruise, enough to mean something. âSuch asâyou donât forget who youâre with.â
You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. âHard to forget when youâve got your dick in me half the time Iâm not at work.â
âSmartass,â he mutters. Then, quieterââIâm serious. He doesnât get to know how you taste. Thatâs mine.â
âUh-huhâŚâ You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. âSo this is allowed?â You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.
âYeah, allowed,â Jack nods, his jaw tight.
âMm. This?â You lean down and kiss himâsweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.
He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.
âYeah? What about this?â You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.
âAll allowed,â he grates out, âbut his mouth isnât getting near this, alright, thatâs allââ He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of youâloud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.
âYeah? That good with you?â he asks, voice rough.
You nod, already starting to ride himâslow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. âWhat about you and âim?â you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.
Jack shrugsâor tries to. âWhat donât you want?â
âNo blowjobs either, then,â you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. ââS for me.â
âSounds good to me.â His hands find your hips again, but he doesnât guideâhe just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.
You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.
âRight here,â he murmurs.
You meet his gaze. That same lookâsteady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.
âGood,â he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.
And when you move again, itâs slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him againâdirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.
âYeah,â he breathes against your lips. âThatâs better.â
â â âââ
Itâs late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.
âNo, canât,â Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. âIâm home. Sheâs cooking. Smells like Iâm about to get fat and happy.â
âBaby, can you come try this?â you call from the kitchen.
âOne sec,â he says, then quieter, back into the phoneââWhatâd you wanna do?â
âNothing,â Robby mutters. âI⌠I donât know, man. I donât feel like crashing Santos and Whitakerâs⌠house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.â
Jack stops mid-step. âA hike,â he repeats. âAt nine-thirty at night.â
A beat.
âYeah, not happening,â he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.
Youâre at the counter in that barely-there nightgownâsoft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.
Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.
Thenâbusiness as usual.
âAlright,â he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. âWhat am I trying?â
You nod at the stove. âCarbonara.â
He leans over, tastes it, humsâlow, approving.
âYeah,â he says into the phone. âSheâs showing off.â
You bump his arm lightly. âI am not.â
âYou are,â he says, kissing you quick, easy, like heâs done it a thousand times. âItâs working.â
You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.
On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.
âHikeâs dumb,â Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. âWhatâs actually going on.â
âNothing,â Robby says. âJust⌠canât sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldnât shut the fuck upââ
ââHey,â Jack cuts in, calm, steady. âTake a breath.â
You glance over at him. Heâs not looking at you anymoreâfocused now, locked into that mode.
âYouâre good,â he says. âYouâre not thinking anything dumb, right?â
A pause.
ââŚNo,â Robby says. âJust need to⌠get out of my head, I donât know.â
Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.
âHe can come here,â you say, like itâs obvious.
Jack looks at youâquick, assessingâbut thereâs no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.
âYeah,â he says into the phone. âCome over. Foodâs ready soon.â
âI donât know, manââ Robby starts.
You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jackâs hand.
âHey, Michael.â
Thereâs a beat.
Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.
ââŚHey,â Robby says, slower. âHeard you were cooking.â
âMhm,â you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jackâs where he stands beside you. âPlenty to go around.â
Jackâs hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessiveâjust there.
Robby hears the shift anyway.
âThis a setup?â he asks.
You smile slightly. âYou always this suspicious, or just with me?â
A quiet scoff from him.
âYou should come,â you add, softerâbut not innocent. âYou sound like you need it.â
A beat. Jackâs thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.
Robby exhales. âYeah. Guess I can make it.â
âGuess you can,â you say easily.
Silence againâbut itâs different now.
You glance at Jack.
He nods once.
âDoorâs unlocked,â you say. âTwenty minutes.â
You hand the phone back.
Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. âYou heard her. No pressure.â
A pause.
ââŚAlright,â Robby says.
The line clicks dead.
Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.
âWhat?â You raise a brow.
âNothing. Nothing at all. Iâll finish the laundry.â He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. âYou gonna stay in this?â He asks.
ââS that alright?â You wonder, leaning into his touch.
He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. âSure.â
â â â
Youâre out on the balcony when it comes up.
