I’m probably gonna get hate for this but I don’t understand the Michael robinavitch glaze like someone please explain it to me genuinely. He was like a genuine asshole season one and in season two and I cannot get over the fact that he yelled at that ice agent which intern got. Jesse arrested. I understand that his mental health is terrible and he’s suicidal. He was like shouting at the rooftops every 30 minutes in season two but that does not excuse any of his actions not to mention literally everyone in dayshift has terrible mental health as well. They’re all complex complex character characters. he just happens to be a complex character one I don’t fucking like.
it’s genuinely insane that he yelled at his samira About being too emotional and her mommy issues not to mention, he yelled at her in front of a group of their coworkers and don’t even get me started on that God awful “apology” , when let’s not forget it’s revealed later on in season two he also has mommy issues. He probably has daddy issues too honestly 😭🤷🏽♀️.he’s the head chief and he acts like a goddamn teenager. Like the way he went out of his way to avoid Langdon. That entire shift was crazy. You’re a grown man talk to him or when he also yelled at Dana for asking him what the hell is going on with him and also the whole him offering his apartment to Whitaker to try to do some damage control over the whole Amy situation was also highly inappropriate. Like he is really an egotistical sexist mediocre white man actually less than mediocre he’s the bottom of the barrel. it probably doesn’t help that I don’t like Noah Wiley, either . I just genuinely want to see what people seeing him.
It’s so crazy because believe it or not I had First entered the pit fandom through him because I did like him to begin with then I watched season one and then season two came out and Jack Abbott popped up on my screen. It was a done deal. Not to mention the X reader fix also made me not like him because you’re just sometimes a lot of the times let him get away with so much from what I’ve seen not seeing everybody does it I’ve just seen it enough to know I think it’s weird. Thank you for coming to my ted talk I hope to make another post. Disclaimer I am not trying to come for the people who actually like him. I’m just coming for him as a character 🤷🏽♀️
I would love to see someone write a fanfic of Andrew “pope” Cody with a black reader because I feel like a black woman would heal him and they would be a good vibe with his brothers and hate smurf that’s it that’s the tweet
Genuine question for Animal Kingdom fans, why are so many incest fics written for pope? I mean I get it in the sense of hes hot but why do you make him your uncle?
Curious if anyone would be open to writing for the more niche Shawn characters, like Duffy from 11:14, Charlie from Chicago PD, Terry from Reckless, Boyd from Dexter, Eddie from Down to You.
one thing that BLACK!FEM!READER–aka DOC–does after her sabbatical is experiment with her hair. she finds it as a form of therapy. it's freeing, the playing around with different styles. switching back and forth whenever she wants, however she wants. it's proof of her finding herself again, truly, after divorcing robby. it helps her feel alive again...
Not to sound like a geriatric but back in my day we tagged “daddy kink” so people could filter it out. Fam I may have daddy issues and a taste for older men but I will not be calling a man daddy. Please tag that shit appropriately!
I am fuming right now. If you are going to have the reader commit suicide at the end of your multichapter fic that is something you need to warn about at the beginning. Not spring it on people in the epilogue.
That is such a big fucking trigger for people. Especially when initial warnings said slight angst, mostly fluff.
OK guys please help me out. Are there any Jack X reader fics where the reader is confident in herself and she stands up for herself like she’s a diva because a lot of these fics she’s really insecure and she’s shy and she doesn’t stand up for herself and she just lets everybody treat her like shit or her and Jack get into a argument and she’s clearly in the right, but then she ends up apologizing first like COME ON PEOPLE. Also, I am sick and tired of reading fix where the reader is pregnant and she goes through the entire pregnancy by herself because like her love interest was like oh I don’t want kids or they get into argument so she ends up leaving and then she ends up GIVING the child his last name like SERIOUSLY 😒 the only time I actually see a confident reader or where she has some self-esteem is when the reader is specifically like black or Latina.
Congrats on 1000 followers!!!! That's a huge milestone to hit! You're amazing writer and I always devour any fics you write, and tend to go back and reread them.
For my request, could you do Jack Abbot who is dating a Black social worker? I loved your fic of Robby and the public defender, honestly one of my faves that you written, and would love to see how Jack would do with someone who may either push him to see things from a different perspective or them both trying to work the system to help people
Loved this request!!!!! And thank you!!!
Incredibly enough two of my friends are black social workers and I shamelessly stole a lot of the elements of this story from things they’ve shared with me.
Sorry it took so long for me to get to this. My jaw surgery really messed with my ability to do much of anything this week. I’m still working my way though another dozen or so requests that will be posted over the next few weeks.
Hope you enjoy!!!!
Pairing: Jack Abbot x black!reader
TW: discussion of medical racism
-- -- --
Hospitals have an interesting rhythm that you discovered the longer you worked in the Pitt. There would be overwhelming waves that seemed to capsize anyone moving a normal speed, but there were also lulls that seemed to put doctors and nurses more on edge than anything else. It wasn’t surprising that biggest disagreements were spurred from these lulls.
“Mr. Smith,” Jack sighed. His patience was thinning. You weren’t sure if it was obvious to the man refusing treatment, but it was beyond clear to you.
Jack had a tendency to cross his arms very tightly when he got frustrated. Robby’s frustration manifested with a haphazard rubbing against his neck, Dana’s looked like her frown would become a permanent fixture on her beautiful face, Trinity and Javadi both tended to get big and gesture wildly. Picking up on these cues were not always important to the job you were doing, but it never hurt to know how the person you were working with was feeling.
“Dr. Abbot,” you cut in. He pinned you with a sharp look and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. He cared, that was obvious and, most of the time, a very good thing. Right now, the caring was turning into pushiness which would absolutely not be successful. “Why don’t we give Mr. Smith a few minutes to think about his options and we can come back?”
