Keep Walking, Cowboy!

she/her | 23 | MDNI my "Save For Later" List

[pilarrsstuff]

Off-duty

summary: she’s spent years learning how to disappear into a report. he’s spent one night trying to make sure the room finally sees her. somewhere between the champagne and the woman in red, things stop being simple.

wc: 16,6k (sorry)

taglist ! 🏷️ : leon x femreader!, re4 leon!, slowburn, sfw, frenemies to lovers, military reader!, agent reader!, angry confession, kinda cliché at the end

a/n: omg this took time. I think I read it so much I’m not convinced, but i think it’s ready to finally see the light!!! I’ve written things before, but never with this type of detail. I could do a part 2 if you guys like it! leave comments to see what I should do next. anyway, enjoy 🤭

Damn, you could despise Ada Wong.

Not only had she made your work life miserable, but you also had plenty of reasons. Having to work with Leon meant she was going to appear whenever she felt like it. Okay… she knew Leon way before you did, and maybe those two had more than just casual “encounters” on random missions. But still, you never quite understood why.

The problem with Ada wasn't just that she knew Leon before you did. It was the way she carried herself around him.

Ada had this infuriating ability to act like she was always one step ahead of everyone in the room. She didn't need to raise her voice, demand attention, or prove she was dangerous. She simply walked in, observed everything, and somehow made everyone else feel like they were the ones who didn't belong.

And Leon? Leon never seemed surprised by her.

That was the part that bothered you the most.

You had spent enough time working alongside him to understand the small things nobody else noticed. The way his shoulders relaxed when he finally trusted someone. The way he went quiet when something actually bothered him. The difference between his usual sarcastic comments and the ones he used to avoid a conversation. Spending almost all your time with him made you pick up his habits.

But you knew the current Leon Kennedy. The agent. The golden boy. The man who had been through too much and somehow still managed to make it out alive when things got real ugly. You had been right there beside him.

But Ada knew the Leon Kennedy before all of that. The frustrated first day. The rookie. The vulnerability.

And you hated that you couldn't compete with a history you weren't there for.

The gala was supposed to be simple. For once, there was no mission. No briefing. No emergency call. No reason to memorize exits or check where everyone in the room was standing. But you still did—muscle memory tends to leave its mark.

So you tried to dress as beautifully as possible. A stunning borrowed low-waisted black dress, with subtle rocks that shone whenever they caught the light. You adored how that gown hugged every curve of your body.

After Spain, the government had decided Leon deserved recognition. A formal event, speeches, expensive drinks, important people shaking his hand and telling him what a hero he was. You were on that mission too, but you had never been particularly interested in recognition. It was one of the few things you and Leon agreed on, even if the reasons behind it weren't always the same.

You'd been in the field long before the Division ever put you beside him. Years of military training had taught you how to keep your head up when everything around you was falling apart, and your time working in intelligence had made you good at the parts of an operation that never made it into the reports. You hadn't counted your sleepless nights, the nightmares, or the fact that you’d essentially traded a normal life away years ago. You’d been living in places nobody would ever imagine—training alongside South American forces, sometimes even sleeping on hard-wood floors simply because you couldn’t catch a break. That’s what shaped you. And some even called you ‘Little Hawk’. You weren't the kind of agent who needed someone watching your back every second. If anything, you'd spent most of your career being the person other agents were told to keep up with.

That was why special operations had eventually paired you with Leon. Not because you needed him, but because the two of you worked. Two relentless, broken agents who cared more about the mission than their own lives.

You could read a room before he had finished looking at it. He could improvise when your carefully laid-out plan inevitably caught fire. Somewhere along the way, the distinction between his instincts and your instincts had become almost irrelevant. You moved together without having to say a word.

And despite all of that, you had never considered yourself indispensable. There were others, even thousands of people training and making themselves useful to the force and the country. You were just in a good position.

Leon was different. His name carried weight far beyond the agency's walls. His record had become the kind of thing people talked about in rooms you would never be invited into. When something went wrong involving biological weapons, governments didn't ask who was available—they asked for him. And now, after saving the President’s daughter, that record was pure gold.

And you? You’d keep doing what you do best: saving as many people as you can. That was what really mattered to you.

So when high command decided to make him the centerpiece of the evening, you hadn't been offended when your name was left off the program. You’d actually preferred it that way. Which was why you couldn't understand why Leon seemed to have a problem with it. After all, the job was done.

You knew Leon well enough to know he hated every second of this party. He knew exactly how quickly people forget the cost behind the results; they were just there for the outcome. He knew half the people in the room didn't actually care about what it took to bring Ashley home safe. They just saw the heroic headline.

Still, seeing him outside of combat was always a strange adjustment. Sure, you’d shared crappy motel rooms, bled through improvised bandages on threadbare mattresses, and split cold rations in the back of unmarked trucks. But tuxedo Leon? That was a dangerous new chapter.

People knew Leon S. Kennedy as the myth. The top-tier operative who walked into biological nightmares, cleared the LZ, and waited quietly for his next deployment. You knew him as the guy who complained endlessly about terrible office coffee at six in the morning, the silent judge of everyone's music choices, and an insufferable bastard who would argue a point to the death just to pretend he’d won—even when he clearly hadn't.

The ballroom felt suffocatingly quiet. Too many suits, too many polished smiles, too many high-ranking officials who only saw agents as casualty percentages on an operational report.

You spotted him near the far end of the long mahogany bar, isolated from the circle of politicians trying to get a piece of him. He was wearing a black suit, no tie, the top buttons of his white shirt undone. His hair was styled in a lazy slick-back, though a few stubborn strands had already fallen forward across his forehead. He looked completely out of place among the pristine military uniforms—and infuriatingly attractive because of it.

You approached just as an older government official finished clapping Leon on the shoulder and walked away. Leon didn't even watch him leave; his eyes were already on you as you stepped up to the bar. His gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary, tracking the dark gown, before returning to your face.

You didn't miss it. Of course you didn't.

"Let me guess," you murmured, leaning your forearm against the polished wood, stepping right into his personal space. "He spent ten minutes explaining to you how the President sleeps soundly because of your service."

Leon didn't look away. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his champagne glass, his thumb tracing the rim of the crystal before he set it down with a quiet clink.

"Fifteen," he corrected smoothly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp over the jazz music filling the room. "And he called me 'son' twice. I almost poured this over his shoes."

A faint, dry chuckle escaped you. "Tragic. I suppose he didn't ask about the rest of the operation?"

"He didn't even know there was an operation beyond the headlines," Leon replied, turning his shoulders slightly toward you, his coat brushing against yours as he closed off the rest of the room. His blue eyes narrowed just enough to catch the faint humor in yours. "I told him my partner handled half the body count in the castle. He thought I was being modest."

"Well, naturally," you said, swirling the champagne in your glass. "A woman covering your back while you fought off giant bugs in the catacombs doesn't fit their poster-boy narrative."

Leon let out a quiet breath through his nose—that dry, barely-there exhale he used instead of a laugh. "Those invisible bastards were your idea of fun, as I recall."

"I recall saving your ass when you almost got pinned by a Novistador," you countered smoothly. "And if memory serves, I was the one who found the dynamite to clear the rocks in those mines."

"You almost blew us both up."

"It was controlled demolition, Kennedy. Big difference."

"Right. Controlled," Leon deadpanned, taking another sip. "Tell that to my ears. They were ringing for two days."

"You survived."

"Barely."

A quiet, familiar pause settled between you. It was the kind of silence that only came from months of surviving together in places nobody upstairs would ever understand. The village, the chainsaw-wielding fanatics, the iron gates of the island, Krauser... you had been through the same meat grinder.

Leon leaned back slightly against the bar, resting his elbow on the counter. His gaze drifted over the crowd before settling back on you, his expression hardening just a fraction into something more grounded.

"They had your name on the original briefing draft for tonight," he said casually, though his tone carried that low, sharp edge he used when something annoyed him. "I saw the paperwork on the Director's desk before the gala."

You took a slow sip of your drink. "I asked them to scratch it."

Leon’s brow twitched. "Why?"

"Because I don't need a room full of suits clapping for me to know I did my job," you replied, keeping your tone light, though the reality behind it was cold. "In their eyes, I'm an operational line in a classified report. If I don't come back from the next drop, they fill my desk by Monday. You're the face of the rescue. They need you on that stage."

Leon stared at you for a long moment. He didn't offer a dramatic speech. He didn't try to play the hero. He just set his glass down on the wood with a dull, heavy thud, turning his body completely toward you.

"That's bullshit," he said flatly.

You raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You're talking like an analyst who never left Washington," Leon said, his voice low, dry, and sharp. "You were in the mud. You took the heavy fire at the island's dock so I could breach the main facility. You didn't wait for backup when we got separated in the lab, and you didn't ask for a pat on the back when we pulled the President's daughter onto that jet ski."