Jackâs place sits high enough that the city feels almost stagedâPittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. Itâs one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. Thereâs music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you canât see but can feel in the background.
The balconyâs not smallâwide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, itâd be on something worth standing still for.
Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.
âHave either of you done this before?â Robby asks.
Jack shakes his head immediately. âNo.â
You donât answer.
Youâre thinkingâactually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jackâs arm like you need him to hold on a second. Thatâs when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadnât come up when the idea itself had.
ââŚHave you?â Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.
âI am thinking,â you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.
Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.
âWhat do you mean youâre thinking?â Jack presses. âThatâs not⌠I donât know, something you half do or something. Youâd know.â
âOr something,â Robby mutters under his breath.
You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. âOkayâno. I donât think Iâve had a threesome.â
âHow can you not think youâve had a threesome?â Jack wonders.
You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You donât notice how both menâs gaze drop there.
You exhale, already regretting engaging. âBecauseâtechnicallyâno one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?â
Thereâs a beat.
Robbyâs mouth twitches.
Jack blinks. â...Right.â
âOkay?â you continue, defensive now. âIt wasâhands. Thatâs it. Group situation, but not⌠full commitment.â
Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âGroup situation,â he repeats.
âShut up,â you mutter.
âAnother guy or girl?â Jack asks, too quickly.
You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. ââŚBoth.â
Jack leans back like youâve just told him something deeply inconvenient. â...Huh.â
Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. âSo not a threesome. Just⌠poor project management.â
You laugh despite yourself. âOh my god.â
âThatâs a foursome that lost direction,â he adds, dry.
âWhatever,â you shrug. âMed school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.â
Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. âIâm just saying, thatâs a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.â
You smirk faintly. âIâm surprised you havenât.â
Jack scoffs. âIâve had opportunities.â
âMm,â you hum, unconvinced.
Robby glances at him sideways. âThat sounds like a lie.â
âItâs not a lie,â Jack says, defensive now. âI justânever felt the need.â
âRight,â Robby says. âTill now.â
Jack gives him a look. âTill now.â
Something passes thereâquick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.
After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.
Inside, you hear Jack movingâplates, running water. Robbyâs voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.
âThanks, baby,â you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.
You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.
âThank you,â he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.
You push him away lightly. âDonât start.â
Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.
âNext to the fridge?â he asks, like he hasnât been here a hundred times alreadyâlike tonight isnât slightly different.
âYeah,â you nod. âRecycling. Thank you.â
He gives a short nod and turnsâ You catch his wrist. Itâs not forceful. Just enough.
âHey,â you say, softer.
He looks down at you.
Thereâs a pauseâhis eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. Youâre close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.
You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightlyâ and kiss him. Itâs not rushed. Itâs far from tentative either. Close. Testing.
His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a secondâthen responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasnât decided where itâs allowed to land.Â
Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. Thatâs what does it.
âStarting without me?â Jackâs voice cuts in, dry. âBit mean.â
Robby pulls back instinctively, like heâs been caught doing something he shouldnâtâeven thoughâ
Even though.
You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.
âNext to the fridge,â Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.
Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.
Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesnât move out of the way.
He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.
You end up on the couch.
It happens naturallyâplates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.
Jackâs in the middle, halfway through some story from workâone of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he canât quite let go of.
Youâre tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neckâfingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.
Robbyâs behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thighâslow, absent movement, like heâs not even fully aware heâs doing it.
Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.
Jack keeps talking.
You lean in without really thinking about itâyour lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.
Jackâs hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.
Robbyâs hand doesnât stop. If anything, it shiftsâjust slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.
Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your backâthen relaxes again.
He doesnât pull you away. Doesnât say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.
And for a secondâjust a secondâyouâre aware of both of them at once.
Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavierâwatching more than speaking.
Jackâs gaze lifts. Meets Robbyâs. Thereâs a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between themâwordless, measured. Something you canât read.
Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robbyâs jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.
Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this timeâslow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.
When you pull back, itâs not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.
Robbyâs already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like itâs nothingâlike itâs always been this simpleâand kiss him too.
Different. Not softer, not harderâjust new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like heâs grounding himself in it.