Politeness forced you to phrase it like a question, but you stood and began to usher Jack out of the patient’s room. He left the room with a deliberate slowness that reminded you of when your nieces and nephews would be sent to bed, but keep lingering just in case an adult changed their minds. He lingered too long at the door and you nearly pushed him into the hallway of the Pitt.
When the door had shut, Jack turned on you with annoyance lining every inch of his stance.
“What was that? We were making progress.”
“We were not,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose; this was your main indication of annoyance. It mainly manifested around Jack.
“He’s killing himself!” Jack insisted. “We could push for a psych hold.”
“Absolutely not,” you said sharply.
Rarely, if ever, did your tone with your colleagues ever stray from calm and genial social worker. You knew if you ever lost your temper the perception of you would be different. Meaning, that even when the fiery rage of injustice licked against your ribs and throat, you swallowed it. For just a moment, it peaked through. Jack was able to see a hint of the real anger that lurked underneath your placid work persona.
“We can’t sit here and let him die. He has pneumonia. We can fix that!”
“We can. But his concerns are understandable,” you replied, simply. Tamping down on your anger was second-nature by this point.
“It’s not understandable to think that doctors would experiment on him,” Jack hissed.
You had always liked Jack. He was fearless and, under the right circumstances, even funny. During weak moments, you fantasized about how his hands might feel on your touch-starved skin. While some doctors languished in their decision making, Jack was quick and decisive. It made your job much easier.
More often than not, he would defer to you. He didn’t trust you the way Robby trusted Kiara—that felt more like a man who was happy to have one less thing on his plate. Instead, Jack treated you like an equal, someone who had different, but no less important, expertise. Perhaps, that is what made his push-back so annoying.
That or the fact you’d woken up in his bed only a few hours ago—but that was neither here nor there.
“Dr. Abbot,” you sighed.
“Jack,” he corrected reflexively, like he had multiple times before you somehow wound up in his bed chanting his name while making you cum with his mouth.
“Dr. Abbot,” you pressed forward, sitting your tablet and bag on the counter of the annex nurse’s station you were standing against. “Medical racism is not just ignoring pain or jumping to stereotyped conclusions. It is a prevalent history of white doctors experimenting on black patients without their consent or knowledge.”
“It’s 2026. There are guidelines and ethics. There’s no way we could get away with it now,” he protested. You doubted that, but instead said,
“For Mr. Smith all he knows is that th Tuskegee experiment last forty years. That black bodies were stolen and used to experiment on with now repercussions. In Philly, doctors experimented on incarcerated men, most of whom were black. The city didn’t apologize until 2022. At my last hospital there was still an attending who thought black people felt less pain than white people,” you rattled off. “This is real life. His real life and my real life.”
“And I get that—” Jack began.
“You don’t,” you said simply. “That’s okay, but you really don’t. You cannot logic that man out of his emotional history.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? Because if he doesn’t get the meds, he’ll die.”
“Let me talk to him, alone.”
“Fine. But if he doesn’t come around, I’m calling the ethics board and a psych consult.”
Your jaw clenched. “And I’m promising you, if you do that, I’ll go over your head. I have an obligation to patients not to you.”
“So you’re fine letting him kill himself.”
“Every patient deserves autonomy. Even if we don’t like it. Even if it harms them.”
“I just thought that you of all people…” he trailed off shaking his head.
“What? You thought that since I fell into your bed I’d acquiesce to your every opinion?” You scoffed.
“What? No, of course not.”
“Newsflash, Dr. Abbot,” you said quietly. “You are not the first nor the last doctor I’ll fight for a patient. Understand?”
You didn’t wait for an answer. Instead you spun on your heels and marched back to the office space reserved for the social workers on the floor. As much as you wanted to kill the man whose deft fingers were the focus of many a daydream, he wasn’t necessarily wrong.
Mr. Smith needed IV antibiotics. Convincing Mr. Smith to take them, was going to need a game plan.
In the end, you recruited Donnie and Ellis to help you convince Mr. Smith about the safety of the drugs in question. They showcased the tamper-evident casing, demonstrated exactly what was in the bags and how to tell, and reassured his that he was the fifth patient getting the drugs just this hour.
Ultimately, Ellis said,
“I would give these to my grandmother, sir. I’m that confident.”
Still anxious, you promised Mr. Smith that you would stay with him with the drugs cycled through his system. You both chatted about his carpentry business. He asked you about how you ended up in social work and even how you ended up in the Pitt.
“Pittsburgh is very black, Mr. Smith, but our hospitals aren’t. I don’t have the stomach to be a doctor, but I’m tough enough to make sure you’re advocated for and given the tools needed to support you.”
When Mr. Smith was discharged, his antibiotics hand delivered by Donnie, you walked him out and handed him your card.
You hadn’t seen Jack since you pulled in Ellis and Donnie. He’d given the patient over without a fight. Despite flitting around the Pitt for the rest of the shift, you rarely saw him. It felt like he was avoiding you. Ironically, you had worried about that briefly when waking up in his bed.
—
Despite a small crush on the man, ending up in Jack Abbot’s bed was largely unintentional. It had been a weird shift and shift breakfast turned into lingering conversation, turned into Jack inviting you over to borrow a book. You barely even remembered what book it was you were meant to be borrowing.
Sex with Jack was fun and intense. He was unyielding and dedicated to your pleasure in all the ways you subtly expected him to be. He was also a cuddler. That, more than anything, surprised you. If you had to put money on it, you expected him to be the appropriate cuddling-during-pillow-talk man who would roll over when it came time to sleep. Often that is where you found your own preferences. Cuddling was nice, had incredible therapeutic benefits, but you didn’t like to feel confined.
Jack was the opposite, and you discovered you didn’t mind cuddling as much when you were the big spoon. He was nuzzled into your neck, and you suspected he would cling onto your body like a koala if that had been an option.
Waking up before him, meant that you were more than aware of how warm he was, plastered against you. Each movement of his chest and lungs lightly pressed your skin. One of his hands was tucked under his cheek with the other still had a firm grip on your waist. His breath tickling the sensitive skin near your collarbone.