You looked down at your glass, the humor fading into a quiet, heavy reality. "Leon..."

"I don't give a damn about this party, the speeches, or whatever optics they're trying to sell tonight," he continued, holding your gaze with that steady, deadpan intensity. "But you earned your place in that report. Leaving you out wasn't modesty on your part. It was just stupid on theirs."

It was classic Leon: blunt, slightly bitter, but carrying a weight of loyalty that didn't need grand words to be felt.

You swallowed quietly, a small, reluctant smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "You really hate political parties, don't you?"

"I hate listening to people who weren't there tell me how it went," he muttered, picking his glass back up. "And I hate hearing you sound like you're replaceable."

The admission hung between you, quiet and unpolished, amidst the chatter and string music of the ballroom. You held his gaze, feeling the grounded, unshakable presence he always brought when things went to hell.

"Fine," you whispered, tilting your glass toward him. "Next time we rescue a VIP, I'll make sure they put my name in bold."

Leon’s mouth curved into a faint, rare smirk, his blue eyes softening just a fraction as he tapped his glass against yours.

"I'll hold you to that, Little Hawk."

You froze mid-sip, your glass halting halfway to your lips. You blinked, staring at him as the old tactical callsign echoed between you, cutting through the low noise of the ballroom.

"Where did you even pull that from?" you asked, leaning in slightly, your eyes narrowing in genuine disbelief. "That callsign was redacted from my active file before I was even transferred to the US."

Leon took a slow, unhurried sip of his drink, looking entirely pleased with himself, though he kept his expression perfectly deadpan.

"I have my sources," he said smoothly, leaning back against the bar. "Turns out if you dig deep enough into the joint-task force archives, people write interesting things in the margins. Especially about your time doing dark-ops in the middle of Buenos Aires."

“Sources as in ‘I sneak into the government archives’?” 

"I like knowing who's watching my back before I drop into a warzone," Leon replied, his tone nonchalant, though the sharp, attentive glint in his eyes gave him away.

The quiet space between you was abruptly shattered by the sharp sound of feedback echoing through the ballroom’s surrounding speaker system.

Near the far end of the hall, standing beside a podium flanked by two pristine American flags, a high-ranking Division director in a heavily decorated dress uniform tapped the microphone twice. His voice, boisterous and practiced, cut straight through the low hum of jazz and political chatter.

"If I could have everyone's attention for a moment, please..."

Leon didn't roll his eyes, but the subtle, exhausted shift in his shoulders said everything his face refused to show. He took one last, slow sip of his champagne, letting the cold liquid settle before placing the empty crystal glass on the dark mahogany counter with a dull, final click.

Before he could even process the director calling his name, a young aide in a crisp suit approached him from the side, leaning in to whisper respectfully.

"Agent Kennedy, the Director is expecting you at the podium for the commendation. We need you on stage now, sir."

Leon didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the aide for a beat, his expression a wall of pure, unbothered detachment, before letting out a quiet, resigned breath through his nose. He reached down to pull his dark suit jacket straight, adjusting his cuffs with practiced efficiency.

"Duty calls," he muttered, turning back toward you. He looked entirely unenthusiastic about the prospect of walking toward those bright lights, but as he stepped away from the bar, his eyes flicked to yours, steady and quiet. 

You stayed leaning against the bar, resting one elbow on the polished wood. Across the floor, Leon cut through the sea of tailored tuxedos and glittering evening gowns with a silent, measured stride. Even out of his gear, dressed in a black suit with his shirt collar left slightly unbuttoned, there was an edge to how he moved—a constant, ingrained awareness of his surroundings that no formal event could ever truly wash away. Under the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers, standing beside government officials who had never heard a shot fired in anger, he looked completely out of place.

And, as much as you hated to admit it, infuriatingly striking.

The Director began reading from a pre-approved, highly polished speech printed on stiff official cardstock. His voice boomed through the speakers, dripping with theatrical patriotism and loaded with political buzzwords: unyielding heroism, unwavering devotion to the nation, decisive solo action in the face of an unprecedented biological threats. You knew those words by heart. Too many political speeches you were there to witness and follow if there were any instructions. That’s how your life works now.

It was the exact narrative Washington had spent the last month crafting, they made it look clean. Isolated. A single, flawless operative marching into a remote hellhole and bringing the President's daughter back on his own. It made for great headlines, satisfied the oversight committees, and swept the messy, chaotic reality of field work entirely under the rug. And honestly, sounded great for the relief of the rest of the world’s bureaucracy. 

You listened from the bar with a quiet, bitter amusement. You had asked to be left off the program—you truly had—because you hated the optics, the hypocrisy, and the fake smiles of people who didn't care about the bodies left behind in that village, all the lives that were taken for Las Plagas, people with families, feelings, and maybe even plans for the future. But standing there, listening to them attribute every tactical breach, every perimeter hold, and every near-death firefight solely to a single man... a small, quiet part of you still felt the cold sting of being erased. You didn't want the spotlight, but being rendered completely invisible by design was a different kind of pill to swallow. But you wanted it that way.

“Please, welcome Agent Leon S. Kennedy, the man that made this happen.” 

The invitation of the director made Leon approach the stage while the sound of restless applause echoed through all the ballroom. He adjusted the microphone with a quiet breath that carried clearly over the room. Then, the entire ballroom fell silent, waiting for the agency's golden boy to deliver his victory speech, talk about the defiances he had to go through and maybe how this mission was a before and after in today’s modern world. But Leon won’t do that, and never will.

Leon stood just half a step behind the lectern, his hands resting loosely on the cue cards the oficcials were expecting him to read from. If you knew Leon for a day or two, you’d know he clearly does not respect protocol—Well, most times—but today was not the exception. As his gaze vaguely read the prompt of the speech they previously arranged for him. He recognized it was pure bullshit. His face was a completely impassive mask—polite, distant, and patient enough to endure the speech.

"Thank you, Director," Leon began, his voice low, gravelly, and flat. "It's an honor to be here tonight. But operational reports tend to simplify things for the press or the whole system. Who knows?”

A subtle, uneasy rustle rippled through the front row of officials.

Leon’s blue eyes scanned the grand room, ignoring the cameras flicking at him, until his eyes locked directly onto yours at the far edge of the bar. Observing your relaxed posture while you listened. 

"The truth is, nobody survives an operation like Spain alone," Leon said, his tone dry, steady, and unyielding. If professionalism was a person. "They tell you I pulled off a solo retrieval. No help. No one I relied on while some B.O.W tried to reach for my limbs. But I’m eager to say I had an operative holding my perimeter. Someone who gave comfort to the target while I was fighting for their safety. Someone that held off heavy fire at the docks when everything went to hell, and possesses a field record so spotless that half the senior directors in this room have personally requested her as backup on high-risk drops.”

Fucking hell, Leon. 

You should’ve see it coming. Of course Leon wouldn’t leave it alone. I mean he was not wrong. Once you were transferred to the US, all analysts and field agents were talking about the military woman who was living in South America, the one who was trained into almost the dephts of hell. More than once they pulled you off at 3 a.m to backup Senior agents. Changed into tactical gears in less than 10 minutes.

A ripple of low whispers broke out among the crowd. Heads began turning toward the back of the room. At you, clearly. People in high command knew exactly who he was describing—the reputation of the unit's sharpest operative wasn't a secret, even if her name was usually redacted from public files.

Leon maintained eye contact with you, a faint, stubborn glint in his eyes.

"She asked to be left off the official program tonight," Leon continued, a dry edge to his voice. "Because she prefers doing the work over taking the credit. But I don't run successful extractions alone. I guess you all know who I'm talking about.” He didn't just point or offer a polite toast. He held out his hand toward the back corner of the room, looking straight at you. "Step up here for a second."

What could you possibly do? Not go? You shook your head, almost amused. Dozens of eyes—generals, analysts, intelligence chiefs, past superiors—were now fully fixed on you. Leaving him hanging on stage would create an even bigger scene than the one he had just started, so you took a slow, steadying breath, set your glass down on the mahogany counter, and smoothed the front of your black dress and tried to accomodate in little movements your hair. Everything felt heavy for a moment.

But you walked toward the stage with the calm, measured stride of someone who had faced down armed hostiles in dark alleys. You didn't look nervous; your operational mask was flawless. Your mouth making a little professional smile while you were approaching the stage.

As you reached the podium, Leon stepped back just an inch, making space for you at the microphone. His expression didn't show much, but as your shoulders brushed, you caught the faint, subtle smirk at the corner of his mouth.

You gave him the typical gaze he recognized by heart . The ‘You’re An Idiot’ look. A brief, sharp side-eye before turning to face the room full of Washington's most powerful figures.

