a pathological people pleaser

ana | 20s she/her

[greatestlittlegiant]

always thinking of that “i couldn’t stop wasting time” quote

[greatestlittlegiant]

song of the summer!!

[supermenz]

if you're done with your ex, move on to the next!

summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.

pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader

word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)

warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)

author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!

dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3

You’ve known Clark Kent all your life. 

That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together. 

He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay. 

You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his. 

“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”

He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”

By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant. 

Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty. 

Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket. 

When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.” 

You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers. 

You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy. 

Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either. 

That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison. 

Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?” 

Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun. 

“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”

You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane. 

“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?” 

You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.” 

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year. 

You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence. 

And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes. 

He notices you staring  — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him. 

Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”

You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,” 

The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable. 

His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?” 

His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”

You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.

You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.” 

The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one. 

Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. 

Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment. 

It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone. 

The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.

You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him. 

Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham? 

Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check. 

You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him. 

And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U. 

Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that… 

You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling. 

Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.” 

You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?” 

He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?” 

A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.” 

You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be. 

“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.” 

Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit. 

That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly. 

You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–” 

She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly. 

Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–

Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”

Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!” 

You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?” 

“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?” 

Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.” 

“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?” 

“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.” 

Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.

You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case). 

Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence. 

It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going. 

Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you. 

She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members. 

“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”

You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.” 

For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other. 

Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is. 

“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”

“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.” 

“Well, what about them?”

His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”

You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”

“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.” 

You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”

His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”

You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”

“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite. 

You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.” 

Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something. 

Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes. 

Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”

“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are. 

You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?” 

“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?” 

Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?” 

“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line. 

“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?” 

Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”

It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come. 

“I think we should break up.” 

The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him. 

The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?” 

He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”

“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?” 

He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,” 

“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”

He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.” 

You blink. “You never told me that.” 

“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.” 

His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.” 

You blink. “What?” 

He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.” 

“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying. 

His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.” 

You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably. 

You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.) 

Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together. 

Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat. 

Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen. 

Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all. 

“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”

Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.” 

“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before. 

Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”

As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.” 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”

She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”

You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”

“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!” 

“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.

There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?” 

“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…” 

“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”

She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”

You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”

“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!” 

“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.” 

You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about– 

“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”

You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole. 

Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?” 

“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.” 

Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours. 

“You signed me up for another thing?”

“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”

“What campaign–”

“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–” 

You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.” 

Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested. 

The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”

You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?” 

He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?” 

The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”

You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?” 

It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.” 

You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?” 

He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.” 

You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.

The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges. 

Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–

“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.” 

Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”

“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”

That wakes you up instantly. “They what?” 

Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.

“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief. 

Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–” 

“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”

“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”

“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”

“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."

You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.” 

They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no? 

And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too. 

Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”

You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.” 

The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good. 

Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,” 

She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well. 

“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.” 

She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,” 

You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”

Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served. 

“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”

“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”

“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.” 

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.” 

“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?” 

“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”

He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”

You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t. 

“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.” 

You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.” 

You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected. 

You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.

Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,” 

You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.” 

The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”

You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”

Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?” 

You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.” 

“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”

You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.” 

It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you. 

The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents. 

You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.

It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”

That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark. 

You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble. 

You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope. 

You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?” 

In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly. 

You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?” 

“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.” 

“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead. 

“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.” 

He nods,  “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”

You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.” 

He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?” 

You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.” 

“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”

You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”

Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.” 

You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.” 

Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”

Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.” 

Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be. 

He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.

Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life. 

“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.

Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.” 

His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.” 

“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t. 

He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?” 

You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”

You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”

“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”

You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.” 

“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.” 

You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time. 

It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.” 

You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?” 

He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”

“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?” 

He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush. 

“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again. 

“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?” 

No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?” 

He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.” 

And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu. 

You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries. 

“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.” 

Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him. 

Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand. 

It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce. 

You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening. 

It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–

There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next. 

She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger. 

You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure. 

“Can I call anyone?” 

You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”

He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.” 

You blink. “Is Kelly okay?” 

Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time. 

You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later. 

“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?” 

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need. 

Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,” 

He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make. 

“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.” 

You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.” 

“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.” 

You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”

“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.” 

You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?” 

“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you. 

“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?” 

“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone. 

“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…” 

Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city. 

He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.” 

He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”

“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”

You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”

He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.” 

You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face. 

“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”

You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”

He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”

You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”

Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?” 

You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.” 

You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out. 

The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought. 

You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them. 

You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”

“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”

Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”

“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.” 

You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still. 

He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?” 

“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”

“It was him?” 

“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak. 

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.” 

You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.” 

He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.” 

“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?” 

You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.” 

The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV. 

“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”

His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce. 

Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does. 

You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food. 

You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”

He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?” 

You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.” 

He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”

He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.” 

After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons. 

“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.” 

“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.” 

Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.” 

What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.

Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive? 

(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)

There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left. 

You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now. 

The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims. 

Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up. 

The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas. 

You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing. 

You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen. 

“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?” 

“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”

Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.” 

He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.” 

You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.” 

He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.” 

“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?” 

You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”

Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”

“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–” “Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”

Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.” 

You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”

Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.” 

You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.” 

You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out. 

You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!” 

A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.” 

You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”

Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.” 

Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.” 

He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”

He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?” 

And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet. 

“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.” 

“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.” 

You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”

He blinks. “A Bat… what?”

“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.” 

You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”

He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.” 

You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?” 

You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now. 

You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”

His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”

You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”

He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”

“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”

He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows  — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?” 

You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?” 

Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.” 

You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.” 

You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts. 

He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.” 

“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”

You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?” 

He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.” 

“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is. 

You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around. 

The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?” 

He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”

You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying. 

He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”

Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window. 

He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”

Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”

“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”

Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–” 

Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either. 

You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”

Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?” 

He relents, “Well, if you say so,” 

That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure. 

You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well. 

Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.

It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again. 

You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck. 

You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?” 

You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”

He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”

Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?” 

“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”

Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be. 

You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”

You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.

The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman. 

He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad. 

You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged. 

You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it. 

Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand. 

You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.” 

You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.” 

As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events. 

Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike. 

“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”  

“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”

Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.” 

“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.” 

“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows. 

You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”

“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet. 

Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,” 

The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”

“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”

You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,” 

It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”

“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."

Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.” 

Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear. 

“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.” 

It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”

You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”

He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.” 

You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”

He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”

“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.” 

He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”

“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”

“Yet,” Bruce grumbles. 

You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing. 

You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?” 

I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.

He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”

if you've managed to read all the way down here, congratulations! have some memes:

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[thirddeadlysin]

the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work

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[sweeterthan13]

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[abbotly]

please

Jack Abbot x senior resident!reader

Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.

Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong

Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!

—

It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.

Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.

It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.

What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.

“Dr. Abbot?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”

“Will it be a while before handoff?”

Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”

“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”

“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”

Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”

Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.

“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”

“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”

Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.

“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”

Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”

You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.

He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.

“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”

Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.

Then he scoffs.

“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.

“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”

“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”

Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”

“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”

“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”

Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”

“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”

Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”

—

A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.

You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.

The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.

“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.

“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.

“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.

“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.

“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”

“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.

“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.

He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.

“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”

Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”

Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.

You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.

“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.

“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.

“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”

Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.

“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”

“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”

“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.

You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.

“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.

“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.

“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”

You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”

“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.

But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.

“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.

A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.

Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.

Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.

“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”

“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”

A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.

“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”

“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.

“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.

“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”

“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”

The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.

“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”

“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”

June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”

“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”

Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.

“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.

“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”

But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.

Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.

“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”

“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”

“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”

“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.

“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.

“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”

“S’there a problem here?”

Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.

Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”

Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”

“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”

That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.

“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.

“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”

But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”

“I didn’t consent to that.”

“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”

Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.

Jack nods at you.

“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”

“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”

You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”

—

After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.

Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.

Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.

Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.

“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”

When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.

“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”

“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”

He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”

“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”

But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”

You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.

You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.

Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.

Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.

That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.

That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.

That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.

That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.

And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.

And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.

“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”

“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”

—

Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.

“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.

He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”

“Penny?”

“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”

“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”

Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”

You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.

“You handled that really well earlier.”

Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.

“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”

“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”

Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.

It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.

“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”

“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”

“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”

You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.

But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”

He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.

But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”

“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.

“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”

“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.

You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.

“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.

But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.

“Oh, that was painful to watch.”

Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.

Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.

“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”

—

The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.

“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”

“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.

Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”

Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.

“Jack,” Robby says.

“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?

“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.

Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.

Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.

Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”

Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.

“We don’t have any of those here.”

“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”

Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?

Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.

Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.

Not Pittsburgh at all.

“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.

“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”

Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.

But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.

His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.

Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”

“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.

The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.

“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”

Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.

“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”

Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.

“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”

“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”

Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.

Jack breathes.

“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”

Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.

He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.

“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.

“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.

When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.

He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.

“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”

—

“You’ll definitely get in.”

“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.

You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.

“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”

You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”

“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.

“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”

“So not peds, then?” he presses.

“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”

“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.

“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”

“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.

“I learned that from you.”

“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.

You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.

“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”

You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”

“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.

There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.

You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.

“I would miss this place, too,” you say.

“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.

You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.

“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”

He winks.

“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”

You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”

Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.

“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”

You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.

You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.

“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”

The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.

His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.

“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”

Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”

“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.

“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.

Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”

“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”

You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.

It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.

“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”

If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”

Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.

—

Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.

He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.

“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.

Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.

“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”

Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”

Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.

“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”

“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”

“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”

Jack’s stomach sinks.

You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”

Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”

“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.

“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.

“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”

Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.

He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.

Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.

Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.

But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.

So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.

Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.

—

Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.

“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.

“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.

“Mhm.”

“Did it help?” you ask.

He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”

“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”

Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.

“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.

The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.

“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.

“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.

“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.

But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have eyes.”

His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”

You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”

“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.

“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”

He nods seriously. “Got it.”

“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”

You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”

Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.

You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.

“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”

“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”

“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”

Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”

“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”

But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.

“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”

“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”

“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”

“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.

—

You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.

It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.

When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”

You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”

“Dr. Abbot—”

“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”

You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”

“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”

“But I—”

“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”

It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.

“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”

He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.

“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”

He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”

“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.

“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”

“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.

You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.

“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”

You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.

“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”

Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.

But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.

“Y/n,” he says slowly.

“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”

“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”

“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”

“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”

“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”

He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.

“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”

His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.

“Please,” you say anyway.

Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.

And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.

“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”

“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”

—

“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”

Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.

“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.

He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”

“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.

“Talk me through it,” he says.

You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.

“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.

“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.

He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.

“What is that?”

“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“What? You said—”

“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”

He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”

“Go.”

You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”

“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”

“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”

“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.

“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.

Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”

You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”

A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.

“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”

“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”

Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”

He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”

“You mean me?”

You nod.

“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”

“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.

“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.

“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.

He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.

“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.

“No?”

You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.

“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”

—

A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.

The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.

And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.

The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.

You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.

You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.

Both in Pittsburgh.

But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.

“Is that something I need to know about?”

Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.

Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.

“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.

He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.

He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.

You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.

Because it’s still coming home to him.

“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”

[sweeterthan13]

“You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby. Because it’s still coming home to him.” FUCK YEAH

[moonstruckme]

hi mae! wondering if you feel like writing anything for fireman!james? i've been thinking about him lately......maybe something where reader has a fire at her apartment, some angst and comfort if you feel like it. thanks for considering, hope you're having a great day/night!

Thanks for requesting angel! Hope you're having a great day/night as well <3

cw: animal in distress

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

firefighter!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

By the time James’ team finishes the primary search, there are fourteen residents on the street in front of the block of flats. All were out by the time James got here with the second truck, so his search went quickly, locating the original source of the fire—a dishcloth thrown on a hob that hadn’t cooled when the flat’s tenant went out, which then spread to the entire building. He tears off his mask and looks around for where he might be needed. 

Most of the victims are already getting treatment, sitting on the sidewalk across from the blaze under a twilight sky, having pulse oximeters clipped to their fingers and being given oxygen in a few cases. It’s mostly calm, but—there. James catches sight of Frank trying to corral a victim who’s seemingly refusing treatment, and he beelines in that direction. 

James’ timing couldn’t be better. He approaches just as you break away from Frank, and you’re—god, you must have been one of the last out, you’re staggering, dizzy from smoke inhalation. You stagger right into James’ arms. 

“You’re okay,” he placates you swiftly, catching you around your waist. “You’re alright.” 

You make a choked sound and try to get free. 

James’ can’t let you go. You’re trying to run towards the fire, which is, you know, a bad plan. He tries to convey this as Frank approaches with oxygen for you. “We’re getting things under control. Okay? The best thing you can do is—” 

You shake your head, keeping Frank from putting a mask on you. Tears stream from your eyes, either from fright or irritation from the smoke. Probably both, actually. “I have to—” Your voice is a hoarse wreckage. “I need—” 

“What, lovely?” asks James while Frank continues trying to place the mask on your face. James could probably hold you still, weak as you are, but he’d rather not have to. 

“My cat—” Your voice breaks on a cough, your breath wheezing as you fight to get something out.

James’ own breathing falters. “Your cat? It’s inside?” 

You nod, coughing. 

“Which unit?” 

You point, and that’s enough. James gives you over to Frank, hardly taking a second to hope that his friend has you in a secure grip before jogging back across the street. He puts his mask on as he goes, shoving his hands into his gloves.

The fire is noisy. The team is working to put it out at the source, but in this part of the building it’s still finding new kindling, roaring its eagerness as it licks at the ceilings. The flat you pointed to is thick with smoke. James moves from room to room, checking under furniture, inside of closets, around corners. He has the half-desperate urge to tsk for your cat, though that won’t likely work, and clad in gear as he is it would probably seem vaguely haunting. 

He goes through the flat more than once. As he’s standing from peering underneath your bed for the third time (which seems the most likely hiding place to him) James notices a lump under the covers. He thinks he can be excused for perhaps not being the most gentle in his haste to unveil the hiding place. Your cat disagrees. 

James is glad for the thick material of his suit and gloves as the thing comes out shrieking and scratching. He’s impressed by its determination to tear into him despite how exhausted the poor thing must be—proven a moment later when it manages to find the space inside James’ sleeve where his wrist is exposed. Oh well, no rose without its thorns and all that. 

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” he mumbles, bundling the creature close to his chest as he leaves the room. 

In the stairwell, the smoke is less thick, a sign that they’re getting the blaze under control on at least the ground floor. James passes a few members of his unit on his way out of the building (answering more than one exclamation of “Where was that hiding?” with a shrug) and goes outside to look for you. 

He doesn’t have to look for long. Frank seems to have finally managed to cajole you into sitting down and putting on an oxygen mask, but at James’ emergence you make a broken shout and tear free all over again, sprinting across the street. This time, Frank is too caught offguard to stop you. 

James is glad he doesn’t. You barrel right into James, take his cargo into your arms (James has a momentary panic that you’re about to get torn to ribbons, but apparently your cat only has it out for him), and crumple, sobbing, to the pavement. 

James’ heart throbs painfully as you press wet little kisses into smoky fur, a string of raspy endearments tumbling from between your lips. Your cat must be feeling similarly, because James has never seen an animal fresh out of a trauma situation submit to loving so complaisantly. 