Thereâs a quiet breath from himâalmost a huff, almost disbelief.
âThis is fun,â You murmur.
You donât give him time to overthink it.
You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.
Jackâs mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.
Robby hesitates for a fraction of a secondâ then doesnât.
The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like heâs learning something heâs not used to having.
You exhale, a soft sound you donât quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctivelyâone finding Jackâs hair, the other Robbyâs, fingers threading through both, holding them there.
For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.
Then you shift, just slightlyâhands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robbyâs hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.
Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like heâs checking inâlike he always does.
His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.
You lean back into him, lips finding his neck againâdragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.
When you pull back, itâs only barely. Your breath catchesânot dramatic, just⌠aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.
Jackâs hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.
âBaby,â he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. âFeeling needy?â
You nod against him, answering with your mouth insteadâkissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.
âYeah,â he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. âI know, hon.â A beat. Then, quieterââYou want me, or him?â
You hesitate. Not longâbut long enough to matter.
Robbyâs hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightlyâtesting, not taking. Waiting to see what youâll do with it.
âItâs alright,â Jack starts, voice still calm, like heâs talking you through something he already trusts. âGo ahead. She likes it when youââ
ââIâll ask you for help if I need it, alright?â Robby cuts in, low and even.
They exchange a lookâbrief, sharp, understood.
You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jackâs cheekâsomething sweet, groundingâbefore shifting your weight and climbing into Robbyâs lap.
He stiffens for a second. Just a second.
Robbyâs always been hard to read. Timeâs etched itself into his face, but thereâs still that wall thereâsomething held back, something controlled. Maybe itâs nerves. Maybe itâs you. His best friendâs girl, sitting on him like thisâclose, warm, curious.
âYou okay there, Sasquatch?â you tease, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicksâdown, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.
âSasquatch? Really?â he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. âThatâs what youâre going with?â
âBeard, tall⌠same thing, no?â you shrug lightly.
That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.
âShe always cracking jokes before getting fucked?â Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties
âDepends,â Jack admits. âOne time I got G.I Joe for an hour.â
âHe was in uniform, in my defense,â You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robbyâs fingers, eager. âCome on, Michael.âÂ
Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him.Â
âWhat a cute noise you make, sweetheart,â Robby murmurs. âAsk me nicely now.â
You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.
âAsk or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,â Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.
âPlease,â you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. âPlease fuck me with your fingers.â
You crash your lips to hisâharsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussyâno mercy, no prep.
You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digitsâwalls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.
âMove your fingers toward her ventral,â Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.
Robby exhales sharp through his noseâmild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.
âChrist, youâre making a mess on me, arenât you, kid? Huh?â Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sightâyour swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic.Â
He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrustâwet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.
He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot.Â
âYou getting close?â He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. âThat right?â
Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.
âWhat else she like?â Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.
Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.
Robby yanks his fingers free abruptâyour pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively.Â
His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deepâtongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.
âAtta girl, youâre a fuckinâ mess now arenât you?â Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. âYou wanna cum?â
You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.
âNot yet,â Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. âBarely seen what you can do.â
You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.
âGo over to him. Make him feel good,â Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.
You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.
âOn the floor, knees, now,â Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.
You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.
âYou alright there?â he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.
You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining thereâheat pulsing under your touch.Â
You tug the waistband down, freeing his cockâthick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.
Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead firstâtongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.
âLook pretty down there,â Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.
âYouâre so soft with her,â Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.
Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steadyâsaliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.
Robby's gaze burns hotâflicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalpânot shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.
âGood job, sweetheart,â Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm.Â
Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.
He groans low, head lolling back, âFucking⌠perfect. So perfect, always.â
Tension crackles thicker between themâJack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.
âYou alright there, man?â Jack scoffs, a light smile. âCanât handle it?â
Itâs a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.
Jack knows exactly what heâs doingâknows the tells. The slight tilt of Robbyâs head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. Heâs seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.
Robby doesnât back down from anything. Least of all him.
Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jackâsâsteady, unflinching.
âOh, I can handle it just fine,â Robby agrees with his own smile. âGo âhead.â
Jack groans at your relentless mouthâfast and wet, then slowing perfect against himâhis hand stroking over Robbyâs clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby'sâsloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.