You leaned in slightly toward the microphone, your voice coming through clear, level, and precise—the same tone you used to deliver a sitrep, not a toast.

"Agent Kennedy tends to overstate things when someone puts him in a suit," you said, and the line landed exactly where you wanted it, drawing a light ripple of laughter from the crowd. You let it settle before continuing, your posture unchanged, your hands loose at your sides instead of gripping the podium the way most people did up here. "What he described was standard perimeter work. Hold the line, clear the approach, keep the target breathing until extraction. That's the job. It doesn't usually come with a stage."

You paused, and in that pause you did something none of the previous speakers had bothered to do—you actually looked at the room. Not the cameras, not the Director, not the front row. You scanned it the way you'd scan a room with three exits and only one of them clean, and half the generals watching knew exactly what that look was, because they'd seen agents do it before a breach.

"I'll say this much, since I'm already up here," you continued, your tone dropping half a register, losing the polite gloss entirely. "Spain wasn't clean. It wasn't solo, and it wasn't the kind of operation that fits in a press release. People made it home because a lot of things went right that nobody's going to write a commendation for. That's not modesty, Director. That's just an accurate report."

A few uncomfortable shifts rippled through the front row—the kind of quiet that told you you'd said something true that the room hadn't asked for. You didn’t soften it.

"I asked to be left off tonight's program because visibility isn't part of what I do, and it isn't something I need." Your eyes flicked, just briefly, to Leon beside you. "Agent Kennedy apparently disagreed. He'll live with that." A faint edge of dry humor, just enough to pull the room back before it tipped too far into discomfort. "Thank you for your time."

You stepped back from the microphone with the same unhurried economy you'd used walking up—no bow, no lingering smile for the cameras, just a short nod to the Director that closed the subject as firmly as a door. Would it bring you trouble? Sure. Did you care? Absolutely not. In fact, they should go ahead and give you a strike, maybe it will come with a suspension —more like a break— of a week. 

Leon knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled you up there. He hadn't just wanted you on that stage; he'd wanted this—the unfiltered version, the one who corrected the Director's fairy tale instead of playing along with it. He'd bet on you not softening it, not once, and he'd been right. You could see it in the way he wasn't even trying to hide the satisfaction on his face, like a man who'd called the outcome before the coin even left his hand. Just a player in his game. But honestly, if it made you speak about what you really stand for, then so be it. 

You didn't get more than three steps off the stage before the Director intercepted you both, his smile stitched back into place with the kind of effort that made the seams show. Up close, you could see it hadn't quite reached his eyes yet—that would take another minute, maybe two, once he'd decided how to spin what had just happened.

"Agent Kennedy. Agent." He said your designation instead of your name, the way people did when they wanted to remind you which one of you was replaceable on paper. "That was... an unscripted addition to the evening."

"Wasn't planned, no," Leon said flatly, offering nothing else. He wasn't going to make this easier for the man.

The Director's gaze shifted to you, and whatever warmth had been performed for the crowd thinned out considerably. "I appreciate your candor," he said, in the exact tone people used when they didn't. "Though I'd remind you both that tonight's program was approved through proper channels for a reason. There's a version of events the board is comfortable with, and a version that complicates things unnecessarily upstairs."

"With respect, sir," you said, your voice even, professional, giving him nothing to escalate against, "I only said what was already in the after-action report. If it complicates things, that's not something I wrote."

Something flickered behind the Director's eyes—not anger, exactly. More like a man recalculating how much of tonight he'd actually controlled. "We'll discuss the report's classification level tomorrow," he said, tight and clipped, already glancing past you toward the next cluster of officials waiting for his attention. "For now, enjoy the rest of the evening. Both of you."

He didn't wait for a response before turning on his heel, already rebuilding his smile for someone more cooperative.

"That went well," Leon muttered under his breath, watching him go back into the stage and doing the closing toast. 

"He's going to make my next four briefings miserable. He’ll send us to the most isolated island on East Japan.”

"Only four?" Leon glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Optimistic."

You didn't get the chance to answer him. A tall, older government official with slicked-back black hair and a calculating demeanor stepped directly into your path. 

“Quite the unscripted performance, Kennedy,” the official said smoothly, offering a tight, practiced smile. “And a remarkably composed response, Agent. The Director almost had a heart attack when you two took over the microphone.”

The black-haired man turned his sharp gaze toward you, evaluating you with an analytical eye. “Clean execution under heavy fire in the field, from what I read. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised given your history with special operations.”

“We were just doing what we do best. Save others for a greater good.” you replied simply, your tone dropping into that cold, clipped language reserved for bureaucrats.

“That you did,” the official noted, stepping half an inch closer and lowering his voice to a dangerous, quiet murmur. “Which is precisely why I needed a moment with both of you before the evening wraps up.” He paused and took a big breath through his mouth. “It’s regarding the recovery from the Spanish site,” the official said, his voice barely carrying over the background string quartet. “Specifically, the specimen secured from the laboratory.”

A subtle shift went through Leon. His jaw tightened ever so slightly. “The Amber sample. We were under the impression it was cleared for containment at the main facility.” 

“It was. Until three hours ago,” the official said smoothly, taking a slow sip from his glass of wine. “Certain anomalies were detected in the tissue structure during transit. We had to redirect it here—to the sub-level laboratory beneath this very building—for high-security isolation until the board reviews the research protocol.” 

Your internal alarms went off instantly. Moving a high-grade biological hazard to a sub-level vault beneath a civilian-filled gala under the guise of 'anomalies' wasn't just incompetence—it was a setup.

“A high-grade sample in a basement below a party,” you said softly, your tone laced with quiet, dangerous skepticism. “Brilliant logistics, sir.”

The official chuckled dryly, ignoring the bite in your words. “Which is why tonight’s optics were so crucial. The board needs to see the Division's finest standing on that stage, proving everything is under control.” He patted Leon’s shoulder once—a gesture Leon tolerated with minimal movement. “Don't keep the Director waiting for the closing toast, Kennedy.”

As the official melted back into the sea of black ties and evening gowns, a heavy silence settled between you and Leon.

“They don't bring something like that here just to keep it safe,” Leon murmured, his voice dropping into a low register meant only for you as his blue eyes scanned the crowd. “They bring it here because someone wants to sell it.”

“And you were supposed to stand on a stage and smile while they set up the deal,” you replied dryly.

Standing in the dim light away from the chandeliers was a tall woman in a sleek crimson dress. She held a glass of red wine, her posture completely relaxed despite the high-security clearance required to get into that wing. She wasn't looking at the crowd. Her eyes were fixed squarely on you and Leon.

And when she caught you looking, Ada Wong raised her glass in a slow, silent mock-toast, before stepping backward through the curtains and vanishing into the dark terrace.

Ada fucking Wong. 

Your pulse didn't spike—years of intelligence work had cured you of panic—but a cold, sharp realization settled in your gut.

Leon noticed the sudden stillness in your posture immediately. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just followed your gaze toward the empty curtains, his expression darkening into something far more dangerous than the annoyance he’d shown the official.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“What?” he asked flatly.

“The sample isn't going to stay in that basement for very long,” you said, your tone dropping into pure operational focus as you straightened up, the black dress suddenly feeling like armor. “Your ex-girlfriend just walked onto the balcony.”

"I'll go," you said, already turning toward the terrace doors before Leon could argue.

"No." The word came out fast, sharper than he probably meant it. "I'll handle Ada. You take the sub-level, make sure nobody's touched that sample."

"Because that makes more sense," you said, arching a brow. "You want to go have a heart-to-heart with your ex while I do inventory in a basement."

"It's not a heart-to-heart, it's damage control." Leon's jaw was tight, his eyes still fixed on the curtains where she'd disappeared. "I know how she thinks. I can get her talking."

"You always know how she thinks." The words left you before you could file down the edge on them. "Funny how that worked out so well for us in Spain too."

Leon's gaze snapped back to you. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You crossed your arms, and for a second the ballroom noise around you both seemed to drop away entirely. "She shows up, you go quiet, and somehow the mission always ends up running through her instead of around her. Krauser had a knife to my throat in that cabin, and you were still asking her whose side she was on."

"Because her answer mattered." Leon's voice dropped, low and clipped. "If she'd said Wesker, we'd have known exactly how bad our night was about to get. That's not sentiment, that's intel."

"Sure. Intel." You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Is that what you call it when she hands you a rocket launcher and disappears into a lake, and you spend the next ten minutes staring at the water like she's going to surface and explain herself?"

"I wasn't staring at the water."

"You absolutely were staring at the water, Leon."

His jaw ticked. "You had a spider the size of a truck trying to eat you at the time. Forgive me for not clocking exactly how long I looked at a lake."