“It’s okay.” James crouches beside you. He puts a hand to your back as Frank crosses the street to you, looking a mix of exasperated and relieved, with his equipment. “It’s a good sign that it’s still conscious, but you both need oxygen after inhaling all that smoke. Let us help, okay?” 

You’re much more cooperative now than you were earlier. You let James hold an oxygen mask to your face while Frank prepares a smaller one for your cat, another sob escaping you when he affixes it to the creature’s tiny snout. The cat doesn’t offer much more resistance than recoiling slightly, and you coo, petting down its fur soothingly. 

“I know,” you edge away from the mask to say. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” 

James feels this isn’t the best use of your air, seeing as your cat is unlikely to understand you, but he sympathizes with the need to apologize for a perceived failing when someone or something was depending on you. He also knows you aren’t talking to him, but he feels the need to reassure you anyway. “It’s going to be fine.” 

You whimper softly. “Where was she?” you ask. James notes that you seem better than you were; your voice is still hoarse, but you’re no longer coughing. “I was trying to find her, but I—I couldn’t.” 

“She made herself a rather good little hiding spot in the bed,” he tells you. 

Your eyes well all over again. “Idiot,” you murmur, petting your cat lovingly. You look at James. “Thank you so much.” 

He smiles and puts the mask back to your face. “I’m just glad everyone’s alright. She made me work for it, though.” He uses his spare hand to push up his sleeve, showing off the thin scratches on his wrist. 

You back away from the mask again with a quiet “Oh” that contains more compassion than James thinks is really due (but he’ll take it). “I’m sorry. She’s really sweet, she was probably just scared. I’m sure she appreciates it.” 

James chuckles and suppresses a comment about how you’re two peas in a pod. 

“I would have been scared too,” he agrees. “Listen, can you do me a favor? Keep the mask on for a while. I think Frank’s gonna have a stroke if you don’t.” 

You look at Frank, contrition coloring your expression. “Sorry,” you tell him. 

Frank huffs a laugh. “It’s fine—just, yeah. Please.” 

You wipe under your eyes and sit still so that James can hold the mask to your face again. The fire quiets a decibel at a time behind him. Looking at you, with your watery, happy eyes and your cat cradled lovingly in your lap, James feels good about tonight. 

He offers you a smile, and even with the oxygen mask on, even weak as you are, you return it.

[sweeterthan13]

i love you fireman!james i love you so

[eyexunt]

[noisepuppy]

I asked if this was an art installation and a Danish person said "no this is quite a serious impedance"

[laurenillustrated]

Pride and Prejudice Art

A few recent scene redraws from the 2005 Pride and Prejudice film! One of my favorite movies ever.

Prints available in my shop!

I’ve been on a big Jane Austen kick this year and currently reading my way through all the books! So far I’ve read Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, and I’m almost finished with Northanger Abbey!

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — SERIES MASTERLIST

★ indicates smut / 𖤓 indicates fluff / ♡ indicates angst

SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).

WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.

A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

STATUS: Coming soon!

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓 — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. — TBD

If you'd like to be tagged in posts for this series, let me know!

[domesticblisss]

know me too well

pairing – dr. jack abbot x attending surgeon!f!reader

rating – explicit. minors dni

wc – 6.2k

summary – the biggest heatwave in the history of pittsburgh hits the city and jack abbot decides to throw a pool party to boost the team’s morale. the only problem is that you and jack hate each other.

warnings – enemies to lovers. fluff, SMUT, and a smidge of angst. is it an age gap if it’s less than double digits? (reader in her late thirties/early forties, jack in his late forties). basic hospital gore, poorly written medical talk, they are borderline toxic with each other, but it’s mostly jack being an old white man and reader not taking shit home. reader is a bit of a genius. drinking. drunk emery walsh. jealousy. dom!jack, fingering, oral (m receiving; throat fucking), p in v, cockwarming some degradation, name calling (bitch, brat, whore, slut).

she/her pronouns and afab!reader. no specific descriptions of body type, race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.

a/n – hiii! it’s summer here and it’s so fucking hot and this is basically me coping with the hell that it is living in rio de janeiro in the summer while being allergic to the sun and not being able to enjoy the pool/beaches that much! at least i have my ac :(

hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading 🤎

dividers by @/uzmacchiato

you stir on the bed, forehead frowning as you take the room you are in. it is familiar, the green armchair that emery insists on calling it the “cuck chair” sits on the corner to your left, with a perfect view of the bed. you turn, and when you look up, you see the painting of a woman you got while on a trip to spain, solely because the style reminded you of one egon schiele, the one painter that had always disturbed you a little bit. it felt like she was watching you over your sleep though.

kinda comforting. 

you turn, find yourself looking at a chiffonier and a mounted tv. on top of the furniture lies a fuggler plushie that shen had gifted you a while ago as a joke, mocking your taste in partners, saying you liked them a little ugly. the three eyes and fucked up teeth staring back at you makes you snort. 

you sigh, finally realising that you are in your bedroom. last night’s shift had been a gruesome one. one of the T line trains derailed during rush hour, leaving hundreds of workers that certainly were heading back home, injured. thankfully, not that many people got seriously hurt, but the OR got busy, and you spent the whole night down on the emergency department helping the night shift team assess the patients. things got back to normalcy by three in the morning and you were able to leave just in time to start your time off. 

it was just three days. three glorious days off that you plan on doing nothing but rotating between your bed and couch. it had been a while since you were able to have this long of a time off. and after pulling doubles for the past four weeks, any time away from the hospital is welcome. 

you thank your past self for being a neat freak, for always doing a bit of cleaning before leaving for your shifts and now there is not much to do besides putting your used scrubs on the washer. 

as if it was muscle memory, your left hand shoots out of the blanket you got over your body, blindly searching for your phone. you press the block button and it shines brightly back at you.

12:30 in the afternoon.

four and a half hours of sleep. it isn’t much, far less than the eight hours the human body usually needs, but last night was so hard you barely remember how you got home, the last thing you can fish out is the memory of you putting your sleep shirt on, body still wet from the shower, and tumbling over to your bed. still, you feel recharged, even with how little you slept. 

what feels completely wrong is how sticky your skin is. 

your hair is glued to your neck and forehead, the thin sheet you had over your body is damp, and so is the one you cover your bed with. you sigh when you realise you forgot to turn your AC on. 

“shit.” you whisper to yourself, forcing your body to get up. 

you yank your linen out of your bed, stop by the living room to turn the damn AC on, as well as the TV, opting to leave it on the news before you finish your trip to the laundry room. 

open the washer. put all the linen inside. close. detergent, bleacher and fabric softer. set to heavy duty. double rinse. dry. 

you make your way back to the living room, stopping by the kitchen to grab a glass of water. the AC is taking a bit to kick in and start cooling off the room. 

“the city of pittsburgh has declared a state of alert for the next few days. a new heatwave is going to hit the city starting today, with expected highs of 105°F. this is the highest temperature registered since 1988, with a previous record of 103°F on july 16 of that year. city officials are asking the population to wear sunscreen, drink lots of liquids and, if possible, avoid being in the sun between 12 and 04:00p.m. beware of signs of heat stroke and seek medical attention if any is presented…”

the weather girl says in a tone of voice too chirpy for your liking.

it’s a catastrophe waiting to happen. if last summer is anything to go by, even with a way lower high, the ER will be more overcrowded than usual. and, to add fuel to the fire, the urgent care clinic that usually took care of simpler cases closed, so all of their patients are being sent to the PTMC. your heart breaks for the day shift staff, knowing how extra busy the next days are going to be. but you also thank your past self for asking for your precious days off.

“i really hope you don’t leave me hanging.” you tell your air conditioner. 

you are about to open your refrigerator to start making lunch when your phone chimes in with several notifications. 

princess 👑: where are you??? princess 👑 sent a photo attachment princess 👑 sent a video attachment princess 👑: hurry up! 

you open the first attachment, it's a photo of princess in a pool, jack abbot’s pool, frilly drink in hand and a huge smile on her face. matteo and shen are on the back, throwing signs that probably make sense to them. 

next comes a thirteen second video of emery walsh, with that ever present serious expression on her face. “you have ten minutes to arrive or i’ll kill jack abbot all by myself–“ “no, you won’t.” you hear the unmistakable voice of the night attending interrupt your best friend. “and dispose his body on your front porch.” the video ends with emery giggling, a clear sign that she had been drinking for a while too. 

jack abbot, the night shift’s senior attending, had decided last week to throw a barbecue for the ER workers. a bit of a morale booster. day shift, night shift, it didn’t matter, as long as you weren’t working, you were invited to eat and drink on him, and use the pool he barely had time to. with a silent, almost hesitant nod, that offer had been extended to you. 

you bite your lip as you consider your options, thinking if the hassle is worth it. 

“fuck it.”

← be there in forty 🫡

that’s enough time to shower, get dressed and buy some beer as a peace offering, you think. 

see, you and jack weren’t exactly friends. and hardly were you able to be civil towards each other. 

it all started three years ago, when you met jack in an unexpected predicament on your first day of work. 

transferred from newyork-presbyterian, gloria hired you to assume the medical-surgical department’s night shift’s senior attending position. your arrival came in a day early, after gloria asked you to cover a day shift for a sick dr. shamsi.

“this is dr. michael robinavitch, our ER’s chief attending. you’ll be working close together during the day shift. i’ll leave you with him so you get a hang of the department.” she shook your hand. “can you introduce dr. abbot to her when he arrives at the end of the day?”

“of course.” michael answered her and goodbyes were exchanged. “you can call me robby.” he told you like it was a secret. “so, new york, huh?”

“yep,” you nodded. “born and raised.”

“what made you leave the big apple and come to little old pittsburgh?”

“oh, you know… change of scenery, a better job position. the usual.” your nonchalant tone made robby laugh. 

“i see.”

michael gave you a tour of the ED, showed you all of the wings, introduced you to dana, who you immediately fell in love with. introduced you to the residents, mohan, langdon and collins, all very nice and welcoming too.

robby turned out to be very charming, funny in his own way, super flirty, a bit depressed, but most doctors were, right?

dana interrupted his attempt to figure out if you were in a relationship or not, announcing an incoming trauma. “multiple GSW victim arriving with the SWAT team, ETA one minute.” 

moving, robby asked for your glove size and tied the protector gown for you. the doors to the ambulance bay opened and in came a swarm of camo wearing men, geared up to their teeth, rolling the patient in.

the one you assumed to be a TEMS medic debriefed the case. 

“anne marie, 32 year old female, one of the hostages. found responsive at the scene, with two visible entry wounds to the anterior chest and only one exit posteriorly. BP 82/46, HR 52, SAT 94% via ventilator. lost pulse briefly during transport, approximately three minutes of cardiac arrest, CPR was performed immediately. intubation done on scene with a 7.5 endotracheal tube, capnography and bilateral chest rise confirmed. 1mg of epi, 1g of tranexamic acid, 1l of saline, administered on the way. 100mg of ketamine and 50mg of rocuronium administered for the intubation.” the SWAT medic informed. 

“thank you, we’ll take it from here.” you told the older man. he was handsome in a rugged way, and his cargo pants fit him awfully well. 

“it’s ok, sweetheart. i know what i’m doing.” he smiled at you, but the hidden condescending tone of his voice made you tick. 

“i think this is out of your jurisdiction alr–“

“dr. collins, what are our next steps?” robby interrupted you as he called out for his resident.

“breath sounds absent on the left side, meaning possible tension or hemothorax, chest tube needed. ultrasound and prepare for transfusion starting with two bags of O neg.” collins spat the orders out so fast you wanted to applaud her.

“well done, dr. collins.” robby turned and called your name. “this is dr. jack abbot, our senior night shift attending. he volunteers as a tactical medic for our local SWAT team.”

“huh.” you gave him an once over. “i see.”

robby introduced you to him, stressing your position. 

“aren’t you a bit young to be a senior attending?” jack asked, that condescending tone on full display this time. 

and truth is, you are. your learning curve had always been higher than the average. read your first full book eighteen months old, started high school at nine, enrolled in college by thirteen, got your biology degree at only sixteen years old and months later you found yourself starting med school at nyu grossman. became an attending surgeon at the newyork-presbyterian by 25.

it was a mix of conflicting feelings. part of you felt extremely accomplished, finally arriving at the place you always dreamed of since you were young. but the other part of you thinks you grew up too fast, lost important phases of life that every child and teenager should go through. the feeling only aggravates when you think about how people were less than welcoming to you most of the time, forcing you to navigate through life in a way no one under thirty should. 

you had no one to blame, except for how weirdly wired your brain is. so fuck it, you started doing you. 

and as much as you got used to the rocks life had thrown your way, how you had to constantly prove your worth to others truly pissed you off.

being a woman in the medical field was no easy feat, and, to make matters worse, you chose to act as an emergency medicine surgeon. studies show that over seventy percent of emergency doctors in the united states are men, that alone makes you work a double shift to earn the tiniest bit of respect. 

now add to that equation the fact that you are under the average age range for a senior attending. 

your professional career had been stellar so far. ten years since you became an attending, thousands of surgeries done with one of the lowest patient loss rates recorded in the history of the new-york presbyterian, and the highest patient satisfaction score during all of the fifteen years you spent there, all the way from resident to attending surgeon. you truly didn’t have the need to prove yourself, your resumé spoke for itself. 

but you are only human, and when an old(er) guy (truthly? maybe he is not even that old. he probably has got some eight, nine years on you only. but as handsome as he is – you hate to admit that now – he looks a bit rough for his age) like jack abbot doubts your skills before getting to know you and your work, your blood boils.

and your mouth speaks before you can think. 

“aren’t you a bit pre-historic to be playing superman? a broken hip is life threatening at your old age.” you told him calmly as you assessed the ultrasound with heather. “there’s fluid around the heart, possible cardiac tamponade.” when you finally looked at the doctors to confirm your diagnosis, you found the whole room staring at you. jack had a serious, tight-lipped expression to him, robby and princess were holding on to dear life trying to suppress their laughter, the older male nurse, who you later found out was called jesse winked at you, and collins hid her face on her shoulder. 

you raised an eyebrow and robby cleared his throat. “clearly a surgical case. princess, call the OR and tell them to prep a room, now.” he turned to you smiling. “wanna stay with us for a few more cases? 

you gave jack one last glance before you started taking your PPE off. “sure. i’ll be waiting for you at the central hub, robby.”

the doors of trauma two were almost closed when you heard michael saying “you are so screwed, brother.” followed by his gravelly laughter. 