At first you were lightly freaking out, sleeping with a coworker was never the best idea. But this was Jack. The man who never met a situation he cared enough to feel awkward during. You had witnessed him ignore, or maybe even not notice, more uncomfortable situations.
“You’re so soft,” he mumbled, clearing having roused. The clock next to his bed said it was 4pm. “You smell amazing.”
“Thank you,” you laughed softly.
He nuzzled deeper into your neck pressing soft kisses. Whiskers on his skin scraped against yours but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You didn’t have the time for another round, no matter how good that round would be, but Jack’s hand never strayed from caressing the skin on your hip nor did his kisses increase in urgency.
“Not a bad way to wake up,” he murmured. “Could kiss you forever.”
“Charming,” you huffed, a small smile playing on your face.
“Do you need to leave soon?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you replied softly.
“Shame,” he said, pulling you closer against his body so you were both flush together. His skin was warm, rougher than yours but his grip was gentle.
“Yeah, it is,” you found yourself saying. “Is this going to make work weird?”
“Not on my behalf,” he replied, kissing at the side of your mouth.
Internally, things might get weird for you, but you were a master at ensuring none of it reflected in your behavior.
“I need to go,” you said sadly. “I have to shower before work.”
“You could shower here?”
“And what kind of moisturizer do you have in your bathroom, Abbot?” you laughed.
“Jack,” he corrected. “And I have the generic brand from Wegman’s.”
You laughed and Jack grinned at you.
“The fact you have any at all is astounding.”
“I aim to impress,” he responded. Placing a chaste kiss on your lips, he untangled himself from you.
You watched as he stood, slid on a pair of boxers and grabbed his elbow crutches from beside the bed.
“Some of your clothes are in the living room, I’ll grab them.”
Shortly after dressing, he kissed you goodbye. It was intense and for the first time in years filled your stomach with butterflies.
“See you later,” you said softly, as you walked out of his house.
—
You wondered if maybe things were weird, which is why you didn’t see him for the rest of shift. Frankly, it was an impressive feat to avoid you in the space you both worked. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of him, but when you looked back he would be gone. By the time the day shift clocked in, you passed your parents to Sam or Kiara, you were ready to go home and lick the wounds of a man rejecting you.
Because if nothing else, avoiding you an entire day at work was rejection. From what? You weren’t exactly sure, but clearly Jack wasn’t interested in being normal. You tried to regret hooking up with him, and maybe that would come with time. But right now, making your way from the Pitt to your car in the garage, you just found yourself missing the chance to do it again.
Right before you turned down the street, Jack appeared and said,
“Can I steal a minute of your time?”
“Sure.”
What else could you say?
He led you across the street and over to the benches that nurses and doctors alike would frequent after overwhelming days. This morning was no different, with Ellis and other nurses milling about decompressing
“Hey Abbot, joining us?” she called.
“Not today,” he replied simply.
“What about you?” Ellis asked, looking between the two of you confused.
“We have to discuss a case before I head home. Next time,” you told her.
“Okay,” Ellis said skeptically. You couldn’t blame her.
Jack led you a little deeper into the park, only a couple hundred feet from where everyone else was, but far enough away to avoid being overheard.
“How did you avoid me for almost an entire shift?” You asked, because frankly you couldn’t help your curiosity.
“I wasn’t actually avoiding you. I was just that busy,” he replied. You eyed him for a moment, trying to figure out if you believed him. Jack was straightforward and you didn’t think he would lie about something so silly.
“Rough shift then?”
“In more ways than one,” he replied.
You both were sitting on a bench, slightly angled towards each other. Jack was fiddling with his wedding band and not looking at you. His non-prosthetic leg was bouncing, and you had the sudden urge to put your hand on his knee.
“I didn’t like how our case went today,” he started. Well that made two of you.
“Okay,” you said. You noticed your own body language had closed off and you briefly considered forcing yourself to uncross your arms, but, frankly, you didn’t want to.
“We’re supposed to be a team,” he began. “It felt like we were opponents just because we disagreed.”
“Abbot, you were talking about forcibly giving that man medication—the very thing he was concerned about,” you scoffed. “That didn’t make us opponents.”
“I wanted to save his life.”
“And he’s fine. He got his medication and prescription and walked out.”
“But there’s no way to know if he’ll take the antibiotics,” Jack continued.
“There’s never a way to know,” you said.
“I wasn’t okay with the fact you were willing to let him kill himself if your plan hadn’t worked out,” Jack finally ground out.
“That’s such a reductive way to see what happen. That man was terrified of doctors, rightly so. It took three people who looked like him to convince him things were safe. Putting him on a suicide watch and making him take the meds would have done nothing more than traumatize him and reaffirm his fear.”
“But he would be alive,” Jack pressed.
“It would have been medical violence, Abbot.”
“Saving his life would have been violent?” he scoffed.
“Yes!” you exclaimed. “You just don’t get it!”
Distantly, you realized that the tightly secured lid on your anger was bursting at the seams, but you couldn’t stop. How could someone care so much but not understand?
“You have not gone through life knowing that your symptoms wouldn’t be believed, that your concerns would be dismissed, that there are still fuckers who think you feel less pain than everyone else!
“You don’t understand what it’s like to know that your parents’ generation was experimented on without their knowledge or without proper consent. Black women’s suffering created our understanding of pregnancy and sexual health but they were never given credit or pain medication! We were tortured, Jack! Tortured! Of course that man was afraid. We all are!”
You were breathing heavily and you found you couldn’t look at his face anymore. It looked shocked and heartbroken and full of pity that made your stomach lurch uncomfortably. You turned so you were sitting on the bench normally, staring off into the trees. Briefly, you wondered if the gathering heard your outburst.
Grinding your teeth, you reluctantly said, “Sorry I lost my temper.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said harshly. “Don’t ever apologize for how you feel.”
“Abbot—” you began.