"I handled the spider just fine." Your voice had gone flatter, colder—the tone you used when you were angrier than you wanted to admit. "I always handle it fine. That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Leon stepped in closer, dropping his voice as a passing couple glanced their way. "Because it sounds like you're accusing me of something, and I'd like to know what, exactly.”

"Say it," Leon pressed, closing the last bit of distance between you, his voice low enough that it stayed between the two of you and nobody else. "Whatever it is you're not saying right now, just say it."

"Leon—"

"No, I mean it." His eyes didn't waver from yours, and for once there was nothing deadpan or dry in his tone—just something raw and a little frustrated, like he'd been waiting for this conversation to happen for longer than tonight. "You don't dance around things. That's not you. So don't start now.”

The music kept playing behind you, absurdly soft and pretty for a conversation that felt like it was cracking something open that had been sealed shut for a long time. You could feel your own pulse in your throat, which almost never happened to you anymore—not in firefights, not in extractions gone wrong, not even the night Krauser had a blade an inch from your carotid. But here, under gold light and violin strings, staring at Leon Kennedy waiting for you to finally say the thing out loud, your hands felt unsteady in a way you didn't have a tactical response for.

You almost laughed, except it wouldn't have been the kind that meant anything good. "You want me to say it here? In the middle of a gala, two minutes after finding out someone's trying to sell a bioweapon out of the basement?"

"I want you to say it before you walk away and pretend this conversation didn't happen." Leon's voice had dropped even lower, and there was something almost pleading buried underneath the sharpness of it, something he probably hated that you could hear. "You've been carrying this around for months. I'm not blind, I just figured you'd tell me when you were ready. So—be ready. Now's apparently the time."

You hesitated for half a second too long, and that alone told you how close you were to saying something you couldn't walk back in the middle of a ballroom. So you didn’t tell him the real reason. He could wait, or maybe if God’s on your side never hear it. “Leon, the point here is you don't send someone else in to deal with her. Not the Director, not command, not me. It's always you. And now she's here, at your gala, two floors above a sample that's apparently for sale, and your first instinct is still to go talk to her yourself instead of letting security handle a known hostile."

"She's not just a hostile to me, and you know that." The words came out low, almost tired, like he'd had this exact argument with himself plenty of times before you ever said a word of it out loud. "She's saved my life more than once. She's also sold us out more than once. I don't get the luxury of a clean answer on her, and I'm not going to pretend I do just because it'd make this conversation easier.”

Of course she is not just a hostile to him. How could I forget that she’s saved him many, countless times. Also, I can not recall how many times she disappeared on him, making him believe she was actually dead and come back like she was a resurecting deity. Sure… 

"I'm not asking for a clean answer. I'm asking why it's never anyone else's job to find out what she's doing here."

"Because if it goes sideways, I'd rather it be me standing in front of her than you." Leon said it fast, like it had gotten away from him before he could soften it, and for a second neither of you said anything at all.

The jazz kept playing. Somewhere behind you, glasses clinked and someone laughed too loudly at a joke you weren't listening to. You stared at him, and he stared back, and the whole thing sat there, ugly and half-true and impossible to take back now that it was out in the open air between you.

"Right," you said finally, quieter now, all the heat draining out of your voice into something that scared you more. "Because God forbid it's me."

"That's not what I—"

"Forget it." You shook your head, and you could feel the small, cold voice surfacing in the back of your skull, the one that had kept you breathing through worse rooms than this one. You're coworkers. This is a job. This is not the time. Whatever this was—whatever it had just started to become in the last thirty seconds—it wasn't going to get solved in a hallway with a live biological sample two floors down and a woman in red currently walking away with whatever she'd come here for.

You exhaled, long and slow, and when you spoke again your voice had leveled itself back into something professional, flat, controlled—the voice you used to survive briefings you hated. "I'm going after her. You check the sub-level. That's the smarter split, and you know it. You know her. I don't have history clouding my read on this."

Leon looked like he wanted to argue that too, but he didn't. Maybe because he knew you were right. Maybe because some part of him didn't want to watch you walk toward Ada Wong either way, and staying quiet was the only version of that thought he was willing to let out into the open.

"Be careful," he said instead, quieter now, all the earlier edge gone out of his voice.

"Always am."

You didn't wait for anything else. You turned on your heel, the black dress moving like water around your legs, and made for the terrace doors Ada had vanished through minutes ago—leaving Leon standing there with a version of the conversation neither of you had actually finished.

The terrace was empty by the time you reached it, the cold night air a sharp contrast to the perfume and heat of the ballroom. Curtains still swayed faintly from where Ada had passed through them minutes ago. You didn't call out her name—that would've been amateur, and you were many things, but never that.

Instead, you scanned the terrace the way you'd scan any room with more than one way out. Stone railing, a drop to the gardens below that a normal person wouldn't consider, and to your left, a narrow service stairwell half-hidden behind an ornamental hedge. Ada wouldn't have taken the obvious exit. She never did.

You went for the stairwell.

Three flights down, moving light on your feet despite the heels you'd cursed all night, you caught the faint echo of footsteps just ahead—unhurried, deliberate, the kind of pace that told you she knew exactly how far behind her you were and wasn't worried about it.

"You're persistent. I'll give you that." Ada's voice drifted up from the landing below, amused, unbothered, like she was commenting on the weather rather than being tracked through a service stairwell. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Spain taught me that much about you already."

"Then you already know I'm not going to lose you on some stairs." You reached the landing, and there she was—leaning against the wall beside a service door, arms loosely crossed, red dress catching the dim emergency lighting like a wound. She looked entirely too comfortable for someone supposedly running from anyone.

"Mm. No, I don't imagine you would." Ada tilted her head, studying you with that same evaluating calm she'd worn in that ruined Spanish village a month ago, when she'd sized you up over Leon's shoulder like you were a variable she hadn't accounted for yet. "You handled yourself well back there, by the way. The speech." Her mouth curved, slow. "Very composed for someone who apparently didn't want to be up there at all."

You kept your face flat, professional, refusing to give her the reaction she was fishing for. "You were watching."

"I'm always watching." Ada pushed off the wall, unhurried, circling half a step to your left—testing you, seeing if you'd flinch, reposition, give something away. You didn't move. "It was almost sweet, honestly. Leon, dragging you up there like a trophy after you specifically asked not to be. He does that—decides what's good for people without asking them first." A small, private smile. "I'd know."

She tilted her head, studying you with something almost fond, almost cruel. "You know, it must be exhausting," she went on, ignoring whatever guard you'd just put up, "being the one who does all the unglamorous work while he gets the stage, the medals, the little speeches. And you just—" she gestured vaguely, almost lazily, "—stand there and let it happen. Loyal little soldier."

"I don't need the stage." Your voice came out even, controlled, though something in your chest had gone tight and hot.

"Everyone says that right up until someone else takes it." Ada's smile sharpened, just slightly, and you felt the barb land exactly where she wanted it to. "He looked good up there tonight, didn't he? Golden boy in a suit. Must be nice, being so close to something everyone else wants."

"I'm close to him because we work together." The words came out clipped, faster than you meant them to.

"Mm." Ada's gaze dragged over you slowly, unreadable, amused in a way that made something ugly coil low in your stomach. "That's the trouble with Leon. People meet the version of him that already made it out the other side. The one they put on stages, in reports, in whatever headline Washington's selling this month." She circled another half step, unhurried, clearly enjoying herself. "I met him back when none of that existed yet. When he was still green enough to flinch at his own gunfire, when Raccoon City finished carving him into whatever he is now." A pause, deliberate, cruel in its calm. "You got the version that already survived.”

Something hot and immediate flared behind your ribs—not surprise, not hurt, just the old, familiar loathing you'd carried for this woman since the day you'd first watched her walk into a room like she owned the air in it. You wanted, badly, to say something that would finally wipe that composed little smile off her face. You didn't. You'd promised yourself a long time ago you wouldn't be the one to hand Ada Wong a reaction she could enjoy. You sourly swallowed all the words that were begging to come out.

"I'm not here to talk about Leon." You tilted your head as the words came out flat, controlled, though it cost you more than you wanted to admit to keep them that way.

"No?" Ada's smile widened, just slightly. "You followed me down three flights of stairs in heels instead of letting him handle this himself. That's not exactly a woman who isn't thinking about Leon.”

Fuck, now you know where Leon learned that ability to mind read. You hated it because she was actually right. 

"I'm thinking about a sample that isn't supposed to be sitting in a basement under a room full of civilians," you said evenly, refusing to let the redirect land twice. "You know who's moving it. I want a name."