“fuck off, mikey.”

jack liked the game and you were never one to back down, especially when it came to egotistical men like him. so that is how you have been spending the last three years of your life, bickering with a forty eight year old man.

a comment you passed by when he called asking for a consult, a stupid joke he murmured while at the hub as you exchanged patient information with shen or ellis, or you questioning his commands while he was elbows deep in an open patient at trauma one. it didn’t matter how or why, it always ended with one insulting the other.

that also meant you spent way too much on the HR’s office, either alone or with him by your side. it is ironic that neither of you have ever reported the other, all of the complaints had come from coworkers that were either worried your fights would end up getting physical or were just simply done with your antics. 

gloria, and you had to admit that when it came to the two of you, was a saint, and always brushed it off, blaming it on doctor’s ego (not a lie, to be honest) and that the two of you were too valuable to lose.

your careers almost went to shit a year and a half ago. 

september 14th, 2024. a succession of errors that turned a common saturday morning into one of the biggest mass casualty incidents in the history of pennsylvania. 

the morning was foggier than usual. the control tower had cleared one air plane’s landing while the other waited to take off. the radar of the plane on the ground showed the sky was free and some freaky interference made the pilot understand that the take off was free. 

both planes collided on the taxiway, killing eighty on site and injuring over four hundred. 

you had that week off, one of your poor attempts of taking a vacation. following the routine you had after just waking up, you turned the TV on, only to find all channels reporting on the accident. you dressed in record time, called robby to tell him you were on your way to the pitt and to get an idea of what the team would be facing. being closest to the airport, the PTMC would be receiving the most serious cases. you grabbed the poorly made coffee you had set before turning the TV on and an old bagel bought the day before, and sprinted out of your door. 

robby paired you with jack. the room went quiet as soon as robby’s order left his mouth. jack and you looked at each other and nodded, silently agreeing to try to work in peace for once. 

and you could work like two normal coworkers, right? right…

for almost five hours straight, you and jack worked perfectly in sync. you agreed on maneuvers, procedures, medications, everything. sometimes, you didn’t even need to say what you were going to do, with one look you knew what the other was thinking. 

then, 03:00p.m. hit. you had seen dozens of patients, things were starting to get normal again, most of the patients had either been discharged or sent to the or, but jack and you had been working on a seven year old girl for the last forty minutes. she arrived with a piece of the fuselage piercing though her chest and all the way to her back. her left lung collapsed and you still had no idea how her little body was able to hold on for so long. she coded three times with jack and before the fourth happened, you started spewing orders. 

jack didn’t take it well, always countering your decisions. voices started to rise and with one off comment, all hell broke loose again. 

“will you quit being such a fucking bitch and listen to me once?” jack spat, eyes full of anger. 

“you are not my superior. we are equals here, so i advise you to pay attention to how you speak to me.” you told him with a low tone of voice, trying not to bring more attention after jack’s explosion. 

he spoke even louder. “i have more experience than you when it comes to this type of injury!” 

so you spoke louder. “i’ve seen a good amount of perforations in almost fifteen years as a surgeon, jack. and what you’re doing clearly isn’t working!” 

“enough!” robby shouted. “you two, leave. now! get your shit together. talk, fight, punch each other to death, i don’t give a fuck, but get your shit together. i can’t have two senior attendings acting like teenagers in my ER.” robby walked over, elbowing jack out of his place. “i’m taking over with garcia.” he nodded to the other surgeon, who promptly assumed your position. “i had hopes you two could work together like normal people for one day, but i guess i was wrong.”

two hours later, you found yourself and jack sitting by gloria’s desk. for the first time in your whole life, personal and professional, you were on the receiving end of a disappointed look. 

“do you understand that i had dr. robinavitch come to me to complain about you? robby, who never complains about their fellow doctors and residents, who does everything in his power to work things out on the floor and notify HR or me only when necessary. the same robby who adores both of you!” gloria stopped talking and gave both of your faces a good look, only to find two adults looking like kicked puppies. “what happened today was unacceptable. we had one of the biggest MCIs in the history of pennsylvania, and two of my best doctors couldn’t act like professionals.” she shook her head.

“a little girl’s life was at risk!” gloria raised her voice, the first time you had seen her lose her cool. jack and you exchanged looks. she took a deep breath before continuing. “this is grounds for dismissal. i should fire you, but i won’t. we can’t afford to lose two of the best on their fields, but this is the last chance i’m giving you. the both of you are suspended for a week without pay. i hope you take this time to self-reflect and understand what you can do to reach a common ground and be better.”

from that day on, you and jack settled on a silent truce. all of your conversations were about patients only, tips were only given if the other asked to and the mean comments you used to say to the other as a pass by quip diminished. but they still existed. 

you take another look in the mirror, fluffing your hair out wondering if going to this party was a good idea. sighing, you grab your car keys and silently pray for the best. 

“what took you so long?” emery slurs a bit when she meets you outside of jack’s home. “brought your puppies.” she says, pointing back at shen and mateo. 

you called em as soon as you pulled into jack’s street, asking her to bring someone to help you unload the twenty 12-packs of bud you got.

“wow! that’s… a lot.” mateo exclaims.

“jack invited the whole hospital.” you shrug. 

“yeah, i’m calling robby and jesse.” shen says as he makes his way backs inside. 

mateo starts unloading when emery speaks again. “answer me.”

you pull your best friend by her arms, bringing her closer. she hugs you, tucking her head between your neck and shoulder. “i always forget you are a clingy drunk.” she whines and you start petting her hair. “i wasn’t coming, em. didn’t want to ruin the party for anyone.”

“ugh!” em pulls back and looks at you. “you two should fuck it out.”

that makes you snort. “yeah.”

the boys finally arrive with back up and a cargo cart that jack had. 

you make your way inside, and a chorus of “finally”, “she’s here” and whistles follow you. stopping, you say your hellos and hug some of your friends. 

“you should ditch the scrubs. like, all the time!” princess shouts from inside of the pool.

you wink at her. “only for you, baby.”

feeling eyes on you, you turn to see jack staring from the grill, giving you an once over. you give him a small smile, getting a nod back. 

there is nothing special about how you are dressed, short denim shorts, high cut black swimsuit with a deep back line and a white underline that makes your boobs pop and an unbuttoned white linen shirt. 

“hey. brought some beers, where can i put them?” you get closer to jack, asking him in a low tone of voice. 

“first fridge on the left.” he says, pointing to it with the tongues, without looking back. you nod and make your way to where he pointed, silently. 

robby and jesse take the cans out of your hands, telling you that they got it and for you to go have some fun.

you had noticed jack’s tumbler was empty, so you grab one of the cold ones and bring it back to him. you crack it open and pour it out for him. 

“thank you.” jack says and hands you a plate with some burgers, pulled pork and brats. you make a mental note to make emery eat some. “eat. there are drinks in the bar.”

“thank you.” you mimic him. setting the plate on the counter by your side, you start taking your shorts and shirt off. “gonna keep working on that farmer's tan or are you evening it out today?”

you notice how jack’s eyes lingers on your cleavage for a beat longer than the acceptable, he shakes his head, turns his eyes back to the meat he is grilling and lets out a breathy laugh. “if you wanna see me naked all you have to do is ask, brat.”

you grab the sunscreen on your bag and the plate jack had given you. you lower your head, get just an inch closer to him as if you were about to tell him a secret. “what’s the fun in playing nice, sir?” you look back at jack, devious smile meeting his incredulous one. you take a sip of his beer. “thanks for the invite.” and with a wink, you make your way to chaise longues. 

see, you can play nice. you can even flirt with him. the day will be great and no one will fight. 

you pull one of the chairs closer to where emery is sitting, there is a small side table between you that you use to set the plate and the coke can you grabbed for her.

emery rarely drinks, but when she does, it is enough to have you baby sitting her. she is not black out drunk, but you want to avoid any incidents with the pool. 

“em, here.” you call her and emery sits up, very wobbly. “eat, baby. we gotta sober you up a bit.”

“fine, mom.” she gives you one of her dead-eyed stares and it makes you laugh. 

the two of you eat in silence, knowing full well that emery is at that state between drunkenness and sobering up where you start questioning your life choices, and she gets extra snarky when she is like this. 

you are finishing one of the burgers, cursing yourself for not getting anything to drink when a hand appears in front of you with a tall glass with a light coral inside. 

“paloma. it’s your favourite, right?” mateo asks. 

“mhm.” you nod. “thank you.” you take a sip and the proportions are almost perfect, you would add just a tiny dash more of tequila. 

there is someone who does it perfectly. 

“this is incredible, teo. we got a mixologist in the group?”

mateo smiles and shrugs. he points to the sunscreen bottle next to you on the chaise. “need help with your back?”

“i do, yeah.” you clip your hair, getting it out of the day and turn, offering your back to him. 

matteo is gentle, his touch is almost featherlight. you notice emery is looking somewhere behind you, a sly smile lights up her sobering features. she shakes her head when you lift your eyebrow, questioning her. 

“done.” mateo gets up and hands you the sunscreen bottle back. “you should join us in the pool later, the water is nice.”

“i will.” you tell him with a smile. 

emery watches mateo go, waits until he is out of ear shot to speak. “jack was watching you like a hawk.”

you shrug. “and?”

“and i’m serious when i tell you you should fuck it out. whatever it is that you two got is not hate, it’s pent up desire.”

“jesus fuck, emery–“ you are interrupted by robby’s booming laughter. you look back, trying to figure out what is the source of his laughter, but only finds an annoyed looking jack abbot. 

the day goes by extremely well. jack stops grilling sometime around three, joining everyone on the pool. someone suggests a game of chicken and you were pretty sure it was princess trying to make her voice sound gruffier. 

two teams were formed, you and mateo siding with princess and donnie, going against emery, jesse, shen and parker. 

poor princess was the first one to go down, leaving you to fend for yourself. you go after emery, aiming for the weak spot she has near her ribs. 

it is you and parker now and after a lot of back and forth and some luck, you win. people erupt in laughter, robby slaps the water, splashing everyone. mateo runs a lap with you on his left shoulder, almost a fifties poster. he drops you on the pool, gives you a hug thanking you for the good game. 

by sunset, a game of beer pong is made, one that you lose after the second round. you drink some, chat with shen who is now dreading not leaving earlier to rest for his shift, and is already ordering his dunkin’ as he leaves. 

you haven’t been in the pool in a while now, bathing suit already dry and that sticky feeling chlorine leaves is set on your skin. 

one by one, the guests leave. some for work, some going to their houses. everyone stops by the high stool you are perched on eating some of the ice cream jack got, elbows sitting on the counter, and say their goodbyes. robby is the last one, makes the two of you promise you won’t kill each other. he leaves with a squeeze on your shoulder. 

jack walks around his back yard, picking up the trash, separating between organic, recyclable and non recyclable. 

silently, you get up. after picking up the dishes and utensils used, you make your way inside jack’s kitchen. 

you drop what you can on his dish washer, opting to wash the rest that didn’t fit by hand. 

fifteen, twenty minutes go by. you are humming a random song you heard today, one that you don’t even know the lyrics to. 

“what are you doing?”

“shit!” jack’s question startles you. you didn’t hear him enter the kitchen, nor approach you. he did that sometimes in the ER while you were at the hub exchanging information. you might have called him a ghost once or twice. you motion, showing the sink. “i’m washing the dishes.”

“why didn’t you load the dish washer?” he asks, voice annoyed. 

as much as you try to school your emotions, you shoot jack a look that says ‘you fucking serious?’

“i did.” you point to the machine. “but it’s a lot and you’ve got a lot to clean. i’m just trying to help.”

“i didn’t ask for help.”

you drop the sponge and rinse the last glass, putting it on the drying rack. you grab the dish rag and dry your hands as you turn around. 

“too late, i’m done.”

jack corners you against the counter. “aren’t you so fucking nice? always so helpful, always the life of the party.”

you snort. “i am nice, jack. it’s not my fault that you’re the only grumpy asshole who hates me.”

jack nods and smiles, scratching the stubble on his chin. you smile back at him and his eyes fleet from yours to your lips and back. 

you wet your lips, slowly. “what, cat got your tong–“

the cat didn’t.

jack kisses you. it isn’t all teeth and messy, but rough and purposeful. his tongue is slotted against your, working with practiced ease, like you have done this countless times before. his right hand leaves the counter, makes its way down your body, pressing harsh squeezes over your curves. dexterous fingers pull the crotch of your bathing suit aside, finding you soaking wet. jack laughs. 

“you love when i’m mean to you, don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, and his warm breath makes you shiver. 

all you do is nod, afraid your will betray your as he circles his fingers around your clit so nicely.

“answer me.”

“y– yes, jack. fuck! i– love it.” you tell him, whining when he inserts the first few inches of his index and middle fingers on your pussy. he massages your walls, a millimetre below from where you need him.

“what? you need me deeper?” he mocks you. it’s embarrassing how his condescending tone makes you even wetter. 

“yes!”

“yes, what? use your words.”

“yes, sir. i need you deeper, jack.”

he attacks your neck, alternating between kisses and love bites that you will have to find a way to cover them later. 

“all the way to the knuckles, right, brat?”

you nod uncontrollably. “please.”

jack finally gives in, filling you to the brim with his thick fingers. your whiny moans are music to his ears, and it only gets more melodic when his thumb starts playing with your clit. 

you throw your head back as euphoria starts to consume you. your pussy flutters, starts squeezing jack’s fingers so hard, it almost becomes impossible for him to continue his come hither motions. the hand that held your waist goes to your hair, pulling it a bit to make you look at him. 

“open your eyes, i want you to see who is making you cum.”

you do. and with two more circles, your orgasm washes over you. you slump over his chest. “fuck.”

“i’m not finished with you.” jack gives your bum a playful slap. “get on your knees.”

he doesn’t need to tell you twice, you drop without questioning. with agile fingers, you unbutton and unzips his cargo shorts, yanking it down with his swim trunks in one swift move. 

jack is half hard, and you take your hand to your cunt to collect your juices to help you pump him out. 

“shit.” he murmurs above you and you smile back up at him. 

you start playing with his balls, licking and sucking them while you jerk his cock. it doesn’t take long to get him hard enough for you to suck him off. 

against your better judgement, you decide to tease jack. a kiss on his angry, red head, a slow pass of your tongue, following the thick vein he has on his length, wet kitten licks on his slit. 

that’s what does it for him. he pulls your hair once again and shoves his cock in your mouth. he sets a rough pace that makes you forget your name. it goes like this for a while, stopping occasionally to let you breathe. 

you feel his thighs tense against your palms and jack pulls you back. 

“come here.” he pulls you up on your feet and brings you to his kitchen table. 

you pull the straps of your bathing suit down and jacks helps you finish taking it off. without command, you bend over the table and look back at him with a devious smile as you wiggle your butt. 

jack slaps it, making you yip. “you’re such a little slut, aren’t you?”

“only for you.” your smile grows bigger.

jack shakes his head, brings your hands to the middle of your back, holding them together with one of his big ones. he isn’t gentle when he shoves his cock inside you, and to be honest, you wouldn’t like it any other way. 

the pace jack sets is unrelenting, a result of years of pent up feelings. 

hate, love, passion, desire, everything.

he releases your hands, but tells you to keep them where they are. with his right one, he circles your waist, bringing you up against his chest, with his left, he plays with your clit. soon, it becomes all too much. 

“jack, i’m–“

“me too, baby. inside?”