“So it’s back to Abbot now that you aren’t yelling at me?” He asked with good humor. You didn’t laugh.
“I can’t be angry.”
“Not even with me?”
That was the question.
“Can I be? Will you think of me differently? Think of me aggressively or angry?”
“It makes me feel better,” he said. “To know that you aren’t just placidly handling the pain you’re dealing with everyday.”
“Of course not. I’m furious.”
“With me, too?”
“Right now? Yeah, I am.”
He sighed and clenched his fists before looking at you. He was staring at the side of your head, because stubbornly, you refused to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said.
That surprised you. You turned towards him, now.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. You were right. Just now and at the beginning of shift. I have my own hangups about saving people, and I let those cloud my judgement. I let them overshadow your expertise.”
“No shit,” you mumbled to yourself sounding surprised.
“Why are you so shocked?”
“I think this is the first time anyone has ever apologized to me in a situation like this,” you told him. “And this isn’t a half-assed apology to make sure I’m willing to fuck you again, right? I don’t think so, but I have to know.”
“It’s a full throated apology with no expectation of getting you into bed,” he said.
“Oh,” you said, still staring at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re a good social worker. You’re a better person. I’m sorry that I made your day harder.”
“Thank you,” you replied genuinely. He was looking at you again and the nervous fiddling stopped. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
“I’m sorry I made you.”
You both lapsed into silence for a moment.
“I enjoyed last night,” you said hesitantly. “Or yesterday or whatever.”
Jack snorted and replied, “Me too. I would like to do it again. Maybe…maybe after a date?”
“Are you asking me out after we fought?” You asked.
“I am,” he said. “I think it shows we have passion.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
He pinned you with a smirk and you suspected he wasn’t sure if he was joking either.
“What are you doing tonight?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“Want to come over? I’ll make dinner.”
“And then?”
“And then you can see what it’s like to shower with actual shower products.”
Jack’s resulting laugh warmed your heart.
“I have high expectations.”
You grinned at him. “I’m going home and going to bed. I’ll text you my address and a time.”
“Do you like flowers?” he asked.
“I do,” you replied.
“Good to know,” he said.
Standing, you said, “Thank you for listening to me.”
Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin
Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.
I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).
"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”
Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.
Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.
If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.
↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.
I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default
Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!
”with our ai chatbot you can talk to your ocs!!” Dumbass. I’m already talking to them. In my head. “B-bbut what about your favourite charac-“ skill issue. In my head as well. get fucked.
warning/note: this is the end my friends. Thank you for reading. I'm really pleased with this one. There are two brief mentions of possible future children but no pregnancy.
Charlie’s footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as he approached the security station for the holding cells. The young officer behind the desk straightened immediately, recognition flickering across his face.
“Deputy Chief Reid.” He was clearly surprised to see someone of Charlie’s rank down in the holding area.
Charlie offered a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Officer Gaines. I need a few minutes with Sergeant Voight.”
“Of course, sir.” Gaines glanced at the logbook in front of him. “I’ll just need to note your visit in the—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Charlie interrupted. “This conversation won’t be happening officially.” He held the officer’s gaze until understanding dawned in the young man’s eyes.
Gaines hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Yes, sir. He’s in the isolation cell at the end of the corridor.” He pointed to the security monitor showing a feed from the hallway. “That camera’s been acting up all day. Might go offline for a few minutes.”
“Good man.” As Charlie moved down the dimly lit corridor, he watched Gaines flip a switch under the desk to cut the camera feed.
The heavy metal doors of the regular holding cells gave way to the high-security section where a single cell was occupied. He stopped several feet from the cell, observing the man who sat hunched on a thin mattress, head in his hands. Voight hadn’t heard him approach. Good. Charlie wanted to see his face when he realized who had come to visit.
“Sleep well, Hank?” Charlie’s voice cut through the silence.
Voight’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he registered Charlie’s presence. He rose slowly, approaching the bars with a wariness that hadn’t been there before the shooting. “What do you want, Reid?” His voice was even rougher than usual from the lack of sleep.
Charlie stepped closer, just out of arm’s reach. “Just thought you’d like an update. Renny Otero’s been talking.” He watched as satisfaction flashed across Voight’s face before doubt crept in. “Not about me, though. About you.”
Voight’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the bars. “Bullshit.”
“He’s been quite vocal,” Charlie continued as if Voight hadn’t spoken. “About how you approached him after his father’s death. How you fed him lies about me being responsible. How you released him from custody and told him exactly where I’d be standing yesterday morning.” Charlie tilted his head slightly. “Did you plan for me to die right there on the sidewalk or were you hoping to get me somewhere more private first? Did you always plan to sacrifice the kid?”
“You killed Jesus Otero,” Voight spat, his composure slipping. “You buried him while he was still breathing and his son knows it.”
“His son knows only what you told him,” Charlie corrected, his tone remaining measured despite the flash of anger he felt. “And now he’s telling us everything in exchange for consideration at sentencing. Seems shooting an innocent cop has made him reconsider his loyalties.”
Doubt crept across Voight’s features. Charlie could see him calculating, reassessing, trying to determine if this was a bluff. “He won’t testify against me.”
“He already has.” Charlie withdrew his phone, pulled up a video and held it where Voight could see the screen. Renny Otero’s face appeared, his voice thin but clear as he described Voight’s instructions. His promise that killing Charlie would bring justice for his father.
Voight watched, his face draining of color as his situation sank in. When Charlie put the phone away, the other man’s eyes remained on the empty space where it had been.
“That’s just the beginning,” Charlie said, satisfaction coloring his voice. “We found evidence that had mysteriously gone missing from several cases in your home. We also found proof you were the one holding Renny in custody without departmental approval along with evidence of your peculiar obsession with me. All because you knew I was investigating Intelligence and wanted me out of the picture.” He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. “And tomorrow at 10AM, I’m holding a press conference to lay it all out. How Chicago’s renowned Sergeant Hank Voight manipulated evidence, convinced a grieving son to attempt murder, and betrayed every oath he ever took.”