Ada studied you for a long moment, head tilted, clearly recalibrating. Whatever she'd expected from this conversation, it apparently wasn't you cutting straight past the bait. "You're no fun," she said lightly, though something behind her eyes had sharpened, gone more careful. "In Spain you at least let Leon do the talking while you covered the angles. Now you're doing both."

"Things change."

"Do they." It wasn't really a question. Ada considered you for another beat, weighing something you couldn't read, before she finally spoke again—slower this time, more deliberate, each word placed like she was deciding in real time how much she was willing to spend. "I don't hand out names for free. You know that. I didn't survive this long doing favors for men in suits, and I'm certainly not about to start doing them for his partner."

"I'm not asking for a favor. I'm asking because whatever's happening with that sample isn't going to stay contained to a basement, and you know that too, or you wouldn't still be standing here talking instead of already gone."

Something flickered across Ada's face—not quite surprise, but close, like she hadn't expected you to read that correctly. For the first time all night, the performance in her expression thinned, just slightly, into something more calculating than playful. "You're sharper than the last three they sent," she said, almost to herself. "Fine. One piece. Not the name—you haven't earned that yet." She tilted her head toward the door behind her. "That 'anomaly' in the tissue reading wasn't a lab error. Someone manufactured it to justify moving the sample somewhere with fewer eyes on it. And it wasn't anyone from outside your agency who authorized that."

Your pulse didn't spike, but something cold settled low in your chest. "You're saying this is internal."

"I'm saying you should be asking who signed off on tonight's relocation before you ask who's buying." Ada was already backing toward the service door, her tone flattening back into something unreadable. "That's more than I usually give away on a staircase. Don't waste it."

"Ada—"

"Tell Leon I said he looked good up there," she said instead, pulling the door open, throwing one last glance over her shoulder, something unreadable behind the usual performance. "And tell him I noticed he didn't listen to you. Some things about him really don't change. Thank you for your visit, Little Hawk.”

For God’s sake how many peole have read your fucking report. Again like reassuring your point, she got that skill to make you the one that did not belong in the space. Coming here and adressing me as my alias? You could feel your blood boil.

And then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft, final click, leaving you alone in the stairwell with half an answer and a headache that had nothing to do with the champagne. You took a deep sigh. The night's just starting. Fuck the off-duty night.

You stood there longer than you should have, one hand braced against the cold concrete wall, listening to your own pulse finally start to settle back into something normal. The stairwell smelled like dust and old paint, nothing like the ballroom above, and for a second you let yourself just breathe in it, grateful for a space that didn't require you to perform anything for anyone.

Must be nice, being so close to something everyone else wants.

You hated that the words were still sitting there, lodged somewhere under your ribs, refusing to dissolve the way every other insult you'd absorbed over the years usually did within minutes. You'd been called worse by actual hostiles holding actual weapons. You'd been spat on by a man twice your size who thought a woman had no business clearing a room, and it had rolled off you in about the time it took to put him on the ground. Ada hadn't even raised her voice. She hadn't needed to. She'd just found the one loose thread in you and given it the gentlest possible tug, and somehow that had done more damage than half the men who'd ever pointed a gun at your head.

Golden boy in a suit. You thought about the way Leon had looked up on that stage—unbothered, deadpan, giving away information nobody had cleared him to give, just because he'd decided you deserved it. Noble, in his own stubborn, infuriating way. And yet at the end of the night, it would still be his name in the official record. His face on whatever internal newsletter circulated next month, his commendation framed on some wall in some office you'd never be invited into. You, at best, a line item—Agent, redacted, commendable conduct. You'd told yourself for years that this was fine. Preferable, even. You'd chosen the version of this career that didn't come with a spotlight, because the spotlight got people killed, got their faces printed in places their enemies could find them, got them turned into symbols instead of soldiers. So why did it suddenly feel like something you needed defended?

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly against your sternum, annoyed at yourself for needing to. This wasn't like you. You didn't spiral over social politics, didn't waste bandwidth on optics or public perception—you'd built your entire career on not caring about any of that, on being the person who did the work in the dark so someone else could stand in the light and make it mean something to the people who needed a hero to believe in. That had never bothered you before Ada Wong had made it sound like a consolation prize.

Because it's not about the credit, a small, unhelpful voice offered from somewhere far too honest to ignore. It never was.

You tried to think it through the way you'd think through any tactical problem—clinically, at a distance, like you were debriefing someone else's mess instead of your own. Fact: you didn't actually want the stage. That part was true, had always been true, long before Leon existed in your life at all. Fact: Ada's comment shouldn't have landed anywhere, because you didn't respect her enough to let her opinion carry weight. So why did it? You turned the question over twice and didn't like either answer that surfaced. Either you cared what Ada Wong thought of you, which felt insulting on its face. Or you cared what it meant that she got to define parts of Leon you'd never had access to—the before, the vulnerable, the version that existed prior to all the medals and headlines—and that had nothing to do with credit at all.

You didn't like that answer better. If anything, you liked it less, because it meant the ugly little knot sitting in your chest wasn't about fairness or recognition or optics. It was about him. Which was absurd, because Leon Kennedy was your partner. A colleague. Someone you'd bled next to more times than you'd like to count, whose bad jokes you tolerated at six in the morning over terrible coffee, whose back you covered because that was the job, not because of anything softer underneath it. You were a highly trained intelligence operative with a body count and a security clearance that outranked half the people at that gala. You did not get tangled up over a man just because his ex-something-or-other knew how to needle you in three sentences flat.

And yet here you were, standing in a stairwell that smelled like dust, arguing with yourself about feelings you refused to name, while a live biological weapon sat two floors below you waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.

Get it together.

There was a sample to secure. A partner walking into a room that might not be cleared. A woman in red who'd just confirmed the threat was internal, which meant somebody you might pass in a hallway tomorrow had already sold you both out once tonight. That was the job. That was the only thing that mattered right now, and you'd figure out what to do with the rest of it later—if there even was a "rest of it" worth figuring out.

The service stairwell dropped you into a corridor that smelled like bleach and cold concrete, a world away from the perfume and jazz two floors up. Emergency lighting cast everything in a dull amber wash, humming faintly overhead, and somewhere ahead you could hear the low drone of industrial refrigeration units—containment equipment, probably, working overtime to keep something cold that had no business being this close to a room full of civilians. You kicked off the heels within the first ten steps, tucking them under one arm without slowing down. Some habits didn't care what you were wearing.

You found Leon crouched near a service junction, jacket already gone, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his tie discarded somewhere you doubted he'd bother retrieving later. He had a security panel cracked open, wires pulled loose, his brow furrowed in concentration, the picture of a man who'd clearly done this exact thing in far worse lighting before.

"Tell me you got something useful," he said without looking up, clearly having heard you coming from twenty feet away. Old habits, both of you.

"Ada says it's internal. Someone in the agency manufactured the anomaly reading to justify moving the sample down here." You crouched beside him, scanning the corridor on instinct—two exits, one camera with its wire already cut, and that told you everything you needed to know about how long you actually had before whoever was running this operation noticed their surveillance had gone dark. "She wouldn't give me a name. Said I hadn't earned it yet."

"Charming as always." Leon's jaw tightened as he pulled the last wire free, and the panel's little red light blinked out entirely, plunging that section of the wall into darker shadow. "Well, whoever it is already beat us here. This whole floor's supposed to have three-tier authorization on every door. I count zero locks actually engaged. Somebody walked through here with clearance nobody should have questioned."

"So someone's already inside the vault."

"Someone's already inside the vault," he confirmed, straightening to his full height, his hand finding the sidearm holstered discreetly beneath his jacket—the one nobody at the gala had clocked because Leon Kennedy never went anywhere without one, tuxedo or not. Some habits ran deeper than dress code. "You armed?"

You reached down along the slit of your dress, into the small tactical holster strapped to your thigh that had been chafing all night under the silk, and pulled the compact pistol free with a familiar, grounding weight in your palm. "Always am."

Leon's eyes flicked to the weapon, then back to your face, something between approval and exasperation flickering across his expression. "You brought a gun to a gala."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't say thank you."

"You were about to."

The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing to a real smile he'd give you tonight, gone as fast as it appeared, swallowed back into the flat, focused calm you both wore like armor whenever a job actually started to matter. Whatever had been simmering between you an hour ago in the ballroom seemed to fold itself neatly away, tucked behind the same door you both knew how to shut when the situation demanded it. This was the version of the two of you that never needed translating.

He nodded toward the end of the corridor, where a heavy steel door sat cracked open just enough to leak pale light into the hallway. "Vault's that way. Fall in?"

"Like old times."

You moved together the way you always had—no wasted words, no need for hand signals when you'd spent months reading each other's shoulders instead of speaking. Leon took point at the door, easing it open another inch, testing the hinge for creak before committing his weight to it, and you slid in behind him low, weapon raised, eyes already sweeping the room before your brain had fully processed what you were looking at.