“mhm.” you nod. 

jack’s pace never falters. your pussy constricts around him and you feel his cock twitch, spurting his ropey cum soon after. 

the dish washer beeps, announcing it had finished its cycle. you laugh. 

jack sits down on one of the chairs and pulls your hand. “come here, let me hold you.”

you sit on his lap, puts his softening cock back inside you. it makes jack hiss, but you kiss the wrinkles that forms around his left eye. 

for a while, all you can hear is your breathings. 

“missed you, honey.” jack breaks the silence. 

you look at him and give his nose a peck. “you saw me yesterday, handsome.”

“yeah, but you didn’t sleep over. you know i like waking up with you around.”

you sigh. “i know, baby. but imagine how it would have been if everyone arrived and found me here first. and don’t say we could’ve just told them i arrived first because they know i wouldn’t do that when it comes to you.”

“yeah, i know.” jack answers, defeated. his eyes are shifting, like he is deep in thought. jack looks back at you. “we should tell them. i’m tired of hiding.”

it takes you back. “really?”

“yeah. we’ve been together for a year and a half, baby. i hate having to pretend to still be an asshole to you. and besides, i think it’s about time some people realise you’re taken.”

you start laughing. “oh, i see. this is about mateo.”

jack looks at you with the most serious expression he has. “the fuck that kid think he is applying sunscreen on you like that. three times! i noticed his hands getting way too close to your ass. and he made your paloma! why does he know that’s your favourite?”

you try to control your laughter, but fail. 

“i’m serious, honey.”

“i know, jack.” you peck his lips. “i order palomas all the time when we go out with the crew, you know that. maybe he noticed.” jack narrows his eyes at you and you kiss him again. “yours is better.”

“of course it is.”

you notice jack is still a bit pressed about the story, so you keep going. “he is just a kid, jack. mateo just wanted to be nice. besides, he’s in love with victoria. and i’m in love with you.”

the confession steals a genuine smile from him. “i love you too.”

“we’ll tell the guys when we get back from our days off, yeah?”

“yeah, honey.”

taglist: @junebug0417, @scarlet-nerded, @rufles2, @hannahnabread123, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @maremanomeile, @icaruselise, @allthewhateverthings, @a-sleepy-golden-storm, @itsyagrillkat, @littlestarhhj, @skagelynn, @ughyna, @gelotime, @poseidon12345, @starcrownedmutant, @bealads, @4ngryt3ars, @zayn-210, @astro-engine, @hastilybaveflux, @nciscmjunkie, @mafersita101, @phoenixhalliwell, @aylinnmaslow, @gardonromsey, @isthatacandle, @butyouweregone, @onedshow, @ivy-stuffs, @omgwoah15, @kidd3ath, @drrobbyfan, @drabbotfan, @grubeboss4, @tess3802, @yiiiikesmish, @xoxoloverb, @freakedtfout4

domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated

[rr-after-dark]

Hooked - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.

Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare

Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical

A/N:  that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic

Word Count: 14.2k

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

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[sweeterthan13]

masterpiece

[pencil-n-pen]

—you’ve ruined my life

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jack abbot x overachiever! intern! reader

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

wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)

tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)

a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]

NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!

ao3

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۫ ꣑ৎ

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

۫ ꣑ৎ

[sweeterthan13]

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.” JESYS CHRIST KILL ME ALREADY

[greelin]

“you’ll feel better after a good night’s rest” do i look like someone who has had one of those in the last two decades

[rr-after-dark]

“Like a Moth. Or a Plant. Or Something.” - Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader

Summary: After noticing you on your daily jog outside of his skatepark, Andrew just has to intervene to save you...maybe more than once. Once your lives have maybe-too-literally crashed together, you both feel the undeniable lightness of a new relationship.

Tags/Notes: fluff, meet cute, getting together, reader has a pomeranian, oral (f), piv (a condom?? in an rr-after-dark fic??), protective andrew

Content: minor sexual harassment, andrew punches a guy, reader is mentioned as having spent time in juvie as a teenager

A/N: happy wip wednesdays loves! this is set after smurf dies and basically the boys have gone straight and pope is in therapy and runs a full skate park he built from the ground up. they’re Good Boys now. this is just soft fluff time. original format was a 5+1 but as usual five is too many <3

Word Count: 12.7k james' 10k one shot disease strikes again

Pope notices you the very first night you move to the area. How could he not? You jog by the skate park when he's doing evening security and the breeze of your passage feels like an angel descending from heaven. Pope’s not like Craig; he doesn’t notice you because of the delicious jiggle of your ass in those bike shorts or the way your sweat-soaked cropped tee clings to your curves, the skate park being at the end of your route, near your apartment, your long run finishing.

No, he notices the way you’re singing along to your music.

Headphones in, chin up, enjoying the setting sun glowing over your skin. Singing. Loud enough for him to hear you across the street about to drop into the ramp for his final few runs before it gets dark. He vaguely recognizes the tune as some pop song that plays sometimes at the grocery, but it sounds so different coming from your mouth. You’re breathless and joyous. Even the tiny ball of fluff attached to you by a leash is caught up in your sun rays, looking so happy as she pants toward the finish line of home by your side.

You do the same thing the next night. And the next. Soon enough, he realizes this is your daily routine. Maybe you just moved to the area. Maybe you made some new summer resolution. Some days you run in ratty sweats and others in sleek legging sets, but you’re always vibrant when you go by.

He likes watching you. It’s his little indulgence between running the skate park and running his brothers. From the moment you turn onto the block a ways up the street until you cross the street into the neighborhood where he assumes you live, the houses obscuring his view, Pope keeps his eyes trained on you. When you’re close enough, his ears perk up to listen to that voice of yours lilting through whatever song you have on that evening. His usual schedule was watching the door as security after dark anyway, but you do your runs at sunset, so he starts just…going out a little early. Nothing wrong with that.

After a while, you notice him, too. The handsome-in-an-intense-way stranger who’s always there during your runs, another statue you run by like the handful of art installations in the park. You figure he’s a security guard, out by nothing but the virtue of his job, so you start waving at him. A tiny moment shared each night from across the street. You don’t pause your music or slow your pace, but you lift your eyes in his direction, give a gentle wave of your hand, wait for him to nod or give a flat smile or (rarely) even wave back, and continue on your way. And those moments are everything for Pope. Just a tiny instance of being seen as another person, uncomplicated, amid the chaos.

That harmless little ritual breaks into something else one muggy night in the heat of summer.

You’re running fast tonight. No singing. The dog is in your arms, not trying to keep up with you in those tiny legs. Pope notices the change right away and finds himself taking a few steps away from the door to get more information.

Then he notices the guy running just a step behind you. At first Pope figures he’s just another jogger out circling the park, but when he gets a bit closer he can hear the threats coming from his mouth. You must’ve rejected him or ignored him or whatever sets off guys like that earlier in your jog, maybe at the corner when you had to wait at the crosswalk. Now the guy’s chasing you, going between negging you and begging you. It’s not like he’s waving around a gun, but Pope feels the threat of his presence. He could corner you, pin you, follow you home.

Even if he doesn’t do any of that, even if he ‘just’ follows you like this, you don’t feel safe. That matters to Andrew.

He’s sprinting across the street before he can even process, the primal part of his brain taking over when he sees danger encroaching. Pope is faster than both of you, his form like Apollo tracking across the sky, and it’s a matter of seconds before he’s plowing into the guy who’s harassing you, knocking him into the sidewalk with so much force it’s a wonder the sound barrier doesn’t break.

You stop in your tracks as Pope wrestles him to the ground, pinning him and giving him one quick, sharp punch to the nose to get him to quit squirming. Pope holds his jaw and snarls, “What the fuck are you doing talking to her like that? Scaring the shit out of her?”

The guy wheezes as his eyes dart around. “Jesus fuck, man, what are you, her bodyguard?”

Pope squeezes his jaw hard enough to bruise as you watch from a distance, sizing up the situation. “Security at the skate park across the street. Don’t need you scaring people on my home turf.” Pope stands up, wrenches the guy to his feet by the center of his shirt, which rips, and shoves him in the opposite direction. He’s fighting to keep his composure because he doesn’t want to scare you, so he just taps his holstered gun and growls, “If I see you in this area again, it’s gonna be more than a punch. Got it?”

The guy touches the back of his hand to his nose, winces at the contact, and nods. He spits blood onto the sidewalk and mutters, “Not worth it anyway.”

Pope doesn’t let go of his shirt. He nods over in your direction and ‘suggests,’ “Now how about you apologize to her and get the fuck out of here?”

Sensing that Pope isn’t the kind of guy he should mess with, he glances briefly in your direction, mumbles “sorry” like a caught toddler, and skulks off in the opposite direction through the park.

Pope gives a sharp nod, a tense not-quite-smile, and turns on his heel to go back to the skate park, back to the regular routine of the night.

Your brows furrow. Before he can get more than a couple steps away, you reach out and grab him by the forearm. The feeling of your fingers jolts him like jumper cables. “Wait! Hold on, you can’t save me all heroically and then just walk off.”

“Oh, sorry.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns back to you. Unsure what to say to your expectant expression, he lies,” I would’ve done it for anyone.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you reply with a cheeky little smirk that he stares at with longing, intense eyes. That look of his might bother another woman – it feels possessive, almost, like he wants to eat you – but you don’t mind. To you, it’s attentive and desirous, something worth stoking. Setting your nervous dog back on the sidewalk, you sheepishly ask him, “Would you mind walking me home? A pomeranian isn’t exactly a protection dog and I’m feeling kinda….”

As your voice drifts into unspoken nerves, Andrew’s world goes quiet for a second. He notices the way the sun lifts the color of your irises as you try to blink back the light. He notices how you worry your thumb with your first finger, picking at a hangnail, hesitant as you wait for his response. He notices your hairline, your earlobes, your peach fuzz. Every single thing there is to notice.

Nodding tightly, he replies in a gravelly voice, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. No problem.” He unhooks his walkie talkie from his belt and clicks it on, “Craig, watch the door for a few minutes.”

Another man’s voice, annoyed but accepting, comes through the grainy speaker. “What the fuck are you doing that you can’t?”

Pope rolls his eyes and cuts back, “Just do it.”

“Fine.”

Gesturing to the walkie before clipping it back in place, he says, “One of my asshole brothers. Helps me out sometimes.”

You start walking toward the end of the block and Pope follows you, slowing his naturally long stride to match yours. To keep away the silence, you ask, “How many brothers do you have?”

His hands slide into his dark jean pockets and he trains his eyes on your dog’s swishing fluffy tail, terrified to get caught staring at your side profile. “Ah, two who are still alive.”

“Oh.” God, your voice sounds too sympathetic for him to be worthy of. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

With a shrug, he murmurs, “It was a long time ago.”

You shrug, too, but there’s an openness to it. “Still.”

“Right.” He remembers that’s a normal thing to be upset about and awkwardly adds, “Thanks.”

You stop walking in front of a cute, tiny townhouse in a row of them, all pastels with flower boxes in the front window. Yours is pale yellow and he decides that suits you. For some reason, you seem reluctant to go inside as you announce, “This is my place.”

Pope gives the spot a long look. All he sees is the total lack of security, but he knows that wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to comment on, so he says simply, “It’s nice.”

You sigh, “It’s affordable.”

“That’s good, too,” he replies a bit too fast. Too eager. He wants to punch himself in the gut. Why doesn’t he know how to talk to you? It’s not like you’re anything…special. Dammit. You are, aren’t you? The way you nibble your lower lip waiting for him to speak. The way your dog looks up at you like you’re the center of the universe. The way you shift your weight from foot to foot to soothe yourself. You’re special. Of course you are. He swallows hard and puts his hand out in front of him, stiff but trying his best. “I’m, ah, I’m Andrew, by the way. Andrew Cody. Everyone calls me Pope around here, at the park and my family and everything, but you can call me Andrew, if you want.”

“Okay, I will.” You introduce yourself with a smile that almost makes him forget your name (and his own) right away, but he commits it to memory by mentally repeating it over and over. You pick up the dog again and tell him, “And this is Billie, my running buddy.”

Andrew tentatively offers the orange fluff his hand the way he’s seen people do on TV. She sniffs his fingers and then gives him one solitary lick that makes him tilt his head to the side. Is that a good thing? He admits quietly, “I don’t have much experience with dogs.”

You’re beaming at him as he carefully interacts with Billie, using the most tender touch you’ve ever seen from a man, especially one so obviously strong and imposing. You give his bicep a completely un-selfish squeeze and affirm, “Well, she definitely likes you. She usually growls at any man who comes near me.”

Andrew smirks and gives her a small, tentative scratch behind the ears that she leans into. “That’s a good girl.”

Your mouth waters a bit when he says it. He’s really, really handsome. More handsome than you expected when he started running toward you like a guardian angel. You swallow hard, playing with your keys as you stall in the doorway, and offer up, “It’s good to finally meet you – for real, I mean. More than a wave. It’s nice knowing a friendly face in my neighborhood.”

A friendly face. Pope’s not sure he’s ever been called that. It makes him smile. Actually smile. He looks down at the sidewalk and shakes his head and, Jesus, even his teeth are painfully cute between those dimples and that cupid’s bow. You really, really debate inviting him in for a drink or something, but you know that’s not a good idea. He has to get back to work and you have to, well, not get yourself entangled with a handsome, gun-carrying stranger so soon after moving to a new town. You’re here to focus on yourself, not throw yourself at the first man who sprints to your defense like a sexy comic book hero with arms you’d love to bite down on and-

“Goodnight, Andrew,” you say abruptly, cutting off the drawn-out silence of you both staring at the other. “Thanks again for stepping in. Most people wouldn’t do that.”

He shrugs modestly. “I’m not most people.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Usually that kind of comment would send Pope’s head spinning – what had he done wrong in the conversation to come off as abnormal? – but when it tumbles from your lips he doesn’t mind it. “Well, ah, I’ll see you around, I hope.”

With a warm smile, you assure him, “You will.”

And, starting the next night, you always jog on Andrew’s side of the street instead of across. It makes Pope’s heart clench in his chest and it takes him another few nights to understand why: He made you feel safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted – for someone to trust him to keep them safe instead of thinking he’s too crazy, too intense, too much and not enough at once.

Another couple weeks pass and sometimes you even trade small talk. Even the quick ‘hi, how are you?’ exchanges are enough to send Andrew’s mind into candy-coated daydreams like he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Cresting past 35, he can barely remember his last hookup, much less his last girlfriend, much less the last girl he actually liked and didn’t just acquiesce to.

Pope’s on his fourth day of getting his confidence up to ask for your number when fate decides to push the two of you together again.

The douchey red sportscar’s windows are tinted way too dark and its music is way too loud as it screeches down the street, racing with a similarly douchey Jeep. Street racing’s a huge issue in Oceanside and it’s particularly annoying to Pope because most of the culture is his brothers’ fault. His sense of danger perks up immediately. When he sees you stop in the crosswalk, tangled up in Billie’s leash with your headphones still blaring music in your ears, completely unaware of any external threats, he curses under his breath. If you don’t hear those cars’ fart cannons, you definitely won’t hear him shouting at you to get out of their way.