“You’re twisting this,” he growled. “You know damn well I never—”
“What I know,” Charlie interrupted, “is that you released a suspect from protective custody, filled his head with stories about me being responsible for his father’s death and pointed him in my direction with a loaded gun. And now we have his sworn statement to the fact. Your badge is done, Hank. Your unit is finished. Your legacy is dust.”
Voight’s eyes narrowed, studying Charlie with the intensity that had made him such a formidable adversary. “This isn’t about Otero or corruption. This is personal.”
Charlie’s smile never reached his eyes. “You’re goddamn right it’s personal.”
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of a door closing somewhere in the building. Voight’s gaze dropped then lifted again, something almost like concern crossing his weathered features.
“How is she?” His voice softened unexpectedly.
The question felt like a punch to his sternum. Charlie’s carefully constructed composure fractured, rage seeping through the cracks. He closed the distance to the bars in two swift steps, his face inches from Voight’s.
“She died three times,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Once at the scene. Twice on the table.” His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to make marks. The memory of the flatline on the monitor, the desperate actions of the paramedics, the surgeon’s exhausted face as she described resuscitating you, it all crashed through him in a wave of raw terror that hadn’t subsided since you dropped to the sidewalk.
Voight’s face drained of color again. “I never meant for her to be involved. She wasn’t supposed to—”
“What?” Charlie cut in, voice raising despite his effort to control it. “She wasn’t supposed to what? Be there? Get shot? Die? You were willing to let an innocent officer die as collateral damage in your vendetta against me.”
“That’s not true. I would never endanger one of my people. Never.”
Charlie stared at him, searching for any sign of deception in Voight’s obvious concern. Finding none somehow made it worse.
“You killed her three times.” Each word forced through clenched teeth. “And I’ll make sure you pay for it. Every minute you spend in prison, every night you lie awake remembering what you’ve done, every time you think about the badge and unit you lost, that’s for her. And one day when you’re bleeding out on a concrete floor after taking a shiv to your ribs, that will be for her too.”
Charlie stepped back, reclaiming his control with visible effort.
“Reid,” Voight called as Charlie turned to leave, a note of desperation in his voice. “Wait. Is she going to make it? Just tell me that. You owe me that much at least.”
Charlie paused but didn’t turn around. “I don’t owe you shit.” His shoulders were rigid with tension, his breathing carefully measured. He felt Voight’s eyes on his back waiting for an answer he had no intention of providing. Let him wonder. Let him suffer with the uncertainty.
Charlie stepped off the hospital elevator. He’d stopped noticing the stares from the hospital staff, a mixture of respect for his position and concern for his increasingly haggard appearance. None of it mattered. Only one thing did.
You were still breathing, still fighting, still here.
The route to your room had become so familiar he could walk it blindfolded. The ICU nurses nodded as he passed, not bothering to explain when visiting hours were. Everyone knew he would be there keeping vigil regardless of rules or protocol.
He paused outside your door, gathering himself as he always did. The first glimpse of you surrounded by machines hit him like a physical blow each time. No amount of preparation diminished the impact. When he pushed the door open, the ventilator hissed in the now familiar rhythm that was his only tether to sanity.
Charlie crossed to your bedside, lowering himself into the recliner that had become his second home. His body ached from too much time spent in its uncomfortable depths, too many hours of interrupted sleep. His hand moved to his jaw, feeling three days’ worth of stubble beneath his fingertips. He’d shaved in the bathroom that first night, using a disposable razor a nurse had gotten for him, but hadn’t bothered since. The Charlie Reid who cared about such things seemed to belong to another universe.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured, taking your hand in his. Your skin felt cooler than it should, the fingers unresponsive to his touch. He studied your face, still beautiful despite everything you had been through. The doctors assured him your brain function was strong, but each passing day had doubt creeping in like a poison. What if you just never woke up?
His thumb traced idle patterns across your knuckles as he spoke softly about his confrontation with Voight, the press conference, the evidence compiled against the man who had nearly taken you from him. He spoke as if you could hear every word, as if you were simply resting your eyes.
“We did it,” Charlie said, squeezing your hand gently. “We won.” He paused, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “But it doesn’t matter if I lose you. I need you to wake up.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around the small velvet box he’d had for weeks now. He’d planned to take you to the lake house next month, to propose where you’d first told him you loved him. But plans seemed foolish now, fragile things that could shatter in an instant with three bullets and a pool of blood spreading on the concrete.
Charlie opened the box and looked at the ring he’s chosen so carefully. Simple and elegant, just like you. Something you could wear with pride but wouldn’t interfere with your work. He’d imagined it on your finger countless times, pictured your face when he asked the question.
With gentle movements, he slid the ring onto your finger. “I’ve had this for almost two months, waiting for the right moment. I should have known there’s no such thing.” His voice was rougher than usual as he wrapped his fingers around yours again.
He continued with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I told them I was your fiancé so they’d let me stay with you. Not technically a lie. Just…premature.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. “I had it all planned out. What I would say. How I would ask you. But none of that matters now. Just wake up. Just come back to me.”
Charlie lifted his head, studied your face for any sign of response, a flicker of eyelids, a twitch of lips. Finding none, he settled back in the chair, maintaining his hold on your hand. “I’ve spent my entire career taking calculated risks. Weighing outcomes. But I never calculated what it would feel like to watch you take bullets meant for me. To see you bleeding out on the ground.” His chest felt tight with the memory.
“I never calculated what losing you would cost me.”
His free hand moved to gently trace the side of your face. The gesture was tender, reverent, his fingertips lingering against your skin. “The third bullet missed your spine by millimeters.” His voice caught on the words. “If it had just been slightly to the right…” He couldn’t complete the thought of how much worse this could be.
A nurse entered quietly. “Just need to check her vitals, Chief Reid,” she said.