The sub-level lab was smaller than you expected—stainless steel tables, a bank of refrigerated containment units along the far wall, one of them standing open, its seal broken, cold vapor still curling off the exposed shelf like something exhaling. Two men in dark tactical gear were crouched beside it, one of them already sliding a sealed case into a reinforced backpack, the other keeping watch on the second door with a rifle held low and ready.

Leon didn't hesitate. "Federal agents! Hands where I can—"

The nearer merc spun with a pistol already rising, and the room went loud all at once, the crack of gunfire swallowing whatever else Leon had been about to say.

You dropped low on instinct, the first shot cracking past where your head had been a half-second earlier, close enough that you felt the displaced air against your cheek, and returned fire in a tight, controlled burst that put the man down before he got a second shot off. Years of training had a way of narrowing the world down to exactly what mattered in moments like this—breath, sightline, trigger—and everything else, the dress, the heels discarded somewhere behind you, the ringing echo of a gala two floors up, simply ceased to exist.

Leon was already moving right, using a steel table for cover, drawing the second merc's attention as he tried to angle for a clean shot at you from behind the open containment unit.

"Left side!" Leon called, voice sharp and clipped over the gunfire, and you were already moving before the words finished leaving his mouth—rolling behind the nearest table, popping up at an angle he couldn't have taken himself, and putting two rounds into the second merc's shoulder hard enough to spin him off balance. He staggered, rifle swinging wide, and Leon closed the distance in three fast strides, driving a clean strike into the man's jaw that put him down for good, the rifle clattering uselessly across the tile.

Your ears rang faintly in the sudden quiet, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp against the sterile lab air. Somewhere above you, you were almost certain nobody upstairs had even registered the muffled shots through two floors of concrete and jazz music. Small mercies. You rose slowly from cover, weapon still up, doing a slow visual sweep of the room out of pure muscle memory before your body allowed itself to fully relax.

"You good?" Leon asked, already crossing to check the case the merc had been sliding into the backpack, his own breathing only slightly elevated, adrenaline visible in the tight set of his shoulders rather than anything as obvious as panic.

"Fine." You kept your weapon up a moment longer, sweeping the room a second time out of habit, checking the corners, the vents, the second door at the far end you hadn't cleared yet. "That's not all of them."

"No," Leon agreed grimly, crouching to examine the case—still sealed, the sample intact inside its reinforced housing, a small mercy in a night that hadn't offered many. "Two guys don't move a biohazard sample alone. There's a third somewhere, probably running comms, maybe already gone the second the shooting started."

"Or waiting to see if the first two actually pulled it off before they show their face." You nodded toward the second door, already recalculating the room's exits, the angles, the places a third man could be watching from without exposing himself. "I'll clear that hallway."

"Together."

"Leon—"

"Together," he said again, more firmly this time, already moving to flank the door instead of arguing about it further, his tone leaving no real room for negotiation. "We're not doing the whole splitting-up thing twice in one night. Look how well that worked out with Ada."

You didn't have a good comeback for that, mostly because he wasn't wrong, so you fell into position beside him instead, weapon raised, breath steady, exactly the way you had a hundred times before in a hundred worse places than this one—Spain, the mines, that godforsaken island—each time proving all over again that whatever else the two of you might be tangled up in, this part of you had never needed fixing.

The second door led into a narrow observation corridor, glass-paneled on one side, looking down into what had probably once been a secondary research bay before someone gutted it for storage. Leon eased forward first, back to the wall, weapon low but ready, and you fell in behind him with the same silent economy you'd used a hundred times before. Voices drifted up ahead—low, controlled, the kind of conversation that wasn't meant to carry past the room it was happening in.

Leon froze first. You felt it before you saw it, the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, and when you leaned just enough to catch the angle through the glass, your own breath caught somewhere in your throat.

The Director stood near a stripped examination table, his ceremonial jacket discarded over a nearby chair, looking twenty years older without the practiced warmth he wore upstairs. Across from him, Ada leaned against the far wall with a glass of wine still somehow in her hand, unbothered, as if she'd simply wandered into another room at the same party instead of a hidden sublevel conversation about biological warfare.

"—already told your associate this was never going to be a simple retrieval," Ada was saying, her tone bored in the specific way that told you she was anything but. "You don't just misplace a sample this contained without someone competent noticing eventually. And clearly," she tipped her glass slightly toward the door you and Leon had just come through, "someone competent already has."

"The retrieval team will handle any interference." The Director's voice had none of its earlier polish. It was flatter now, harder, a man speaking without an audience for the first time all night. "That's not your concern. Your concern is confirming the delivery window still holds."

"My concern," Ada said, straightening slightly, "is being compensated for information I already gave you weeks ago."

"Saddler was very specific about the parameters this time," the Director continued, pacing a slow, restless line along the table. "Kennedy already survived one exposure. His body's immune response is documented, unpredictable, and frankly, useless to us now—we know exactly how that story ends. He's a closed variable."

"Which is why the second target mattered so much in Spain," Ada said, and something in her voice had gone quieter, more deliberate. "Though I recall that attempt didn't go quite as planned."

"No," the Director admitted, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face. "She was exposed to the compound during the extraction, same delivery window as the girl. Should have turned within hours. Instead she metabolized it clean out of her system before symptoms even registered—some anomaly in her physiology nobody flagged beforehand. Saddler considers it unfinished business. He wants confirmation the compound still works on her specifically, not a substitute."

Beside you, Leon went utterly, dangerously still.

Spain. The word landed somewhere deep and cold in your chest. You thought back—the fever that had hit you for exactly one night in that godforsaken village, the one you'd written off as exhaustion, dehydration, too many hours without proper food. You remembered telling Leon you were fine. You remembered him believing you, because you'd believed it yourself.

"She's had months to build whatever resistance carried her through the first exposure," the Director went on. "Saddler wants a second attempt before that window closes entirely. Fresh compound, higher concentration, same profile."

"How reassuring," Ada murmured, "that she gets to be a repeat customer."

"You'd know," the Director said, glancing at her with something close to distaste. "I understand you and Kennedy have history. I'm told his partner isn't fond of that fact."

"History's a generous word for it." Ada's smile didn't reach her eyes this time. "Though I'll admit, she's a far more interesting choice than Ashley ever was. The girl meant nothing to him personally. This one apparently does. Reactions tend to be so much more useful when there's an emotional variable attached."

Your stomach dropped somewhere below the floor you were standing on.

"The delivery method still stands," the Director said, ignoring her tangent entirely. "Modified compound, aerosol-based, easily disguised as a champagne toast or a canapé if we need it subtle. She won't know anything's wrong until she's already symptomatic, and by then, Kennedy will be the one bringing her in—which means the story writes itself. Exhaustion. Field stress. A breakdown nobody in Washington will question, right up until she's fully turned and it's far too late to matter."

"And if I decide the compensation isn't worth being part of this?" Ada asked, tilting her head, and for the first time all night, you heard something in her voice that wasn't performance—something colder, more calculating, weighing an actual decision instead of playing one for an audience.

The Director's expression didn't change, but something in the air did. "Then I suppose Saddler would be very interested to learn exactly how much you already know about his organization's current movements. That kind of knowledge tends to make people either very rich," he said, quiet and precise, "or very short-lived. I'd hate for it to be the latter, given how useful you've been."

Ada's smile didn't waver, but you caught the barest flicker beneath it—something that told you the threat had landed exactly where the Director intended it to. "Careful," she said lightly, setting her wine glass down on the table with a soft, deliberate click. "I don't respond well to being cornered. Ask anyone who's tried."

"I'm not cornering you. I'm reminding you where your interests currently align." The Director checked his watch, and something about the casual, businesslike gesture made the whole conversation feel even colder than the words themselves. "The transfer happens tonight, one way or another. Confirm with your buyer the delivery method's still in place, and you'll get the rest of your payment before the gala closes."

He turned, straightening his shirt, clearly preparing to walk back toward whatever version of himself he needed to be upstairs, and Ada watched him go with an unreadable expression that gave absolutely nothing away.

Beside you, Leon exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound barely audible, and when he turned his head to look at you, his eyes had gone hard in a way you'd only seen a handful of times before—the same look he'd worn walking into that village, into the island, into every room that demanded he stop being careful and start being dangerous.

"They already tried this," he said, voice low and tight, more fury than fear now. "In Spain. That fever you had—that wasn't exhaustion."

"Apparently not."

"And nobody caught it. Not medical, not command, not me." His jaw worked, something raw and furious flickering behind the control he was fighting to keep. "You were exposed to that thing and I didn't even know to look."