He sighs and gets moving. Just how often is he gonna have to sprint into the street for you?

As he does it, though, he realizes he’d be happy to throw himself in front of a car for you every night if it means he’ll get more of those precious moments where you say his name or touch his arm.

He’s fucked.

Pope manages to sweep you fully off your feet and get you to the curb with maybe half a second to spare. The force of his impact knocks you both to the ground, but he knows how to bowl someone over, so you’re on top of him instead of the other way around, saved from the scrapes he’s taken to the elbows to stop you from slamming to the concrete.

You swear, loud and disoriented, as you watch the sportscars whiz down the street without a care in the world.

Andrew gives you a cocky kind of smile and chuckles, “You shouldn’t stop in the middle of the street like that, sweetheart. People are fucking crazy around here. Are you okay?”

“You’re asking that like you didn’t break my fall with your body,” you scoff as you check him over, noticing his scraped-up palms.

“Humor me.”

“I’m fine, but- but my-” At the realization, you scramble up to your feet, unsteady on them, and tears brim at your waterline. You start to walk away from Andrew, hastening into the nearby park, calling out, “Billie! Where are you, baby girl?! Come here!”

“Shit.” Andrew scans in a circle around himself and catches the orange puff running toward the skate park. With a huff, he starts jogging after the dog, calling over his shoulder, “I see her!”

With a relieved breath, you follow him, a pace behind, through the parking lot and into his world. The moment you’re inside the propped-open heavy metal door and into the huge main room with a deep sloping bowl and various ramps, pipes, and rails artistically arranged around it, it feels like you’ve stepped into an alternate dimension. The place isn’t at all what you’d expected – maybe too many years of playing Tony Hawk video games – and it makes you wonder more and more about Andrew. First of all, the place is occupied mainly by kids, mostly teens but some as young as eight or nine. It’s dinner time on a school night, but they’re all congregating here, laughing and skating on boards or skates, eating handheld foods from a small built-in snack stand off in one corner. Some of them are even doing homework or reading. The only adults seem to be helping them out with learning tricks or checking in on them.

As Andrew walks through with a purpose, he’s given lots of smiles and greetings that he returns with awkward nods and tight-lipped smiles. He walks straight up to a super tall, long-haired guy and slaps him on the back to get his attention. “You see a dog run through here?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, eyes going right past Andrew and toward you in your curve-hugging shorts-length bodysuit. “Ran right through and into your office. Figured that was kind of a you problem. Who’s the chick?”

“She lives in the neighborhood; it’s her dog,” Andrew says simply, looking over his shoulder at you and nodding towards the office, its door propped open by a fan doing its best to circulate the teen-boy-scented air. “C’mon, she’s probably hiding under my desk or something.”

He’s right about that. Billie’s curled up beneath a desk so meticulously organized it could be an office supply store display, her ears back from nerves.

“There you are,” Andrew mutters, reaching under the desk. When Billie doesn’t growl or bark, he scoops the ball of fluff into his arms, which look especially buff as he turns to you with the tiny dog perched safely against his broad chest, calming down at his presence. He eases her into your grateful embrace and chuckles, “She just wanted to skate at my park like all the other cool kids around here.”

You cut him a sideways glance in between giving Billie a million kisses. “Your park?”

“Yeah,” he replies. You think he’s not going to say anything else, that maybe he’s giving you a cue to leave, but then he swallows and furrows his brow and tells you, “I, ah, I work with my family, too, but this is sort of my day job now. Started with just one ramp. Bought the lot after a while. Took my time putting up the walls and everything, but, y’know, it worked out.”

You give him what you hope is a flirtatious smile even though that isn’t your strong suit. “How much does it cost to get in? Maybe you can teach me to skate or something.”

That idea? Having his hands on your waist while you get balanced, seeing your proud smile when you get it, looking at him like he’s teaching you something important? It’s like his brain itches and he needs to scratch it.

So he gives you a bashful almost-smile and replies, “For you? No charge. Come by any time.”

“You saved my life; I should at least pay to get into your business.”

He shakes his head and insists, “You don’t have to pay me back for anything. I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch a pretty girl get flattened.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You would’ve watched an ugly girl get flattened?”

“Shit, that’s not what I-”

You touch his freckled forearm gently. “I’m teasing you, Andrew.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not good at that.”

“Then I’ll stop.”

His voice cracks. “Please don’t stop.”

“Then I won’t.”

After one of those soda bubble pauses, not wanting to let you go yet, Pope stammers out, “Would you, ah, would you want a tour or anything? I’ll show you around the place if you want.”

You almost whine under your breath as you tell him, “I have to get Billie home for dinner and-”

“No worries,” he quickly adds, “I wasn’t trying to-”

“But I can come by tomorrow without her, maybe even wear some real clothes,” you interrupt lightly, needing to stop him before he tries to back off of the offer. “What time’ll you be here tomorrow?”

Andrew straightens up and tries not to smile too much. His mind reels imagining what you wear besides all your running clothes. It’s not like he knows anything about that stuff, but it feels like unlocking a new layer of you. Willing himself not to blush as you look at him expectantly, he clears his throat and says, “I have some work with my nephew in the morning, but I’ll be here maybe three or so. Unless that doesn’t work for you; I can move things around so I-”

“I’ll come by at four,” you assure him, all sweet and innocent. Like you aren’t reorienting his entire brain. Then you step onto your toes, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him gently, “Goodnight, Andrew.”

The whole time you and your dog walk out of the place, Andrew watches you, his first few fingers touching the place where your soft lips graced his evening scruff. Even when Craig punches him hard on the arm and cracks some joke about your presence, Andrew doesn’t feel anything but the ghost of your kiss.

Craig’s just lit up his third or fourth joint of the day at the skate park when Pope pushes through the door with a bug up his ass. He’s got that serious, intimidating stance like he’s just noticed he has muscles for the first time. Craig knows that stance – whatever he says, he means business. The first thing Pope does once he’s inside is point right at Craig, snap his fingers, and demand, “Put that shit out. I don’t want it stinking like smoke in here.”

Craig raises his hands innocently, stubs the joint on the concrete floor, and sticks the remainder of it behind his ear. “Since when?”

Pope grunts back, “We’ve got kids in here all day.”

Craig scoffs, “You split joints with me when I was twelve.”

“Okay, whatever, I just-”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Craig stands up, already laughing through a shit-eating grin. “Is this about that girl who was here yesterday? She coming by to suck you off in your office for saving her puppy?”

Pope shakes his head, pretending his cheeks aren’t turning red, and mutters, “Shut the fuck up.”

Craig’s eyes widen. “Oh, fuck, she is coming here, isn’t she?”

“Just for a tour.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Pope just retreats into his office, pretending to be busy while he waits for you to arrive. He can’t actually concentrate on any of the work he should be getting done when he’s thinking about how much he wants to memorize the shape of you in the skate park so that he can keep looking at you even after you’re gone.

The park is buzzing when you show up, like it usually is in the couple of hours after school lets out. The moment you’re inside, all eyes are on you. It’s not that there aren’t girls in the space, but they’re all in ripped jeans and tees and helmets, blending in with the boys. So when you swish into the hard-rock-blasting, graffiti-covered, skinned-knee space wearing a floral babydoll sundress that does nothing to conceal your ample thighs, the ties on the sheer ribbon straps looking like an invitation, you steal attention.

You walk right up to Andrew’s brother, who’s an absolute giant in a white tank top, tap him on his buff shoulder, and ask, “Is your brother around? He should be expecting me.”

Craig’s eyes rake over you, slow and disbelieving. “Yeah, he’s in his office. He’s been acting weird – even for him – so he’s definitely waiting for you.”

Heat crawls into your cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Go easy on him,” Craig says with half a smile, eyes trained forward on the ramps, a mix of serious and joking. “Poor guy hasn’t been with anyone but his right hand in a decade.”

You snort out a laugh and stifle it with the back of your hand. “Thanks, Craig. I’ll see you around.”

“You’d better.”

You walk up to Andrew’s office door, closed today, and knock gently. “Hi, it’s me.”

When the door opens, you can’t help but smile. You’ve only ever seen Andrew in black tees, but today he’s in a cream linen short-sleeve button-down tucked into a pair of jeans. He looks much softer, more approachable, the edges of him smoothed out. Touchable.

For Andrew, seeing you in something so damn cute and feminine and sweet turns his knees to spaghetti. It’s been a long time since a girl caught his attention and the lovely, unfamiliar feeling that twists around his throat when he tries to speak is downright addictive. He gives you a nervous smile, shuffling from foot to foot as he tries not to get hard from seeing a goddamn sundress. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

Once his desire to squish you in his arms has faded out, Andrew nods back toward the huge main room and says, “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

“It’s all teenagers in here,” you say under your breath, like it’s some secret. “They come here right after school?”

“Yeah,” Andrew explains, trying and failing to make it sound unimportant, “I set up this youth program thing when we opened for real. They’re mostly system kids or have deadbeat parents. Half of them spent time in juvie. They get in for free and can eat whatever they want, stay whenever they need to, as long as they show me every semester they’re staying in school.”

“Wow, Andrew, that’s…” Your voice trails off as you see the chaos in a new light, seeing it through Andrew’s eyes and Andrew through fresh ones.

Like he needs to fill your reverent quiet, he goes on, “I was a foster kid for a long time. Didn’t do great in the system. If I’d had a place like this where I could’ve stayed out of trouble, I probably would’ve turned out better.”

You give him a warm smile that feels like a blanket in the winter. “Seems like you turned out fine from where I’m standing.”

“Took me a hell of a long time to get here, though.” He gives you a sideways glance and you can tell before he’s even opened his mouth that he’s testing you. “I’ve got a record. Served some time at Folsom. And I wasn’t some dumb kid on a weed charge; I knew what I was doing when I held up the bank. Knew it was wrong.”

As he leads you around the different ramps and rails, you press him, beyond curious, “So why’d you do it?”

He shrugs and tries to sum it up in understandable terms, “Money’s money no matter where it comes from, I guess.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and, looking particularly boyish, like he’s expecting you to run off, asks, “Does that freak you out?”

“No, it doesn’t,” you reply as you study his stiffness and his vulnerability alike. “I’m not an angel either, Andrew.”

“Yeah?” He gives you a charming smirk. “You sure look like one to me.”

Despite the heat rising in your cheeks, you don’t take the bait of the compliment, instead pushing back, “Looks can be deceiving.”

He bites. His eyes scan up and down your body, not objectifying but like an X-ray, trying to see beneath the sweet pastel surface. “How deceiving?”

You pause for a long time, debating. You don’t talk much about your life before moving to Oceanside at 21 and that’s for very good reasons. You’ve got one of those histories that tanks job interviews and scares off dates. But Andrew seems different. Like he’s not going to shy away from you just because of the dualities you hold. So you shrug your shoulders and admit it.

“The only reason I don’t have a record is because a judge took pity on me and had my time in juvie expunged.” You meet his eyes seriously. “I knew what I was doing, too. I hurt someone. Bad.” You swallow, shake your head, and tell him pointedly, “I always make sure I know what I’m getting into. So don’t go around underestimating me.”

His next smile comes with a laugh so lovely you could listen to it forever. “Yes, ma’am, understood.”

“Good.” You nudge him with your hip and press, “Now show me around all the backrooms so I can psychoanalyze you.”

He gives a not-entirely-teasing smirk and replies, “As long as you don’t ditch me because of what you find.”

There’s a lot of truth in your joke, though, as much as in his. You’re much less interested in the skate park as in Andrew’s words as he takes you through it. The thing that strikes you most is how pride simmers out of him when he talks about the place, the most animated you’ve seen him with eye contact that seeks reassurance and small laughs that feel sweet and intimate.

As he leads you around, he introduces you to some of the teens who are clearly interested to see Pope walking around with an actual real-life human woman. You’re surprised that they’re all incredibly respectful and polite; Andrew must set a certain standard for them. Once you’re through the main space, he takes you through a swinging door into a sort of kitchenette with one side as a cut-out counter that overlooks the center space.

Andrew gestures around and explains, “We just opened the food thing a couple months ago. One of the kids told me he started stealing extra food at school because his parents were strung out and never got groceries and I just-” He flexes his fingers at his side and lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah. It’s not much, but it’s something. My brother – not Craig; he’s fucking useless, the other one, Deran – he’s got a bar/restaurant with his boyfriend on the shore and they donate food every night that we stock in the fridge for the next day. I wanna bring in appliances, hire a cook or something, maybe even a free pantry, because right now it’s a stupid system that means I’m driving to and from the bar all the time and-” He cuts himself off and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I, ah, I spend all my time thinking about this place. It comes out all at once sometimes.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you’re quick to reply. “I like hearing your thoughts.”

Something glitters in his hazel eyes. “You do?”

You nod, lower your voice, and tell him, “I think you’re kind of amazing, Andrew. Everything you’ve built here just shows how much you care.”

He’s too stunned to come up with a response to your plain and simple honesty, blotchy blush creeping up his neck.

“I’m a pretty good cook,” you add quickly, shy, cute, hesitant. “I don’t know if you take volunteers, but I could come by sometimes if you end up putting in a stove or something.”

If it means you’ll be here, Andrew will go buy one tonight. He doesn’t say that because he doesn’t want to freak you out, but it’s the truth. He just likes having you around, seeing your softness contrasting with his world, hearing your gentle laugh and lilting voice. Swallowing down his desire to be way too fucking eager, he just says, “That would be great. You’ll have to give me your number so I can keep you updated on the stove situation.”

“Very slick, Mr. Cody.” You take your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. “I was having trouble coming up with an excuse to ask for yours, so I’m glad you did first.”

He makes a happy little sound under his breath as he inputs his number and sends himself a text. “You wouldn’t need an excuse; I’d give you my social security number if you asked nicely. Or not nicely.”

Giggling a bit, you nudge him and reply, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And he wants your laugh tattooed in his ears.

Finally, Andrew shows you his office, where you were briefly last night when Billie ran off. This time, you actually take a minute to observe the details. Unlike the youthful chaos in the main space, the office is a tidy sanctuary with soundproofed walls and blinds that close the space off. You can tell Andrew’s someone who needs a place to escape from the noise. Like you.

On the wall above his desk, there’s a framed full-page newspaper profile with a half-page photo spread of the skate park being built. Andrew and his brothers with shovels and concrete. Andrew shirtless (mouthwatering) as he puts up walls. Then there’s Andrew in the air on his board, the sun silhouetting him before the building was put in around the bowl and ramps. The last picture is a group of middle schoolers all holding up boards toward the camera, Andrew off to the side with a half smile.

A Real 180: Ex-Con’s DIY Skate Park Carves Kids’ Futures

Andrew reminisces as he watches you read the article, “Not the best headline – it’s from some community college paper – but it was the first time I got recognized for something good.”

You wrinkle your brows at the article and observe, “You don’t have a sign out front with the name on it. Why’s it called that – Lena’s?”

Andrew’s expression tightens and he takes a long, deep breath. “I mentioned I had a brother who died, right?”

Beyond curious, you nod.