Charlie nodded but didn’t release your hand or move from his position knowing they would do everything they needed from the other side of your bed. He’d learned to coexist with the medical staff, making minimal accommodations for their work while maintaining his presence by your side.
When the nurse finished, she paused by the door. “She’s doing well. Her numbers are good,” she offered.
Charlie nodded again, not trusting himself to speak. He’d heard similar reassurances for days now, each one carrying less weight as the hours stretched into days. Only one thing would reassure him now. Your eyes opening, your voice saying his name.
As the door closed behind her, Charlie leaned forward again, his lips brushing your knuckles just above the ring.
“I’m right here, baby,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again.”
Charlie Reid watched the city fade in the rearview mirror, concrete eventually giving way to patches of green trees and open land. The SUV’s engine hummed steadily as he navigated the roads that led away from Chicago, away from the constant demands of his position. You sat in the passenger seat beside him, bare feet propped on the dashboard in a way that would have irritated him with anyone else. Three months into expanding his relationship with you and he’d finally managed to clear a full weekend for both of you. No calls, no cases, no crises demanding your attention. Just you and him and the cabin by the lake that he hadn’t found the time to visit in nearly two years.
“How much farther?” you asked.
“About twenty minutes,” Charlie replied, glancing briefly in your direction before returning his attention to the road. “Impatient?”
You smiled that crooked half-smile that had begun to feature in his dreams. “Just curious. You’ve been pretty mysterious about this place.”
His fingers tapped against the steering wheel. He hadn’t planned to bring you here, hadn’t planned to bring anyone here, actually. The cabin was his retreat, someplace to escape from the demands of his life and work in the city. But you weren’t just anyone.
The cabin appeared through the trees as you rounded the final bend in the road. A modest little house built of weathered cedar with a wrap around porch. It wasn’t ostentatious. Not a statement of wealth and power. Just something solid, private, his.
Charlie parked by the steps leading to the front door, watching your reaction as you took in the surroundings.
“It’s beautiful,” you said as you stepped out of the vehicle and turned in a small circle.
He reached into the back seat for your bags. “I come up here when I need to think. Or not think, depending.”
Inside the cabin was surprisingly spacious. There was an open living area with a stone fireplace. Comfortable furniture was arranged to make the most of the view through the large windows on the back wall that overlooked the lake. The kitchen was small but functional. A hallway led to the two bedrooms and a bathroom.
“Home away from home,” he said, setting the bags down. He watched your exploration of the space, finding your approval mattered in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Dusk settled outside and Charlie built a fire, his movements practiced and efficient. You returned from exploring the rest of the cabin to find flames already licking at the logs. He’d opened a bottle of red wine, two glasses waiting on the coffee table.
“Impressive,” you said as you settled onto the couch. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”
He handed you a glass of wine before joining you. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.”
“Is that right?” You took a sip of your wine, eyes sparkling over the edge of the glass. “Like what?”
He hummed, pulling you closer until your back rested against his chest, his arm wrapped comfortably around your waist. “Like I’m actually a decent cook when I’m in the mood. And I can name most of the constellations. My grandfather taught me.”
He felt you relax against him as the tension of the city melted away in his embrace. “What else?”
Charlie’s fingers found yours and interlaced them against your stomach. “Like I’m actually terrible at chess but I’ve memorized enough openings and responses to seem competent.”
You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. “That sounds like something you’d do.”
For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Charlie’s thumb traced idle patterns on the back of your hand, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. This felt dangerously close to normal, to the kind of relationship he’d never allowed himself to consider.
“Have you ever thought about having kids?” The question slipped out before Charlie registered he was asking it, surprising himself as much as you.
You shifted in his arms, turning enough to see his face. “Where did that come from all of a sudden?”
Charlie shrugged, attempting to appear casual despite the sudden racing of his heart. “Just a question.” He kept his expression neutral, not wanting you to see how much your answer mattered.
You studied him for a long moment before shrugging. “Sure I’ve thought about it, but I like my job.”
“Having one doesn’t mean you can’t have the other,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Plenty of cops have families.”
You hummed in agreement. “What about you? Do you want children?”
His gaze shifted to the fire, watching the flames for a bit before answering. “Before you? No.” He met your eyes again. “Now…”
Your brows lifted. “What’s going on, Charlie? First this weekend away, now talk about kids. What is this?”
He could have deflected, redirected the conversation to safer ground. Instead, his hand moved to the nape of your neck as he captured your lips with his. He pulled back only far enough to answer you, his lips brushing against yours as he did. “Just thinking about our future, baby.” His voice was rougher than usual and he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I love you.”
The words seemed to charge the very air around you. Words he’d never said to you before, words he’d said to very few people and meant it. You went still in his arms, eyes wide in surprise. For one terrible moment, Charlie thought he’d miscalculated, that he’d revealed too much too soon. Then your hand came up to rest against his cheek, thumb tracing his skin in a gesture so tender it made his chest ache.
“I love you, too,” you whispered.
He pulled you closer, claiming your mouth with a kiss that conveyed everything he couldn’t. Gratitude and desire mixed with a possessiveness that surprised even him. When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
In that moment, with the taste of your kiss still on his lips, Charlie confronted a truth he’d been avoiding for months. Losing you wouldn’t just mean the loss of a confidante or a lover. It would mean the end of everything that mattered, everything he hadn’t known he wanted until you. A future, a family, a life outside of the power plays that had defined his existence for so long.
The realization terrified him. And yet, with your body warm against his and those three words echoing between you, he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it.
Charlie squinted at the report on the desk in front of him, the words blurring despite the reading glasses perched on his nose. Twelve days since the shooting and sleep had become a distant memory snatched in hour increments in the uncomfortable hospital recliner. His phone sat beside the file, screen up, volume at maximum. The hospital had strict instructions to call with any change in your condition no matter how minor. Every time the notification sounded, his heart would freeze before he realized it was just another work message, another update on the dismantling of Intelligence, another piece of the revenge he’d set in motion but couldn’t fully savor.