"You couldn't have known. Neither could I." Your voice came out steady, cutting through whatever guilt he was circling toward, because there wasn't time for it and you refused to let him carry something that had never been his to hold. "This isn't about who missed it the first time. It's about making sure there isn't a second time."

Leon's eyes held yours, the fury settling into something colder, more focused—not guilt now, just pure, contained intent. "Then we make sure there isn't."

"Nothing goes near my mouth tonight that I haven't watched poured myself." Your grip tightened around your weapon, adrenaline burning down into something sharp and clear. "And whoever's holding that compound doesn't get anywhere near me before we put them on the ground first.”

Through the glass, you watched the Director disappear through a side door, his footsteps fading into some other corridor you hadn't mapped yet. Ada remained a moment longer, retrieving her wine glass from the table with unhurried elegance, and when she finally turned toward the observation door, there was no flicker of surprise on her face at all—no startled reassessment, no scramble to recalculate what you'd overheard. She'd known. She'd probably known since the moment you and Leon had settled into that corridor.

"We go after her first," Leon said, already shifting his weight toward the door, jaw set. "She knows who's carrying the compound."

"She's also not going to just hand it over because we ask nicely a second time." You caught his arm before he could push through, low and firm. "Watch how she plays this. She's not the type to get caught off guard by an audience she didn't want."

You pushed through the observation door together, weapons lowered but not holstered, and Ada's gaze lifted the moment the door creaked—unsurprised, unbothered, exactly as you'd expected.

"That took longer than I expected," she said, setting her glass down with a soft clink. "Though I suppose I should be flattered you both stayed for the whole conversation instead of interrupting halfway through."

"You knew we were there." It wasn't a question.

"Of course I knew." Ada's mouth curved, something sharp and satisfied threading through it. "I've spent a very long time learning to notice when I'm being watched. The two of you are not particularly subtle."

"Then why keep talking?" Leon's voice came out low, controlled, though you could feel the barely-contained fury radiating off him. "Why let us hear all of it?"

"Because your Director," Ada said, and there was an edge in the word your that told you exactly how she felt about the man, "seems to think my previous arrangement with Saddler entitles him to renegotiate terms after the fact. Half payment for double the risk, and an implicit threat if I object. I don't particularly enjoy being treated like an employee." She smoothed a hand along the stem of her glass, unhurried. "So consider what you just heard a small correction to that arrangement. If Saddler wants to punish someone for tonight not going according to plan, I'd rather it be aimed at the man standing in that room a minute ago than at me."

"So you sold him out," you said flatly, "to protect yourself."

"I sold information to a man who insulted my rate," Ada corrected, entirely unbothered. "What you do with it afterward isn't really my concern. Think of it as a professional courtesy, if it helps you sleep better tonight." Something flickered behind her eyes, quick and unreadable. "Or don't. I've never particularly cared whether either of you trusted my motives. I find the guessing keeps things interesting."

"That's convenient," Leon said, jaw tight. "You just happening to feel spiteful at exactly the moment it helps us."

"Convenient, deliberate—pick whichever lets you sleep at night, Agent." Ada's gaze slid to you, something colder and more evaluating settling into it. "I don't expect either of you to trust me. I'd be disappointed if you did, honestly. It would mean I'm losing my touch."

"Then give us the name," you said, cutting through whatever game she was still playing. "If this is really about spite and not sentiment, prove it."

Something almost like approval crossed Ada's face at that, quick and gone. "The compound's already been prepped. Small vial, disguised as perfume, if I had to guess how they'd move it through security without a second look." A pause, deliberate. "The aide who pulled Leon toward the stage earlier tonight is carrying it. Young. Nervous. Not senior enough to know exactly what he's holding, only that he's meant to get close to her and offer a drink personally before midnight."

Your stomach turned cold. You remembered him—the crisp suit, the polite whisper at Leon's elbow.

"Why tell us this," Leon asked again, warier this time, "if you don't care what happens to either of us?"

"I never said I don't care." Ada's tone stayed light, but something underneath it had gone quieter, harder to read. "I said I don't need either of you to believe I do. There's a difference, even if you're too stubborn to see it." She was already moving toward the far door, unhurried as ever, pausing only once at the threshold, not bothering to turn around.

"Little Hawk." Just that, at first, letting the old callsign sit in the air between you. "Watch the aide's left hand. He's right-handed. He'll reach for the vial with the one you're not watching."

And then she was gone, the door swinging shut with a soft click, leaving the two of you with a name, a method, a debt you weren't sure how to categorize, and considerably less time than you'd like.

Leon was already moving, jaw tight with a new, sharper urgency. "The aide's upstairs. If he's supposed to make his move before midnight—"

"Then we don't have long." You were moving too, adrenaline burning clean and cold through every nerve. "Let's go.”

Next mission was simple, find the aide, neutralize him, end of the night. And maybe think twice on who’s is directing the place you work at. 

You paced rapidly with Leon beside you and getting into the ballroom again meant retracing your steps and finding your stilettos, abandoned exactly where you last kicked them off. You paused long enough to slip them back on, one hand braced into the wall for balance. 

“Really? Now?” Leon scoffed. 

“You think I’d go back into the ballroom while barefoot? Yeah, sure. Try again.” You straightened, testing your balance in the heels again, weapon already tucked back into its holster beneath the slit of your dress. “Also, aren’t you the one who has to smile to the camaras?”

“Don’t remind me.”

The door at the top of the stairwell led back into the same gilded hallway you'd left an hour ago, though the clock in your head insisted it had barely been fifteen minutes. The jazz was still playing. The chandeliers were still throwing that same warm, oblivious light over a room full of people who had no idea how close they'd all just come to being collateral damage in someone else's war.

You scanned the crowd on instinct, cataloguing faces, positions, exits, the way you always did—except now there was a name attached to what you were looking for, a face you actually remembered. Young. Nervous. Crisp suit.

“There," Leon murmured, his voice dropping low beside your ear, close enough that anyone watching would've read it as something far more intimate than a tactical callout. And shit, it made your skin get goosebumps. "Near the terrace. Talking to one of the catering staff.”

He placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you both into the garden. Dim lights bathed the terrace, making it —almost— a cozy place to relax if this had been actually an off-duty night and also ignoring the fact that they wanted you dead, too. 

You found him easily—the same aide who'd approached Leon before the commendation, standing a little too stiffly near a stone statue, glancing toward the few poeple leaned into the terrace’s handrail, faintly talking about work stuff. Personal problems, desirable normal people problems. Every few seconds he took the task to analyze everyone there in a way that read as nervous energy to anyone who wasn't trained to notice it, and as a man waiting for a specific opening to anyone who was. 

Damn rookie, you thought.

“Reminds me oddly of my first mission ever," you said quietly. Almost laughing. Ironic if someone told you that junior aide wanted you infected. “He’s looking for me. Not the room. Me specifically."

"I know." Something in Leon's voice had gone tight, controlled in the particular way he got right before something violent was about to happen. You glanced at him and found his eyes already on the aide, fixed and sharp, but there was something underneath the focus that you didn't usually see on him—something that looked almost like fear, if Leon Kennedy allowed himself that particular emotion in front of anyone.

"Hey." You touched his arm, light, just enough to pull his attention back to you. "I'm not drinking anything he's holding. I'm not letting him within three feet of me. We've done harder things than avoid a drink."

"That's not—" He stopped, jaw working, and for a second you watched him try to file the sentence down into something more manageable before it came out. "I've watched you walk into rooms with bombs strapped to the walls and not blink. I've watched you get shot at from four different angles and just—reload. This is different."

"Why?"

"Because this time it's not about whether you're good enough to handle it." His eyes found yours, and whatever careful control he usually kept stitched over his expression had come slightly undone at the seams, just for you, just for this. "It's about some kid in a suit getting one lucky moment alone with you, and there's nothing you can train for that completely closes that door. I can't—" He exhaled, sharp, frustrated with himself for how much he was saying out loud in the middle of the garden. "I watched that water in Spain for ten minutes because I didn't know if you were about to disappear too. I'm not doing that again tonight."

Something in your chest went very still, then very warm, and you didn't have a tactical response prepared for either sensation.

"Leon—"

"Don't," he said, quiet, almost gentle. "Don't do the thing where you tell me you're fine. I know you're fine. You're always fine, right up until the one time you're not, and I'd like to not find out what that looks like tonight."

You didn't get the chance to answer him.

The aide's eyes had found you across the natural space—found you specifically, not swept over you like every other guest, and something in his posture shifted, deliberate, purposeful. He paused for a few moments. Like thinking and recalibrating what to do next. He leaned into his partner and murmured some words into his side, the man beside him nodded and was already moving. 

Not towards us? 

You glanced at Leon. Clearly confused on what just happened. 