“Well, he had a daughter. Lena. My niece. I took care of her a while after he died, but she- they-” Shaking his head, he gets choked up for a second. You can tell he doesn’t talk about this often. “I couldn’t take care of her, so she ended up in the system. Like I was. She got adopted by some nice family, though, so that’s good. I guess. Anyway, I, ah, I wanted to- to not forget her. What all happened to her that she couldn’t control. My therapist liked the idea.”

And that’s that. You officially have a big fat crush on him. The tenderness in his voice, the honesty on his tongue, and, yeah, the bulge of his muscles and masculine edges of his features and pretty auburn curls. With an admiring lilt to your tone, you muse, “So this place is, like, you.”

With a laugh, he agrees, “Yeah, I guess it is. Built the ramps, dug out the bowl, poured the concrete and everything myself over one summer. Had to boss my brothers around some, but most of it was me after our mom died.”

Your eyes flicker to him as you try to read his far-away expression. “Were you two close?”

“It’s complicated. Really fucking complicated,” Andrew mumbles back. “Building out the park was kind of my way of grieving, I guess.” He chuckles almost fondly, “Back-breaking labor gives me lots of good time to think.”

Meaning it in so many ways, you tell him, “You must be pretty strong, stud.”

You say it with your eyes positively objectifying his arms, so he preens a little, standing up straighter and maybe flexing a tiny bit. He smirks and stares down at his shoes, mumbling, “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be strong.”

For a second, you purse your lips. You can tell he believes it and you aren’t sure if you know him well enough to argue, but you can’t resist. You hate hearing him talk down about himself, even if it’s part of a backhanded compliment. “You’re definitely not dumb if you can run your own business. You’re observant and handsome and strong and I’m sure there’s more than elevator music behind those hazels.”

“Handsome, huh?”

“Very.”

Then, as his cheeks flare neon pink, you reach out and touch his cheek. His eyes snap upward. For a second, you’re scared you fucked up by breaking the touch barrier, but then he sighs into your hand, practically nuzzling your palm for a second.

After a second, Andrew shakes his head and sighs, “Don’t go stroking my ego; I didn’t even make it to high school.”

After nibbling your lip a second, you decide to say fuck it and tease, “Is that supposed to make me want to ask you out less?” You didn’t think it was possible, but even more blush blooms on his features, down his neck and collarbones now, so you quickly add, “If you wanted to, of course, no, um, no obligation or whatever. I mean, if anything, I owe you for having my back out there on the mean streets and-”

“Do you like the beach?”

You grin and try not to smile too stupidly. “Of course I do.”

“There’s a spot I go to over by my house,” he says, clearly an offering. “It’s nice and private and- Shit, not like I’m trying to get you alone by my house or- I just meant-”

“That sounds nice,” you cut him off, reaching out to squeeze his arm so he’ll stop second guessing himself. “I could put together a picnic. Unless that’s, like, really lame and silly and-”

“Perfect. It’s perfect.” He takes the hand that’s lingering on his arm and winds it with his own fingers. “I’d really like that. A lot. How about Saturday evening? I can get my nephew to watch the place for the night shift; he owes me after some shit he pulled this morning.”

Pope knows he’s done for as soon as you step out of your small car in a sheer coverup over a white swimsuit with a plunging neckline and high-cut sides that show off your hips. He’s leaning against his front porch, holding a picnic blanket, waiting for you to pull up for the last eighty-one minutes because he couldn’t sit still, and he’s just thankful that his dark sunglasses disguise the way his eyes devour every inch of you.

You’re definitely too lovely to be walking toward him. Him in his white tee and five-inch inseam swim shorts that Adrian had made him buy after seeing him wearing too-long ratty trunks he’d had since he was fifteen, feeling exposed by the amount of his thigh showing. Him with his slightly sideways smile and slightly overgrown curls and slightly nervous feet, weight shifting side to side during your approach.

When you give him a huge smile and an enthusiastic wave, he nearly passes out.

Needing something to do with all the energy buzzing around his body, he jogs down the steps and up the driveway to meet you (partially because he wants to make it abundantly clear that he’s not trying to get you inside his house [even if he would really, really like to have you inside his house]). You’ve got one of those soft-sided gingham coolers slung over your shoulder and the very first thing Andrew does is take the weight from you for himself. He’d never let you carry something when his arms are open and available.

“Hi, Andrew.” With your sweet voice curling in his ear drums, you drape your arms around him and kiss his cheek warm and slow. “I’m so happy to see you.”

On the verge of catatonic shock from the tenderness of your Chapstick lips on his skin, Andrew’s stiff arms go to your back, so fucking careful not to grab your waist or land too close to your ass. With his voice earnest and low, he murmurs against your ear, “Me too.”

The way his voice rumbles against your neck makes your toes curl in your sandals. You pull away reluctantly and, with one hand still lingering on his chest, say, “Alright, show me your secret beach spot so I can ask you to put on my sunscreen as an excuse to feel me up.”

Gulp.

Before he can overthink it, Andrew takes your hand in his and leads you down the side of his house and into the sand. Glancing up at the ultra-modern house built effortlessly into the shoreline, you squeeze his hand and say, “You really live this close to the water? You spoiled brat.”

He lets out a low laugh at that. A real one. He’s never been teased by a girl and it settles comfortably over him. You don’t see him as too harsh or too intense; you can be light and joking with him. That’s…nice. Yeah, nice. With a shrug, he half-explains, “I like to go for jogs on the beach in the morning.”

You scoff and cut him a glance. “Which, of course, justifies buying a five-million-dollar house.”

He mumbles, “It was only three and a half.”

You stop in your tracks. “Where the fuck did you get three and a half million dollars?”

“Ah, my mom left me a lot of money when she died.”

You gesture to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back half of the house that look straight out onto the sea. “This kind of money?”

“This isn’t the half of it. You should see my nephew’s place,” he says like it isn’t insane. “I mostly picked it because I can walk to the skatepark from here. I’d be happy in a shoebox.”

“Like my house.”

He vomits out, “Well, y’know, you can stay at mine whenever you want if you don’t like it there.”

You don’t give him a second to doubt his own words, taking one last look at the house and replying cheekily, “Be careful or I’ll take you up on that.”

“Then I’m gonna have to be reckless as hell,” he says, talking directly to his feet. But there’s a cute smirk toying with his lips, one that turns into a smile as he squeezes your hand and tilts his chin toward a small outcropping peninsula, more like an islet connected by a shoal. It’s half rocky, the algae-covered stones cropping up far enough to cast dappled shade over the white sand on the other side. “There’s my spot.”

You follow him dutifully down the shore, kick off your sandals when the sand gets wet, and walk through about an inch of water up the shoal to the small islet. Andrew walks you up to a cozy spot where the rocks are jutting out so there’s total privacy from the handful of people milling around the shoreline. He spreads out the green plaid picnic blanket, so old-worn and soft it’s like fur beneath your fingers, and weighs it down on the corners with nearby stones before setting your cooler down at its center.

Without drawing any attention to it, you strip off your cover-up and grab the tube of sunscreen from one of the cooler’s outer pockets. Before he’s even turned around from adjusting the blanket just so, you tap him on the shoulder and extend the sunscreen.

And, exactly as you’d hoped, his eyes are all over your body. Frankly, it looks like he’s a computer rebooting, blinking rapidly as blush creeps up his neck. After a minute, with his eyes locked on how the swimsuit’s high cut shows off the indent where your hips and thighs and stomach merge. It’s the most delicious few inches of skin he’s even seen. Realizing that he’s staring and that you’re definitely catching him, he mutters, “I like your bathing suit.”

With a cheeky smile, you take a step forward, close enough that he could so easily touch you if he managed the confidence to. Swaying a bit with your hands behind your back, you ask him, “Sure it’s the suit you like?”

He takes the sunscreen from you, gives you a devious smirk, and says, “I like that it’s protecting your skin from the sun. Arms out.”

You raise your eyebrows and comply. “Yes, sir.”

“Careful.”

Andrew isn’t sexy about applying your sunscreen like you’d expected. Not when he has an important task to do. Instead, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, he thoroughly lathers your skin, moving around your bathing suit to get underneath the hems without any agenda or eagerness, even when he’s palming your ass or the sides of your breasts beneath your armpits. It’s serious to him. The fragility of your soft skin compared the brutality of the sun’s afternoon rays.

As he swipes the sunscreen gingerly around your face, Andrew murmurs, “Stop smiling or you’ll get burn wrinkles.”

“Stop being cute and I’ll stop smiling.”

Under his breath, he mutters, struggling to sound offended when he’s so smitten, “I’m not cute.”

“Then I’m not smiling.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re already getting a sunburn,” you reply as he finishes off by doing your ears and the back of your neck, totally thorough with your safety. You know he’s not burning, just blushing, but you don’t want to make fun of him too much for it. You snatch the bottle from his hands, click the cap off, and order, “Your turn. Shirt off.”

His eyebrows fly up. “You don’t need to-”

“I want to, Andrew,” you assure with total confidence in your voice. “I promise I don’t bite.”

As he takes his shirt off and tosses it onto the picnic blanket, he replies, “That’s a shame.”

Openly ogling his chest because it’s a date and you can, you laugh gently, “Maybe if you ask me really, really nicely I could give you a nibble.”

“I can be very nice when I want to.”

“I’ve only seen you be nice.”

“You saw me punch someone’s face in.”

“Yeah, but you were doing that to defend me.” After squirting sunscreen into your palm, you press your hands carefully to the top of his chest and say, “That might not be everyone’s version of nice, but it was really sexy, so there’s probably some overlap there.”

He hums absently, brain now completely occupied with the feeling of your hands on his skin. You notice the immediate effect – the way his shoulders drop in comfort and his eyelashes flutter – and it kindles something in the base of your gut. He’s touch-starved and you can feel it in every muscle tensing and relaxing beneath your fingers. So you slow down. You work the knots in his bulky traps and drag the pressure down his back, which is firm and strong and freckled and so, so nice beneath your thumbs. When you press into the small of his back with your thumbs, slipping just under his shorts to the dimples at the top of his ass and rubbing in slow deep circles, he hangs his head and groans down low, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t respond, deciding to just enjoy yourself. Moving around to his front, you spread sunscreen over his pecs and down his abs. His abs. You give them some extra attention because, y’know, how terrible would it be for him to get a sunburn on them? The whole time, you find yourself singing under your breath, pretty unabashedly feeling up his obliques and sides because the V of his hips is just so offensively delicious.

When he hears your soft voice complimenting the moment, Andrew smiles and tells you, “That’s what made me notice you in the first place. Your singing.”

You laugh and scoff, “Do I sing that loud?”

He nods and chuckles, but it’s affectionate. He’s definitely not making fun of you or judging you. “I can always hear you across the street. The way it starts all soft at the far end of the block and then gets louder when you pass by and then soft again. I look forward to it all day.”

Your hands still on his sides. He opens his eyes at the sudden stop, tilting his head to the side and examining you with careful hazel eyes. Biting your lower lip, you press, “Really?”

“Are you kidding?” Andrew laughs in disbelief, his confidence growing when he realizes you need to see it firsthand. He tugs you close by the waist, stealing your breath a moment, and says, “Every time you run by, I feel so…I don’t know. I’m not good with words and the feelings stuff. But I feel alive, I think is the right word, and that’s- that’s a new thing for me. Completely new. You have this light, I guess, that I’m drawn to. Like a moth. Or a plant. Or something.”

You lean forward, hug him close, and nuzzle into his neck. “That’s actually really beautiful, Andrew. You’re better with the feelings stuff than you think. It doesn’t matter how you say it; what matters is that you feel it.”

“I usually feel too much.”

“Not too much,” you reply sweetly. “Most men pretend they don’t feel anything at all.” You nod toward the picnic blanket and suggest, “If we’re gonna have lovey-dovey-deep-feelings-talk time, do you wanna sit down and eat?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” Andrew’s palms are clammy as he sits down first to give you the choice of where to sit, so scared to overstep or assume with you. With his legs out in front of him and his back against one of the large stones, he jokes, “Expressing a feeling burns a lot of calories for me.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re well fed so you can bear your soul to me.”

You plop down on his lap, weight back on his thighs, facing him, without a care in the world, and reach over to open the cooler. You pluck out a fat, ripe strawberry and press it to his lips, which part open on instinct. When his lips wrap around the fruit and he bites down, a bead of pink juice trails from the corner of his mouth. You catch it with your thumb and lick it off without thinking; a shiver goes down Andrew’s spine as he watches your tongue.

While you eat a strawberry for yourself, he breathes out slowly, “You’re way too pretty. It’s distracting.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease as you feed him a handful of grapes next, nabbing a few off the stem to eat. “I’m sure you get that all the time, though, with that handsome face of yours.”

Trying to hide his smile, he mutters, “Flatterer.”

“Truth teller,” you correct. “You’re cute; you should know about it.”

He doesn’t respond, but his cheeks flush a sweet shade of pink that reveals his thoughts. The two of you eat and joke and talk for a while as the sun climbs down toward the horizon over the mountains on the opposite side from the sea. As his walls come down, his soft smile comes out and he’s able to meet your eyes every time you laugh. The waning sun softens Andrew’s features, brightens the auburn in his curls to fiery orange, and turns his hazel eyes golden.

Once the cooler’s been zipped up and the sun’s throwing shades of lavender and pink over the water, you rest your hands at the back of Andrew’s neck and take a slow, serene breath. Being around him has become easy and simple since you met him, a calm but protective presence you can turn to. As you admire him during a content lull in the conversation, you brush your thumb over his cheek and say, barely above a whisper, intimate and for just him, “You really are beautiful, Andrew.”

Beautiful.

The word sings around Pope’s mind. He doesn’t care if other guys would find it emasculating; it’s everything to him. So he doesn’t joke, deflect, or deny. He just says through the blush, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then you nibble your lower lip, flick your eyes up to his, and ask tentatively, “Could I kiss you?”

Andrew, very simply, can’t speak at the idea that you want to kiss him. So he nods eagerly, eyes widening and pupils dilating, and stares at you. His focus goes to your lips, a silent invitation, and he tries to will himself to close the gap first. But he can’t. He’s frozen in pure desire.

He manages to nod.

That’s enough for you.

Trying not to be too tentative, you wind your fingers in his curls and lean so your lips press to his. It’s gentle and delicate, like you, and Andrew’s melting into a puddle of adoration under you. He makes a low, almost groaning sound as he carefully places his hands on your waist. It’s greedy. It urges you forward. You break the kiss only long enough to smile and giggle quietly. When you scoot forward so he can feel your breasts pressing against his chest, Andrew takes the back seat and Pope comes out. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you, one on your lower back and the other on the back of your head, clutching you tight.

The small, certain show of dominance causes you to moan into his mouth, embarrassing and desperate. But when you instinctively start to pull back to apologize, Andrew shakes his head and tugs you in closer. Kisses you harder. Needs you more. He takes charge even further, tongue swiping the envelope of your lips, parting them, insisting against yours. You drag your hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps, letting yourself be positively hungry as you grab his muscles. And he matches you. Guides you backwards with so much care until you’re flat on your back against the soft blanket, Andrew pinning you down in a way that doesn’t make you feel trapped but protected. Like nothing could get to you while he’s got you there.