His door opened without a knock signaling the arrival of his assistant. She placed a mug of fresh coffee on his desk, her concern evident in the careful way she approached.
“The press is asking for a follow up statement on Intelligence and Voight,” she said. “And the commissioner wants your final decision on Burgess by the end of the day.”
Charlie nodded without looking up, taking a sip of his coffee. “Tell the press no further comment until the internal investigation concludes. And inform the commissioner that I’m recommending termination for Burgess.”
She hesitated, lingering by his desk. “Has there been any update?”
“No change.” The words felt like gravel in his throat. He finally looked up meeting her concerned gaze. “Was there anything else?”
“No sir.” She retreated, closing the door behind her.
Charlie removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose where a headache had taken up permanent residence. His phone chimed and he snatched it up with embarrassing eagerness. Just an email. He sat the device down with more force than necessary, frustration simmering in his veins.
The past days had unfolded exactly according to plan. Torres had been stripped of his badge and gun, facing criminal charges for his involvement with the CI and potential obstruction charges related to evidence tampering. Burgess was next, her involvement in covering for Torres documented in texts and emails that Charlie’s team had recovered. Ruzek, Atwater and Cook remained suspended without pay, their futures uncertain as the investigation expanded to include all of Intelligence’s recent cases.
And Voight sat in isolation at the county jail awaiting his first court date following his arraignment. His reputation was in tatters after Charlie’s press conference had outlined his corruption in meticulous detail. The evidence Charlie had planted combined with Renny Otero’s testimony had created an ironclad case. No one was coming to Voight’s rescue.
It should have felt like triumph, and it did in the moments where he allowed himself to focus purely on the victory. But those moments were increasingly rare, overshadowed by the gnawing fear that continued to eat away at his composure. What use was winning if you weren’t there to share it?
He pushed back from the desk and moved to the window overlooking the parking lot. The latest crime statistics lay open on his desk, its figures a testament to everything you and he had accomplished together. Street violence was down 37% from the previous year. Gang related homicides cut in half. Drug overdoses reduced by a third. The controlled criminal empire he’d built was working exactly as he intended.
All those lives saved. All that suffering prevented.
And yet it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
His phone chimed again. This time a text from Sawyer. Atwater requesting meeting. Says he can give us more information on Intelligence violations. Worth hearing him out?
Charlie typed a quick affirmative response. If Atwater was looking to cut a deal, Charlie would listen. One more nail in Voight’s coffin couldn’t hurt.
A knock at his door preceded two detectives entering his office, case files in hand. Both stopped short at the sight of him, their expressions poorly concealing their shock at his appearance. He knew how he looked, unshaven, shirt wrinkled, dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d stopped caring somewhere around day three.
“Sir, we have the surveillance photos you requested on the Harris case,” one of them said.
Charlie nodded, gesturing for them to place the files on his desk. “Good work. Anything else?”
They exchanged a glance. “We were wondering if there has been any update on—”
“No,” Charlie interrupted, voice sharper than intended. “There’s been no change in her condition. If that’s all?”
They left quickly, door closing behind them with a click that seemed to echo in the quiet of his office. He checked his watch. He had another hour before he could reasonably head back to the hospital. The balancing act was becoming increasingly difficult, maintaining the appearance of a Deputy Chief executing his duties while every fiber of his being pulled him back to your bedside.
The hour crawled by, each minute marked by another glance at his watch, another check of his silent phone. When he finally left, his assistant simply nodded, having already cleared the rest of the afternoon without being asked.
The drive to the hospital had become automatic, Charlie navigating through traffic without thought, his mind already in the ICU room where you lay.
In your room, the scene remained unchanged from the day before. You were no longer on the vent, hadn’t been for days now, but you still showed no signs of waking. The ring on your finger caught the light as Charlie took your hand in his.
“Torres was informed that he no longer has a badge,” he said as he settled into the now familiar chair. He’d taken to narrating his day to you, operating on the doctors’ suggestion that you might be able to hear. “He didn’t take it well. Started yelling about Voight being set up, how they were all being railroaded. I’m not sure why he was so surprised at the way it went. Probably expected Voight to sweep in at the last minute to save him. He can’t even save himself.”
He shifted his weight, trying and failing to get more comfortable. “Burgess is next. I almost feel bad for that one, she’s a good officer, but she made her choice when she sided with Voight.”
The one sided conversation continued as Charlie detailed the crime statistics, the upcoming meeting with Atwater, the commissioner’s praise for how smoothly the transition was proceeding. Professional matters discussed as if you were simply another colleague.
Only after a nurse poked her head in to check on you and retreated did his façade crack. His forehead dropped to rest against your joined hands, voice breaking.
“Please wake up,” he whispered against your skin, the words a prayer he’d repeated countless times over the past twelve days. “Nothing matters if you’re not here. None of it. I need you to come back to me.”
Every day that passed brought the weight of uncertainty bearing down on his careful control. The man who ruled Chicago’s underworld with such calculated precision had never felt so powerless.
Charlie sat beside you on the couch, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the arm of the couch as he outlined the details of the next day’s operation. The dismantling of Intelligence had been months in the planning, each piece carefully arranged, but with Voight’s recent moves, the timeline had accelerated. Tomorrow everything would change.
“Torres will be taken into custody,” Charlie said. “We’ve documented the relationship with the CI. Text messages, hotel receipts, statements by third parties. We have enough to make it stick.”
“What about the others?”
His lips curved into a thin smile. “Suspended without pay, pending investigation. I have teams ready to go through every case they’ve touched in the last eighteen months. We’ll find more violations.”
“And me?” you asked.
“You’ll be there when it happens,” he explained, tone going softer. “You’ll surrender your badge and gun like everyone else, go through the motions of shock and outrage. It has to look convincing.” His hand rested on your knee. “The difference is you’ll be reinstated in a few days, cleared of any wrongdoing.”