You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fistâpumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.
âOh fuck,â Jack moans into Robbyâs mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.
Your free hand joins Jackâs on Robbyâs cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jackâyour hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure.Â
Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jackâs cock.
Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. âFuck, feel that grip? Sheâs got hands made for this,â he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.
Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. âLet him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.â
You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes overâfist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheekâwet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.
âDreamt about this once,â he admits, voice low. âThe way Jack described it, youâd think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?â He wonders.
You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.
âSeemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,â You remark, not looking away from Robbyâs gaze.
His jaw tightens. âHeâs pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.â
You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutalâhalf his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw.Â
You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robbyâs thigh.
âShitâyeah, like that,â Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the paceâpulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in.Â
He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.
You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robbyâs cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robbyâs hand tightens harder in your scalp.
Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. âEnjoying yourself?â
âFuck off,â Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.
Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.
âIâm good,â Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. âSlow down, sweetheart.â
Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroatâthroat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.
Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: âFucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?â He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheekâleft, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skinâbefore you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.
âShe can take it,â Jack murmurs, voice thick. âCan you, baby? Come on, speak now.â
You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. âMhm.â You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.
âSo damn sweet now,â Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. âThat feel good?â
You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberateâthumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.
âNo more of that, alright?â Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. âYeah? You listening?â
You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. âFuck youâyou wanna cum, I get to cum too.â
Robby tilts his head, that piercing lookâthe one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. âNot how it works,â Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.
You glance at Jack, pleading.
âDonât look at him,â Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. âPut both hands behind your back if youâre gonna act like a fuckinâ brat.â
Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lipsâslow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.
Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob franticâsuction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist.Â
You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.
âJesus Christâyeah, there we goâŚâ Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight.Â
He floods your mouth suddenlyâhot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.
âFuck,â he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.
You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.
You smile at that. âGo on,â Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. âJack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?â
Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.
âAtta boy,â You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. âYou think you can still fuck me, old man?â You whisper.
âWatch it,â Robby murmurs.
âYou can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.â You whisper. âJack,â you grab Jackâs hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.
âUp and at it,â Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.
âFucking hell,â Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.
You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.
In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined pantiesâcrotch soaked darkâand a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.
Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yoursâpassionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.
Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.
Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neckâsucking a mark deliberate.
âBaby, lie down for me,â Jack instructs.
You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robbyâs lips trail over his skin.
âEnjoying yourself?â Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. âYou gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?â
âFuck off,â Jack murmurs. âGo sit in a corner and wait, or somethinâ,â Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.
âThink I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,â Robby says. âUnless youâre not as skilled as youâve been bragging to be.â
âOh, my god, one of you make me cum or else Iâm doing it myself, Jesus,â you whine.
âOh, baby,â Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. âIâm leaving you waiting here.â
âSheâs being a brat. Have some patience, honey,â Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. âBut sheâs right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.â
Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh.Â
Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show.Â
"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck,"Â
Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.
Jackâs tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise.Â
Your eyes stay fixed on Robbyâs as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.
âWider,â Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. âStop squirming. Take it.â
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissectionâcalm, analytical, utterly in control. âHow close are you?â he asks, his tone clinical.
âMm, close,â you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jackâs tongue flicks hard over your clit.
âYou make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,â Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. âCallinâ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.â He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.
Jackâs tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes donât leave Robbyâs as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.
âWant me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?â Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips.Â
He doesnât miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like heâs holding you together.
Youâre too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.
âAnswer me,â Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. âWho do you want first?â
âYou,â you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.
Robbyâs smirk widens. âYou hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.â He doesnât look away from you as he says it.
He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robbyâs fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.
âI was right,â you murmur, breathless. âKnew youâd be mean.â
âYeah? You like it?â Robby wonders, though he already knows.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer.
He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure commandâdark, expectant. Obey.
âI like it,â you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jackâs hair. âFuckâIâm gonnaâoh fuckââ
âYeah?â Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. âEyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep âem right here.â His gaze holds yours captive. âGood girl⌠good girl, arenât you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isnât that right?â
You whimper as Jackâs tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.