Breathless and squirmy, you search his face to find pupils blown wide and lips trembling with lust. So you feel nothing but confidence as you suggest, “Would you want to, um, show me your place?” When he gets that cute kind-of-confused look, you raise your eyebrows and press, “Your bedroom, maybe?”

“Oh. Oh.” His cock twitches and he backs off of you reluctantly, extending his hand to help you to your feet. You press a soft kiss on his lips and collect your things again, which, again, Andrew insists on carrying for you. As he leads you up the shoal and to the side door of his house, he nervously tells you, “Just so you know, I wasn’t expecting for us to- I didn’t want to assume that- It’s, ah, it’s kind of messy.”

Once he’s invited you through the door, where you leave your sandals in the mud room you walk into from the side door, you gaze around the pristine, modern space in wonder. “This is your version of messy? Good thing we aren’t back at mine.”

“I can be kind of a neat freak,” he admits solemnly. In his tone, you can hear a lifetime of internalized judgment.

So you give his bicep another squeeze and say, “Hopefully you’ll rub off on me, then. I could use some pointers.”

He pulls you toward him and, completely serious, says, “I’ll clean your whole place on my knees with a toothbrush if you kiss me again.”

You’re giggling as you lean in. “Is that a promise?”

Grabbing you by the waist, he presses his lips to your again, just as good as the first, and groans, “Absolutely.”

In between fevered kisses, “Better invest in a cute French maid outfit because I’m not gonna stop kissing you any time soon.”

He smiles and it tastes so good against yours. “Is that a promise?”

“Show me your bedroom and you can find out.”

Andrew’s dizzy from the honesty of your desire, so he takes your hand and leads you through his minimally decorated, neat home and up the stairs into a massive lofted suite. It’s a total bachelor pad, the whole top floor gutted into a huge bedroom with a sprawling bathroom including an in-floor jacuzzi tub and a walk-in shower the size of your bedroom with built-in benches and shelves. It’s definitely the sanctuary of a single man who values his alone time.

Andrew stiffens up a bit in his bedroom, feeling a bit too exposed all of a sudden, and asks bashfully, “Would it be alright if we showered before getting into my bed? I kind of have a thing about-”

“Of course it would be okay; I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” you tell him simply, not realizing how much it matters to him. Then you bite your lower lip and ask him with a slight sway in your step, “But could I use that insanely gorgeous tub of yours instead?”

Andrew’s tight lips turn to a smile at the thought of you naked and relaxed in his bathroom. “Yeah, absolutely. Let me show you how to use the jets.”

The tub is at the center of the bathroom suite, the shower offset behind a divider on one side and the sinks on the other with the toilet set off in its own large water closet behind a door. Andrew walks ahead of you and draws the bath, his simple domesticity lighting a fire inside of you. As he places a few different bath products on the edge of the tub for you to choose from, you easily strip out of your swimsuit, knowing that Andrew’s eyes will make you feel nothing but secure,

When he straightens up and sees the slopes and curves of your nude form, Andrew lets out a slow, long breath. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Carefully stepping down into the hot water, you recline and gaze up at him. “And you have an excellent bathtub.”

He bends down and kisses your forehead. “Hopefully that’ll convince you to stick around.”

With the jets punching into your back just right, you hum, “You’re definitely racking up points like crazy here.”

He glitters at that. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhm,” you croon slowly as you melt into relaxation. “You’re sweet and handsome and kind. I have a feeling you like to spoil a girl rotten.”

Giving you a gentle spiderman-style kiss, he grins. “Damn straight.”

You kiss him back and then reluctantly push him upward. “Now go and have you shower so I can get you off.”

With a play shiver, he shakes his head and says, “Yes, ma’am.”

Disappointingly, you don’t get a good look at his naked body as he disappears behind the divider and into the steam of the shower. Damned delayed gratification. Your pussy is definitely aching for him already, keeping your mind activated. With the mild bergamot soap collection Andrew’s left by your side – an incredibly sexy choice for a buff, masculine guy – you wash the sea and sweat from your skin until you feel completely relaxed and smooth.

By the time you hear the shower turning off, you’re totally blissed out from the jets and the aromatherapy (and the way Andrew sometimes grunts as he scrubs himself down. You don’t even notice him stepping out, wrapping his hips in a towel, and standing over you with a content expression, imagining what it would be like to have this sight in front of him on a regular basis.

Sounding amused, Andrew asks in that gravely voice of his, “You wanna dry off and let me eat you out now or should I leave you alone with your new best friend a while?”

With a serene smile, eyes still closed, you reply, “Hmm?”

“Gotcha, I’ll head out, then,” he chuckles. “I’ve got some projects I should get working on, anyway, and-”

You flick some water at him as you slowly stand up, stretching your arms above your head in a way that drives Andrew clinically insane. He offers a hand to help you out and you take it, glowing under the way his eyes trace the droplets that cascade over your breasts and down your soft stomach.

Then he bends down and drags his tongue from your bellybutton, up your sternum, and over your neck, not stopping until his lips meet your softly gasping mouth. Every nerve in your body shocks to life as he kisses you urgently, snapping a towel off the nearby rack to hastily dry you off. The soft towel in his rough hands energizes all of your muscles. You’re still a little unsteady on your feet from the warm bath, so you grip onto him, arms around his neck, and he groans in response.

Unable to resist, Andrew guides you backwards, toward the countertop, and begins to feel you up in earnest, the way he would’ve on the beach if he weren’t scared of being too possessive too fast. The truth is that he’s already obsessed with you. He has been for longer than he’d ever admit to you, his brothers, or even his therapist. He wants to devour every part of you as often as he can, to bring you into his life, to build up all the good in you and let it wash over his darkness.

With you giggling and moaning in tandem, Andrew hoists you up onto the counter and kneels down in front of you. Before you have time to think, much less question, he’s spreading your legs and diving between them. Water drips down your shins and lands on the floor, but Andrew can’t bring himself to care with your tart juices coating his tongue. His name slips out of your mouth in a needy cry and his eyes roll back, closing with ecstasy.

Andrew’s greedy hands travel to your hips to hold you tight against his mouth as you grapple for balance on the counter, one hand gripping its edge and the other fisting in Andrew’s damp curls. He grunts at the sting on his scalp, nodding to encourage you to be even meaner with it. So you do. It’s not your usual style, but you grind down against his tongue, showing him exactly where he needs to use his tongue. When you manage to rasp out a whimpering, “right there,” Andrew nods happily and gets to work, lapping at your clit like it’s an oasis in the desert of his life. Like your body can baptize him.

You can’t rip your eyes from his rapturous expression as pleasure warms your belly. You’ve never seen a man looking so at peace between a woman’s legs. His thoughts turn into a gentle breeze and he focuses on your every little sound and twitch. You’re not loud, but you’re constant, sounds feminine and breathy and music. And the way you squirm under his hands, involuntarily twitching and bucking. He wonders absently how long it’s been since a man made you cum like this because you seem barely in control of yourself, tumbling headfirst into overwhelming pleasure.

With you on the verge of losing yourself down his chin, his cock is agonizingly hard. It truly borders on painful, red and angry and leaking. When your thighs start to tighten around Andrew’s head, your moans going even softer from the intensity, Andrew can’t resist giving himself some relief by pumping his cock with his right hand. The contact makes more groans vibrate against your pussy and, all of a sudden, you can’t take it for another second.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, thighs completely muffling Andrew’s hearing, but he keeps his hand tight on your hip, clutching you close so that you can’t wriggle away. Toes curling, chest heaving, and eyes pinching shut, your pussy begs to be filled as it clenches against itself. Andrew drinks in every bead of your arousal that drips down when you cum.

Andrew places soft, loving kisses on the sensitive insides of your thighs as you come down from the orgasm. When he straightens up, he’s got a self-satisfied grin on his lips. An orgasm is concrete, undeniable proof that he’s done good work. Then you lean forward and kiss him with an unfamiliar fervor, so adoring it steals his breath for a moment, and it’s cemented in his mind.

In between bruising, demanding kisses, you beg, “Want your cock. Want you to fuck me.”

“Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he murmurs, lips only a millimeter from yours. When you obey without question, he smiles, scoops you up below your ass, and carries you back into the bedroom. He spins you around sweetly and you’re able to get a proper look at his bed for the first time. It’s not the pristine linens and carefully arranged pillows that catch your attention.

You gawk, “Jesus, this bed is gigantic.”

Andrew flops you down onto it to make you laugh, shrugs, and replies modestly, “When in California, get a California king.” He opens up his bedside table, removes an unopened box of condoms, and fishes one out. You give him a cheeky look at the new box and he mutters, “Don’t make fun of me; I don’t get a lot of action.”

You give him a warm, affectionate smile. “Good; I want you all to myself.”

Andrew huffs out a chuckle as he rolls on the condom. He joins you on the bed and kisses you hard. before murmuring,  “You have me.” Then, poising the head of his cock at your soaked entrance, chest blotchy red and eyes black and breaths heavy and lips shiny and swollen, Andrew asks gently, “Are you sure?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. “Completely and totally.”

But his eyes still search your face for any signs of doubt, any proof that he isn’t good enough for this, any reason to stop and save you from him. So he holds your cheek and whispers, “Swear?”

“Please.” With your hands on his hips to encourage him forward, you assure him, “I’ve never been more certain I want someone to fuck me.” You pull his head down by his curls and kiss him. “Just let go, honey. I want you.”

So, after a shaky nod, he sinks inside of you in one slow, deep thrust. It’s the first time he’s been grateful for a condom slightly dulling the sensation because your cunt is gripping him so perfectly he would’ve cum seconds after slipping inside of you. He still shudders and grips his headboard so tight it nearly splinters when he bottoms out and you give him a breathless moan. At least that thin barrier lets him savor you. It’s not really about getting his dick wet for Pope, anyway. He’s not like Craig or Baz. For him it’s the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your nails dig into his strong ass, the way you lean up to get him to kiss you if he stops looking at you for even a second.

The whole time he’s inside of you, Andrew holds you close. One hand on the back of your head, the other on your waist to steady you against his hard thrusts. Soon enough, it’s not close enough, and he’s got you on his lap, trying to make sure you have as much control as you want, cradling your back with his large hands, pressing your chests together as you whine into his neck. He can only bear to move one of his hands when you plead, “Touch me, Andy.”

Pope shivers. He can’t remember the last time someone called him that. The last time he felt so wretchedly and perfectly seen. His hand slides from between your shoulder blades to your neck, briefly stopping to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, down the soft swell of your stomach, and finally between your legs. He never stops touching you the whole way. 

Hovering his thumb right above your clit, the lack of contact driving you crazy, Andrew murmurs, “You called me Andy.”

You bite your lip and start to ask, “Is that not-”

Then his thumb lands on your clit, knowing and thunderous, and your question dies in your throat, replaced by a hard moan. He kisses you hard and admits a little too earnestly, “I liked it.”

With your greedy walls pulsing around him, you swear against his lips, “I’ll call you anything you want if you always fuck me like this.”

The only word he can growl is, “Always.”

That word turns your brain to happy mush. Everything gets more intense at the idea that you’ve got Andrew for as long as you want. This isn’t a one-and-done thing for either of you. Andrew bucks his hips up into you with animalistic force. Your tits bounce in his face and he catches one of your nipples in his mouth. Your toes curl into your mattress and your hips falter, stuttering on either side of him.

Andrew doesn’t even give you a second to collect yourself. He wraps his arms around you and flips you onto your back, sinking his cock deeper as your legs get pushed back, nearly to your head. His thumb goes to your clit, precise and firm, and you start to whimper and gasp more than moan, overwhelmed by how good it feels to be with him. Yes, him, specifically, because of the way his body conforms to yours, every inch of him responding to every inch of you. When he feels your second orgasm tightening up around his cock, he has to bite down to stave off his own. He barely even registers that he’s biting down on your neck, sucking hard and digging in. It makes pleasure spark up your spine as you let out a harsh cry.

When your walls grip down on him like a vise, Andrew’s body hurtles over the edge, vibrant and intense and overwhelming after holding himself back for your pleasure. The whole time, he’s grunting praise in your ear. So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you.

The two of you stay tangled up together long after he goes soft. He only briefly moves to tie off the condom and lob it into the nearby trash. He’s pretty much laying on top of you and, honestly, it’s really nice. Like a weighted blanket you can time your breaths and heartbeats with. A weighted blanket that litters gentle kisses over your face and chest and shoulders and tells you how lovely you are over and over.

You separate naturally, neither of you really initiating it. Then, as you stretch your arms above your head and prepare to stand the rest of the way up, Andrew asks tentatively, “Would you want to stay over? You can borrow some of my clothes.”

Your grin spreads wide and easy; Andrew doesn’t really strike you as the kind of man who offers to share his living space lightly. So you stand, drape your arms around him once more, and reply, “I’d love that. I gave Billie dinner and her evening run before I left, so you just have to have me home before breakfast.”

Kissing up your neck, he murmurs, “If you want, I could join you. Make you some real breakfast and go on your morning run with the two of you.”

“Yeah?” Your smile lights up into Megawattage territory. “You’d do that?”

Andrew shrugs like it’s not a huge deal to either of you. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition. Wouldn’t wanna cramp your style.”

“Can I still sing?”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Would you sing along?”

He kisses you and laughs, “Don’t push your luck, angel.”

You peck the tip of his nose and bat your eyelashes teasingly. “I always do.”

Andrew just shakes his head and goes to his closet to grab pajamas for you both. Once you’re cozy in one of his 800 soft, worn black tees (you forego panties), he finds a brand new toothbrush for you in his bathroom, not that it’s hard since he’s one of those people who actually replaces his toothbrush every three months. While you brush and wash your face, Andrew’s eyes rove along your body, cataloguing the myriad of small marks he’s left on you. Most are small and forgettable, but he’s left a few possessive, intense hickeys over your neck and breasts. But you just keep smiling at him every time you catch his eyes in the mirror. You’re not upset with him. In fact, you love looking like you belong to him already.

While Andrew goes through the house to shut off the lights and lock the doors, you make yourself comfortable in his massive bed and absently scroll on your phone. When he comes back up the stairs, he lingers to watch you for a moment. He definitely likes the look of you in his bed.

After a minute of wrestling with it, debating if he’s just too crazy for his own good, Andrew asks softly, “Would you mind sleeping on the other side?”

You shake your head, scoot across the bed toward the wall, and reply, “Didn’t mean to steal your spot. 50/50 chance.”

“It’s not that,” he replies. He sits next to you and sighs, sounding embarrassed, “Not gonna be able to sleep unless I’m between you and the door. Just in case. I know that’s stupid, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” you’re quick to interrupt. The truth is that it makes you feel so safe you could explode with adoration, but that might be a little much to say on your first night together. So instead you tell him, “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re watching out for me.”