You nodded and turned to face him more directly. “What happens after? Once Intelligence is dismantled and Voight’s out of the picture?”
His smile became lighter, more natural. “Organized Crime will be restructured, expanding to absorb some of Intelligence’s former territory. I’ll need a smart, capable officer working directly under me with experience in both divisions.”
“Me.”
He nodded, hand squeezing your knee. “You’ll have an office next to mine. Official channels for all the information sharing we’ve been doing in the shadows. No more burner phones or late night meetings in parking garages. Unless we want them, of course. No more hiding our relationship.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Pretty sure HR will have a field day with that one, Charlie.”
“Let me handle them. Consider it a reward for your faithful service.”
Your eyebrows arched. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
His hand moved from your knee to cradle the back of your neck. The gesture was possessive but gentle. “I want you with me. Right by my side where you belong. Together we’re unbeatable.”
He pulled you closer, your bodies shifting on the couch until you were practically in his lap. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Think about it,” he murmured against your skin. “No more hiding. No more pretending we barely know each other. Your desk right beside my office. Me being able to see you whenever I want.” His hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you more firmly against him.
As his lips traveled down your neck, his mind raced ahead envisioning possibilities he wasn’t quite ready to voice aloud. Having you under his direct supervision meant he could keep you safe, keep you away from the dangerous fieldwork that came with Intelligence operations. If you got pregnant—a thought that had been occurring more frequently as of late—there would be plenty of admin work to keep you busy, kept safely behind the desk until the baby came. The idea of you carrying his child, of building something permanent with you, had shifted from abstract possibility to concrete desire in recent weeks.
“You’re the only one I trust,” Charlie said, pulling back to meet your gaze. “Say you’ll stay with me, baby. Don’t make me do it alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” You pressed your lips to his. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”
Charlie rolled his neck as he approached your hospital room, fatigue settled deep in his bones. The day had stretched endlessly. A meeting with the commissioner, paperwork finalizing Burgess’ dismissal and a meeting with the prosecutor on Voight’s case all blurred together in a haze of necessary but hollow victories.
He entered your room with his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, bracing himself for another night in the recliner that was both torture device and sanctuary.
“You know,” a voice said from the direction of the bed, “I don’t remember being proposed to.”
His head snapped up so quickly that pain shot down his spine. There you were, propped up slightly against the pillows, watching him with a small smile that transformed everything in the world.
He breathed your name like a prayer. He froze in the doorway for a beat before surging forward. “When did you—how long have you—” He couldn’t complete a sentence, his mind struggling to process the sight of you with your eyes open, the sound of your voice after days of horrible silence.
He reached the bedside in three long strides, his hands finding your face with trembling fingers, afraid you might disappear under his touch. “Why didn’t they call me?” he demanded, already leaning down to press his lips to yours, gentle but desperate.
You met his kiss weakly, your strength clearly limited, but the response was enough to have relief flooding through him. When he pulled back, his hands remained on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“I told them not to.” Your voice was raspy from disuse. “I knew you had things to handle. Besides, it’s not like I was going anywhere.” Your lips curved into that half-smile he’d missed so desperately.
He let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, kissing you again before pulling the chair as close to the bed as possible. He sank into it without taking his eyes off you, one hand immediately finding yours to intertwine your fingers.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rougher than usual. His grip tightened on your hand. “I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever do that again.”
Your free hand lifted weakly to touch his face, fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw. Your eyes searched his face. “I’d rather not, all things considered. I love you, Charlie.”
“God, I love you, baby. So much.” The words were thick with emotion, his throat constricting around them. “The doctors weren’t sure when you’d wake up. Or if…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, the possibility still too terrifying to voice out loud.
You shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the movement.
He swallowed hard, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “Fourteen days. They removed the vent on day five but you didn’t wake up. Brain activity was strong they kept saying. Just a matter of time.” His jaw clenched briefly. “Longest two weeks of my life.”
Your gaze drifted to the window then back to Charlie. “What happened after the shooting? It’s all a blur.”
His other hand came to rest on your leg. “Voight’s in custody awaiting trial. Renny Otero gave a statement that Voight convinced him I was responsible for his father’s death, told him where to find me, even released him from protective custody to make the hit.” His voice hardened slightly. “The evidence we found in Voight’s house sealed it. No one is coming to his rescue this time.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Voight sent Otero to kill you.”
“Yes.” His expression darkened as his hand tightened on yours again. “You pushed me out of the way. Took three bullets meant for me. Why would you do that? Why would you risk your life for me?”
“Because I love you,” you answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And because Chicago needs you more than it needs me.”
Charlie shook his head sharply. “Don’t ever say that again. I need you. Everything else—the job, the city, all of it—means nothing without you.” His voice cracked on the final words, revealing the raw edge of fear he’d been living with.
You nodded, accepting his words without argument. “And Intelligence?”
“Officially dismantled. Torres lost his badge and is awaiting trial. Burgess will lose hers by the end of the week. The others are still suspended without pay.” He leaned back slightly in the chair, still maintaining his grip on your hand. “Once you’re back on your feet you’ll be working directly with me. Just like we planned.”
As he spoke, your gaze drifted to your joined hands. “What’s this?” you asked, lifting your hand slightly, the movement clearly costing you some effort.
His expression shifted, vulnerability returning to his features. “I’ve had it for a while,” he admitted, finger brushing over the ring. “Was waiting for the right moment but then... They wouldn’t let me stay with you in the ICU unless I was family. I told them I was your fiancé. It wasn’t a lie. There was just the formality of you saying yes.”
You studied the ring then Charlie’s face.
“I thought I might never get to give it to you at all.” The admission was raw, stripping away any remaining pretense. “I’ve had it for weeks. Was going to take you back to the lake house, do it properly. But none of that seemed important anymore. Just you waking up. Just you still being here.”
“You really wanna marry me?” you asked softly.
Charlie’s response was immediate, his eyes locked on yours. “Baby, I want to rule the world with you.”
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