âGood job, baby. Fucking hell,â Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise.Â
He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robbyâs on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.
âMy favourite girl in the world, you know that,â he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.
You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robbyâs mouth.
âYou arenât a brat, are you baby?â Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. âNo, honey, not for me, isnât that right? Yeah, I know, I know⌠my sweet girl,â He replaces Robbyâs mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss.Â
âTold you. Lover boy,â Robby remarks to you.
You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robbyâs lips.
You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. Itâs harsh and sweet all at onceâa clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest.Â
Robby stands, briefly cupping Jackâs jaw in a gesture thatâs both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robbyâs hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.
He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.
âAss up, sweetheart,â Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.
You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a wordâa seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.
"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.
Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.
Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.
âShit,â Robby mutters. âFuckinâ hell, you know much Jackâs raved about this pussy? Callinâ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.â
His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythmâpounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. âPerfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?â
You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him.Â
âHow the fuck do you leave home, Jackâ Jesus Christ,â Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.
âLife or death, and thatâs it,â Jack says.Â
âCome on, give him some love, kid,â Robby tells.
Jackâs cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. âFuck, just like that,â he rasps.
Youâre split between themâRobby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jackâs length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robbyâs hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet.Â
âYou like being used like this baby?â Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him.Â
You donât answer, focused on the sensation of Robbyâs cock harsh within you.
âHe asked you a question,â Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.
âUh-huh,â you nod.Â
âSee? Not so hard,â Robby groans.
Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jackâs cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.
"Just like that⌠Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."
The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."
You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.
"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you.Â
Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.
"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder.Â
Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fuckingâhell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"
His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke.Â
"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent.Â
You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.
"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."
âGo ahead, cum,â Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electricâeach thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. âNow.â
You moan around Jackâs cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robbyâs thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.
He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you.Â
âGoddamnit,â Robby murmurs, a pant.Â
Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jackâs cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.
âYour turn,â Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.
But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until youâre straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jackâs chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robbyâs cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jackâs length.
Jackâs hands come to your hips, steadying you. âEasy, sweetheart,â he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.
From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. Heâs kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jackâs fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.
You open for him, tasting Robbyâs salty tang on Jackâs skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jackâs eyes never leave Robbyâs as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.
Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
âAtta girl,â Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.
Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. Youâre so sensitive itâs almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.
You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jackâs thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
âThatâs it,â Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your bodyâgripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.
You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.
âEyes open, sweetheart.â
Robbyâs command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. Heâs moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where youâre joined with Jack. Heâs watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.
âLook at you,â Robby murmurs, his voice thick. âTakinâ him so well."
His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.
âBaby, Iâm gonna cum,â Your moan, soft.
âFucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum fâme,â he moans.Â
Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.
Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. âFuckingâjust like thatââ
As youâre pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jackâs mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. Itâs raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.
Robby breaks the kiss. âLift up for a second, kid,â he breathes against your skin.
Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jackâs slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robbyâs hand replaces you, wrapping around Jackâs shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.
âMissed the taste of you,â Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friendâs face as he works him.
Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jackâs cock until youâre fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.
âGo ahead, finish,â Robby growls, his command for both of you.
You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. Heâs closeâyou can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.
âCome on, Jack,â Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. âFill her up. Give her what she needs.â
That does it. With a shattered cry, Jackâs hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robbyâs already there, flooding you.
Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarboneâchecking, not asking out loud but asking anyway.Â
Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.
âYou alright?â he murmurs, voice rough, softer than itâs been all night.
âMhm,â You nod, catching your breath.
âThere she is,â Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.
Robby doesnât move right away.
Heâs sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier nowâbut thereâs something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least⌠dialed down.
You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, thereâs that flickerâuncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just⌠recalibration.
Then you lean in and kiss him. Itâs different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.
Robbyâs hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demandingâjust holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didnât realize heâd been holding onto something.
When you pull back, you stay close.
âHey,â you say, softer.
âHey,â he echoes.
Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when heâs settling you.
Jack kisses gently at your bare back, âBe right back,â he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic.Â
You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.
You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jackâs shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.
âJesus,â you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. âI think my legs might actually fall off.â
That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.
Heâs sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks⌠different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.