Andrew kisses your temple, unable to quite voice how much your easy acceptance means to him. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You kiss him for another minute, just slow and lazy, until you’re both relaxed and sleepy. He can’t stop himself from shaking his head and smiling in between. Even when he’s turned the lights off and closed his eyes, Andrew’s mind is soft and light. Hell, he might actually sleep more than a few hours.

As you slowly drift toward unconsciousness, you turn onto your side and instinctively rest your head on Andrew’s shoulder. When he moves his arm, you tuck onto his chest, your eyelashes brushing his bare skin and your breath prickling his nerves. Then you sling a leg over his hip, too, and he brings his hand to rest on the curve just above your ass, arm settling like it was made to be there with you.

This is all new for Andrew. He’s never had a woman curl into him like this, nestling into his chest and treating him like a body pillow. Showing him trust at her absolute most vulnerable. He breathes in the scent of his own shampoo on your hair. With slightly trembling hands – the weight of your trust is heavy – he cradles you, one arm around your lower back and his dominant hand on the back of your head. When you coo gently and press a kiss to his bare chest, Andrew’s heart pounds like he’s run a mile.

You’re his.

And he’s not letting go.

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[sweeterthan13]

oh my god what if i just throw myself into oncoming traffic

[navybrat817]

Drive You Home

Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader

Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.

He can’t help but fall for you.

But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.

He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.

He wants to be someone you can come home to.

Word Count: Over 12.2k

Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep. 

Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you. 

His favorite passenger. 

Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights. 

He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk. 

He liked it when you talked to him. 

“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled. 

Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days. 

He liked to think it gave him a refined look. 

Something you might notice.

The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him. 

Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.

It didn’t stop him from hoping. 

He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat. 

The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that. 

It sounded right coming from you. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.

There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip. 

“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you. 

The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable. 

He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence. 

“We made it through another day,” you sighed. 

“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.

You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm. 

He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”

“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”

Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue. 

“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”

He already knew what it was.

“Protein bar?”

“Protein bar,” you confirmed. 

He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand. 

You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then. 

Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior. 

Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said. 

It was a thoughtful thing for you to do. 

“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there. 

Something soft… and real.

Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had. 

You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there. 

“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”

“Same trip as always,” you replied. 

Of course.

A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew. 

Every Thursday.

He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.

Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home. 

He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”

Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you. 

Never you. 

You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”

He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”

“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said. 

It wasn’t always easy to do that. 

“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”

He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”

You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.

“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on. 

“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster. 

“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper. 

You really were something.

“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly. 

A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”

Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there. 

“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”

She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket. 

She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.

The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.

He certainly talked about you enough to her.

He talked about you with his younger sister, too. 

“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”

Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy. 

“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”

You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”

And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice. 

“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”

He liked to think so.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”

“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.

Because he had been counting.

“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”

It seemed like only yesterday to him.

He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind. 

The kindest passenger he had that day.

“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!” 

“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.

“Same thing!” 

He was a goner.

Every week his crush grew stronger.

But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more. 

“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”

Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently. 

His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.  

He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.

“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.

The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend. 

Not once. 

But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?

His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression. 

I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants. 

I just wish it was me.

“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”

For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.

Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.

…I’m in deep. 

“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.

That made him pause. 

“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”

Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it. 

It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?

Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.

“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”

A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said. 

He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.

Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…

He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there. 

“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”

He huffed out a laugh. “No.”

Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver. 

“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”

You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”

“They’re not bad,” he said casually.

As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.

“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”

He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled. “You better.”

The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. 

Or it might mean everything.

He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”

You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him. 

He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous. 

Always. 

“Anytime.”

You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You look nice today, too,” you said.

It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest. 

“Yeah?” he managed to ask. 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”

It was an echo of his own words to you. 

Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he whispered.

He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled. 

You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of. 

But he was just your driver. 

Nothing more. 

“I’m in trouble,” he muttered. 

By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand. 

You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice. 

“Hey,” he said once you got in. 

“Hey,” you echoed, settling in. 

“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road. 

“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”

He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”

“Did you have a good night?”

It was the best night because he got to see you again. 

“Not too bad,” he answered. 

You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”

You could have takeout with me.

“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”

Why did I say that?

“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”

He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”

“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”

Because you’re… you.

It was quiet for the rest of the ride. 

He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest. 

A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”

You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime.”

“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”

“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”

He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot. 

A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile. 

It was him. 

There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue. 

BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!

His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief. 

You mentioned him to your family?

“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?” 

“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”

He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in. 

You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered. 

His heart felt full. 

And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling. 

“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”

“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle. 

You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within. 

She feels something, right? It can’t just be me. 

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”

He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real. 

Or… maybe he just imagined it. 

“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”

“Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”

You smiled softly before you got out. 

He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe. 

But he didn’t take it.

He kept that line drawn. 

You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.

His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.

Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.

Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”

Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything. 

He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.

For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.

Coward. Life’s too short.

He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”

Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday. 

He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you. 

Not at all.

And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.

Just because she said I look nice…

He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.

Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”

He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut. 

“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.” 

The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.

Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”

Maybe he did.

Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. 

“Thanks, punk.”

He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.

Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.

And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.

Eventually.

His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.

There you were again.

The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down. 

Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.

The instinct hit him harder than before.

Yeah. I’m royally fucked.

He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care. 

There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.

It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.

“Same thing,” you murmured. 

“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.

“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.

He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.

It didn’t belong there.

Is she okay? Was work extra rough?

He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”

Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.

Let me help however I can.

“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”

“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”

“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”

“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”

You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else. 

He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.

“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”

He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.

“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”

His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt. 

I chose well. 

“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”

You giggled. “It sure does.”

He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.

He felt like he could breathe again.

“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”

“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”

“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”

“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”

“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.

You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”

“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”

“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”

He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”

You smiled. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”

And I’m just your driver.

Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered. 

He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”

Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.

“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.

“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.

His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”

Sergeant Barnes.

It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened. 

You remembered.

“Of course, I do.”

The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.

“Here we are,” he said minutes later.

“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”

He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.

“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“That’s really sweet, Buck.”

He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”

Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”

They made him feel cool by giving him the card. 

“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”

“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good. 

Say something. Do something. 

But he didn’t. 

There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting. 

But why did it feel like you were disappointed?

“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he exhaled.

He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.

Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up. 

“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.

He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.

But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?

At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?

His phone buzzed. 

Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”

Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”

Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt. 

But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment. 

Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”

Bet? What fucking bet?

Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”

Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”

He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both. 

And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn. 

The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you. 

He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay. 

And you still gave him a smile when you got in. 

Smiling like she’s happy to see me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”

“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.” 

“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”

“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.” 

That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”

“The coolest.”

He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more. 

“Did you have a good night?” 

“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered. 

And thinking of you. Always thinking about you. 

He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way. 

To hold you would be a gift.

“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place. 

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag. 

You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”

Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too. 

It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number. 

You gave him your phone number. 

His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.

“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”

His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot. 

You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.

“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”

“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”

You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. 

He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better. 

This felt more right. 

“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”

You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle. 

He couldn’t look away from you if he tried. 

“Good night, Buck.”

“Good night.”

Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.

He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real. 

Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional. 

But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up. 

“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”

Still counting like me. 

“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”

A neutral message. Polite. Professional. 

“I’m still in trouble.”

And he grinned like an idiot because of it.

You messaged him on Friday night.  

He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.

MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”

His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof. 

A full minute was enough time. 

“And?”

He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt. 

MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”

A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”

MFP: “I trust you.”

That made his breath catch. 

He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”

She meowed happily. 

He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone. 

You messaged him again an hour later. 

MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”

He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”

He deleted it and started over.

“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”

MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”

Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”

MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”

That was a win in his book.

You didn’t message him again until Saturday night. 

MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”

He smiled immediately. 

“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”

MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”

“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”

MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”

He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful. 

“You, too.”

He read the message again after sending it. 

Maybe it was another message that was too short. 

And it was too late to erase it. 

You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday. 

MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”

He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline. 

“There’s no cat like Al.”

MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”

He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene. 

“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”

MFP: “I’m honored.”

He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day. 

It was his turn to message you first. 

“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”

He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough. 

MFP: “Do I have to have water?”

He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face. 

“Need you to stay hydrated.”

Because he cared.

MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”

You’re too good to live on stubbornness. 

“Still need water.”

MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”

Oh, that did something to him. 

MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”

“I will.”

He would for you. 

He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday. 

That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you. 

But he checked his phone more than he should have. 

You messaged him first thing on Wednesday. 

MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”

Relief hit him faster than he expected. 

“Almost. You surviving?”

There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice. 

MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”

He frowned a little. 

“Hang in there.”

He hesitated before adding another message. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was another pause. 

MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He stared at it longer than he meant to. 

Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it. 

He sent one more message before he could stop himself. 

“Can’t wait.” 

He meant it. 

Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.  

Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.

Almost. 

Tonight could be a turning point.

Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.

Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”

Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”

He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.

Like it’s that easy.

He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.

The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before. 

It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.

Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you. 

It didn’t sit right with him at all.

“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it. 

“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.

Same thing.

You didn’t say it. 

You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge. 

There were no comments on anything. 

Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.

Something was wrong.

I fucked this up, didn’t I? 

He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped. 

He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either. 

Maybe you expected more and he let you down.

Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back. 

“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”

“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”

He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”

He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.

He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.

“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.

“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”

The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.

It worried him.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”

He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job. 

You weren’t most people there, were you?

Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.

Like Becca said… you care.

“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”

You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”

He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”

He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment. 

His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up. 

“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”

You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.

“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”

A sense of purpose. A mission. 

“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”

“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”

He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.

“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”

He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”

He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression. 

“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished. 

“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”

You make me feel like I matter. 

“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”

Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that. 

What needs fixing?

“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”

You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.

He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.

“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.

He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little. 

“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.

“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say. 

Lean on me if you aren’t.

Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.

His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.

You weren’t okay.

For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it. 

But something told him he was about to find out.

By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth. 

It had to have helped. 

…Right?

His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.

It cracked.

You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.

What the hell happened?

You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully. 

Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin. 

He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful. 

He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.

You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.”

The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same. 

The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.

And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.

His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him. He was just…

Your breath hitched on the next turn. 

He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.

He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too. 

Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you. 

He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile. 

It’s okay to break with me. 

“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”

“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”

“Hey…” he whispered again. 

You don’t need to be strong tonight. 

You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”

“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”

Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away. 

He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.

 But he wanted to be there for you.

“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”

That did it. 

A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.

His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.

You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.

“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”

Your words were like a punch to the gut.

Oh, no…

“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”

His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering. 

“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”

His throat went tight. 

“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

It all made sense now. 

The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.

While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.

Alone.

And he couldn’t fix it for you.

“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”

Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do. 

“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”

Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.

Not anymore.

His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him. 

Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you. 

“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”

He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…

“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear.  “And you do. You have such a big heart.”

You cried harder, making him hold you closer. 

“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back. 

Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort. 

You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”

Like me being a coward about my feelings for you. 

You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked. 

“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”

You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”

Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again. 

“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”

Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall. 

“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”

You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.

“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”

“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. 

Say whatever you need to. I got you.

“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”

You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears. 

“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted. 

Bucky froze completely. 

You exhaled shakily, like you said too much. 

“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.

I’m the best part of your week? 

Not work, your friends, or even your family?

Me?

Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.

But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter. 

Him.

And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?

His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way. 

Maybe you wanted him, too.

If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?

Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.

“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.

He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine. 

You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired. 

You had a good reason to feel tired.

But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe. 

You’re safe with me.

The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.

Neither of you moved right away when he parked. 

“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”

It wasn’t a question or suggestion.

Should’ve been doing that since the first night. 

“I’d like that,” you uttered. 

“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable. 

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”

You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”

“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”

He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him. 

Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one. 

He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over. 

And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it. 

You took it. 

Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both. 

It felt like your hand belonged with his. 

It feels right. 

He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out. 

The hurt was still there, but you were safe.

You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand. 

The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper. 

He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind. 

Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number. 

Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”

The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list. 

How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks. 

The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.

The way you said he’s the best part of your week. 

The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you. 

Time to erase the line for good. 

He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”

You gazed at him expectantly. 

“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”

Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue. 

“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”

That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.

Just say it. 

“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”

Your breath caught enough that he felt it. 

“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air. 

Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone. 

You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.

“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”

Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company. 

“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.” 

A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm. 

“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”

You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight. 

“I’d like that,” you said 

The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine. 

“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”

Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you. 

Tomorrow?

His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this. 

“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly. 

You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”

Too fast?

I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this. 

“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”

“It is?”

“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”

Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on. 

“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”

“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”

He laughed. “Number seven?”

“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening. 

“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”

“It’s a date,” you whispered.

A date.

You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything. 

The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in. 

But he didn’t kiss you. 

Tonight wasn’t about that. 

His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time. 

“I’ll text you,” he murmured. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

And I’ll be counting down the minutes. 

You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”

He memorized the way you gazed at him,  basking in that glow. “Good night.”

You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves. 

He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again. 

He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.

Dinner and a movie. 

You wanted to spend time with him. 

“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat. 

His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.

When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him. 

His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message. 

Of course, it was you. 

MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”

It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door. 

“Thanks for letting me help.”

He made a difference tonight. 

He almost set the phone down when another message popped up. 

MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”

He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?

“Yeah?”

Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter. 

MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”

He reread the message until the screen went dark. 

Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him. 

Becca would want to meet you. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face. 

“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”

As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you. 

MFP: “You already have.”

The additional layer of assurance did wonders. 

MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”

There it was. 

Soft, familiar, and you. 

“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”

MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away. 

He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions. 

For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go. 

But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket. 

Fifteen Thursdays.

Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave. 

And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more. 

You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. 

Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him. 

He was counting down the minutes. 

And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it. 

Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[sweeterthan13]

OH DEAR GOD I LOVE THIS

[joelmillersbitch]

Jack Abbot Fic Recs

the great war (1) morning glory (2) - @dearwalker

dancing in the dark - @inknopewetrust

the jack abbot fan club - @inknopewetrust

unleashed - @lauraneedstochill

Casual - @wordssforworldss

like real people do (1) like or like like (2) more than words (3) kiss it better (4) - @thatcorporategirlie

old bets - @bitters-n-sweets

fall in love (again and again) - @cryonme

you should've asked - @deliciousangelfestival

i got a bad desire - @inknopewetrust

gorgeous - @dearwalker

eight years, apparently - @solaceinruin

hoarding you - @inkdippedquills

jack coming home - @fluffy-duck0

on me - @snoopysupe

honestly is the best policy - @moondustfairies

soft dom jack - @santosprincess

this adorable blurb - @secretlovezz

the space between - @wonderlalicend

night shift - @lilyswritings

spare keys - @bitters-n-sweets

loose cannon and gunpowder - @inkdippedquills

It is what it could be (2) (3) (4) - @inkdippedquills

stained with you - @lauraneedstochill

this - @glamorizethechaos

steady love - @pope-codys

yours - @midnghtprentiss

weather the storm - @lovableapocalypse

french toast and nutella - @thatcorporategirlie

only yours - @witchbitchlovesdilfs

part two

[sweeterthan13]

👀👀👀