âYeah,â he mutters. âThink youâll live.â
You glance over at him, managing a small smile.
Heâs already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low lightâthe Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. Thereâs something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.
Thereâs a beat.
Then, softerâ
ââŚYou good?â You ask.
He turns your head toward you. âYeah.â He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admitâ âNeeded that. Needed to be⌠not alone, I think.â
You watch him for a secondâsomething thoughtful in your expression.
âThat something youâd wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?â You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. â
Robby doesnât answer straight away. He looks at youâreally looks, like heâs trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.
Your hairâs a mess, Jackâs shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just⌠asking.
His jaw shifts slightly.
ââŚYou always this direct after something like that?â he mutters.
You huff a quiet laugh. âIâm an ortho resident. I donât have time for interpretive dance.â
That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like heâs trying to settle something under the surface.
âItâs notââ he starts, then stops. Tries again. âItâs not really a âone and doneâ kind of question.â
You tilt your head slightly. âWhy not?â
He glances at the doorâwhere Jack disappearedâthen back at you.
Because Jackâs not just some guy. Because this isnât just sex. Because thereâs history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.
You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. âDo you have⌠like, real feelings for him? Or me?â
Robby scoffs a chuckle. âI donât have time to think about that.â
âJust time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure heâll give me a complaint about that later.â You murmur.
Robby smiles a bit. âYou two are⌠perfect for each other. I still donât get how he found you.â
âI donât know either, to be honest,â You admit. âBut he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And itâs not just because your dick is great, promise. Youâre always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We arenât picky people.â
âPicked up on that,â Robby nods, quieter now. âWhat are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.â
You smile a littleâmore to yourself than anythingâyour hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.
âNo idea,â you admit. âHowever long he wants me around, I guess.â
Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. âWell, if ageâs anything to go by, youâve got a good couple of years.â
You smack his arm lightly. âYouâre literally older than him.â
âIâm not marrying you,â Robby shoots back, deadpan.
âYouâre an ass,â you sigh.
That earns you a small smile.
The door opens.
Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweepâquick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.
âMy legâs killing me,â Jack mutters, like itâs an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. âYou okay?â
âIâm fine,â he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like painâs just background noise. He hands you the glass. âDrink.â
You take it, still watching him. âYou say that about everything.â
âBecause everythingâs fine.â
Robby snorts under his breath. âYeah. Thatâs a healthy coping mechanism.â
Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. âOh, Iâm sorryâdid you want to compare notes?â
Robby raises his brows. âNot particularly.â
Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automaticallyâabsent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.
His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.
âWhatâd I miss?â he asks.
You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. âMarriage.â
Jack huffs. âOne night with my girl and youâre already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.â
Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.
âWith you, idiot,â you correct.
Jack glances down at you. âOh, him and I are getting married now?â
You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby insteadâcurling lightly into his side.
It lasts all of two seconds.
Jackâs arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.
âRelax,â he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.
Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.
Robby stays the night.
Not in the same wayâthereâs a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.
Heâs not intrusive. Never has been.
But he doesnât leave, either.
if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D
a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.
anyway thank u guys all for the support on my (wo)man on willpower, so proud of that fic and so sweet the reblogs and comments! i wish u could see my grin every time! and yall hammered me for this so i hope its up to standard, meets an expectation or two. i had a lot of fun just exploring the dynamic, you x robby, robby x jack, jack x you, like i am a true believer in true love triangles, so hopefully that came across, but admittedly, still keeping jack and reader endgame obvi, so.. also sorry if it aint gay enough, i told yall i do not read mlm stuff, just not for me. i love it! just dont like, actively read it yk! i also just wanted to have fun with the prose, emotional stuff, etc, and idk. hopefully the smut isnt terrible, that shit is hard as hell! like, positions, dirty talk?! dirty talk is hardddd guys!! then like the build to it, ugh. i wish i had a smut class at my uni or something so i could really get into the weeds of it, and spend time endlessly editing it. i really couldve spent another few days editing this but honestly wanted it OUT and DONE !! need to lock in got exams soon team. okay sorry for this long as hell authors note ! lmfaoo. hope yall liked!