The man approached the 5 people that were on the hand rail of the terrace, whispering something. You observed how those people began walking to the ballroom, leaving the cool air of the evening. Now, you understood. Of course. They were emptying the place before making a scene. 

Damn rookie you thought again. 

It made your life significantly easier. Now if things got ugly no one was going to be there to witness it. No civilians screaming, and surely no press taking pictures. As the people left, Leon gave you an assuring look, like you both knew what was going to happen next. 

The original aide was already closing the distance with two champagne flutes balanced in one hand and something small and glinting tucked against his palm in the other.

"He's moving," you said, all business now, the warmth from a second ago folding itself away into the same cold, ready focus you wore into every op. "Left hand. Ada was right.”

“I see it."

You didn't wait for a plan. There wasn't time for one, and after tonight, you barely needed one anyway—Leon was already drifting three steps to your right, cutting an angle that would put him behind the aide the second the man closed distance with you, while you held your position, letting yourself look exactly as unaware as he needed you to be.

"Excuse me," the aide said, arriving at your side with a practiced, polite smile that didn't come anywhere close to reaching his eyes. "Compliments of the Director. He wanted to personally thank you both for tonight." He extended one of the flutes toward you, his right hand steady, professional—while his left hand shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the small vial tucked against his palm.

“Really?” You tilted your head and looked at Leon with fake enthusiasm. “That’s incredibly thoughtful," you said, smiling back with the same hollow politeness, letting him get just close enough. "Tell him I appreciate the gesture. To die for.”

The moment his left hand moved to tip the vial's contents into the glass, you moved faster—closing your hand around his wrist in a sharp, practiced grip that stopped the motion cold, twisting hard enough to make him gasp and drop both the flute and the vial in the same instant.

"Wrong hand," you said, low, cold, no longer performing anything at all.

The glass flute shattered against the terrace tiles, spilling champagne and Amber liquid into the cracks between the stone.

Before the aide could even process the pain in his twisted wrist or open his mouth to scream, Leon was already behind him. A heavy hand clamped over the kid’s jaw, smothering any sound, while his other arm locked around the aide's neck in a brutal, efficient chokehold. Leon yanked him backward into the deeper shadows near the stone statue, completely out of sight from the ballroom doors.

"Don't move," Leon growled against his ear, his voice deadly quiet, laced with that same dark, dangerous edge from earlier. "Don't even breathe heavy."

You dropped to one knee, your low-waisted dress pooling around you as your fingers expertly swept the tiles. You grabbed the small, unbroken glass vial that had rolled toward the planter before the liquid could seep away or contaminate anything else. You held it up to the faint terrace light—the deep amber glow was unmistakable.

"Got it," you whispered, securing the vial inside the small concealed pouch at your thigh. "Sample’s safe."

The aide writhed against Leon’s grip, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated panic as he realized how fast his 'easy mission' had gone off the rails.

Leon didn't loosen his grip an inch. "Who gave you the order?" he demanded, his forearm pressing just enough against the kid's carotid to keep him lightheaded. "The Director? Or someone in logistics?"

"T-The Director..." the aide choked out, tears of pain welling in his eyes. "He said... he said if we infected one of Kennedy's people... the threat would force Federal forces to buy the antidote from us... internal contract..."

"Internal," you muttered under your breath, standing up and dusting off your gown. Ada’s word echoed in your head. Always an inside job.

Leon gave a cold, dismissive hum before driving a precise knee into the back of the aide's leg, taking him down to the floor, followed by a swift strike to the back of his neck. The kid went limp instantly.

“Who even sends rookies to handle these type of situations?” You said while you saw the other staff member who was with the kid run through the grass beneath the terrace as he clumsy avoided the statues and people. 

Silence settled over the terrace again. The distant sound of the jazz band inside felt a million miles away. Finally a long deep sigh settled in your lungs. 

Leon stood there over the unconscious body, chest heaving slightly, his shirt collar slightly unbuttoned from the sudden movement. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes immediately snapped from the floor straight to you.

He didn't check the perimeter. He didn't look at the doors. He just took three long strides until he was standing directly in front of you, his breath coming in fast, heavy rasps.

The aide was still unconscious when you finally forced yourself to look away from Leon and back toward the actual problem currently bleeding rainwater into his expensive borrowed suit at your feet.

"We can't just leave him here," you said, crouching to check his pulse out of habit—steady, if a little slow. "Someone's going to trip over him eventually, and I'd rather that not be a civilian with a phone camera."

Leon exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself back into operational mode. "There's a service closet off the far end of the terrace. I saw it earlier when I was cutting the camera feed."

Between the two of you, it took less than a minute to drag the kid into the closet, zip-tie his wrists with a length of cord Leon produced from somewhere inside his jacket—you decided not to ask—and radio a coded alert to the two agency contacts you actually trusted in that building, the kind of message that would have real security quietly extracting him within the hour without a single headline attached to it.

"That's the sample secured, the delivery method neutralized, and the asset contained," you said, straightening, brushing rain and grass off your knees. "Director's still upstairs pretending none of this happened."

"He won't be pretending for long." Leon's jaw was tight, something cold and purposeful settling back into his expression. "I've got enough on him now to bury his career and probably a few decades of his freedom. Ada's little confession, the aide's statement, the compound itself as physical evidence. He's done."

"Good." You wiped rain from your eyes, adrenaline finally starting to ebb, leaving something rawer and more exposed underneath it. "Then let's go finish him off before—"

"No." Leon's hand caught your wrist before you'd taken more than a step toward the ballroom doors. "Not yet. We're not done."

"Leon, we don't have time for—"

"We never have time." His voice came out harder than you expected, something that had clearly been building far longer than the last ten minutes. "That's the excuse. It's always the excuse. There's always a Director, a sample, a mission report due in the morning. I'm sick of it."

You turned to face him fully, rain plastering your hair to your face, and something in you that had been coiled tight all night finally snapped loose. "You want to do this now? Here?"

"I want to do this before one of us gets exposed to something that doesn't have a clean recovery next time." His eyes were hard, furious in a way you'd rarely seen directed at you instead of a target. "Do you know what it did to me, watching that vial in his hand? Knowing that if I'd been half a second slower reading the room, you'd be the one strapped to a hospital bed instead of him being unconscious in a closet?"

"I had it handled."

"That's not the point!" The words came out louder than either of you probably wanted, sharp enough to startle a bird off the railing behind him. He dragged a breath in, visibly forcing himself back down from wherever that had come from, though the fury didn't fully drain out of his voice. "That's never the point with you. You always have it handled. You handled the spider. You handled Krauser's knife an inch from your throat. You handled getting shot at the docks in Spain and then didn't tell me until I saw the exit wound myself three days later."

"That wasn't—" You stopped, jaw tightening, because he wasn't wrong, and you hated that he wasn't wrong. "That graze wasn't serious enough to report."

"It went through your side, not your arm. I watched you flinch every time you reached for your rifle for a week and you told me it was soreness from the extraction. I believed you because you're good at lying about that specific thing, and I let it go because I didn't think I had the right to push." His voice cracked slightly, the anger bleeding into something rawer underneath. "I've spent two years watching you bleed quietly and calling it professionalism, and tonight I almost watched you get infected with something that doesn't have a clean exit wound to stitch up, and I am done—" his hands came up, gesturing at the rain, at the terrace, at all of it, "—being the guy who finds out three days later."

"So what do you want from me?" Your own voice had risen to match his now, something furious and frightened tangled together in it. "You want me to fall apart every time something goes wrong? That's not who I am, Leon. It was never who I am. If I stop and feel every single thing that happens to me in the field, I don't survive the field. That's not a flaw, that's how I've stayed alive long enough to be standing here arguing with you about it.”

"I don't want you to fall apart." He closed the distance between you in two furious strides, rain running down both your faces now, indistinguishable from anything else. "I want you to stop treating me like I'm just another line in your operational report. I want you to yell at me the way you're yelling right now instead of going quiet and professional every single time something actually matters. Do you have any idea what that does to me? Watching you fold everything down into something manageable, something small enough that it doesn't require anyone else to carry it with you?"

"Because that's the job!" You shoved a hand against his chest, more frustration than force behind it, though he barely moved. "That's what they trained me for. No attachment, no—“

"Then why did Ada get under your skin so badly tonight?" Leon cut in, sharp, something almost accusatory in it. "If you don't do attachment, if this is all just the job to you, why did two sentences from her have you spiraling in a stairwell for ten minutes before you could even function again?"

You froze. "How do you know I—"

"Because I know you." His voice softened slightly, though the intensity didn't. "I know what it looks like when something's actually gotten to you, even when you'd rather die than admit it. You came back from that stairwell different. Quieter. And I spent the whole walk down here convincing myself it was about her instead of asking the actual question.”

"It wasn't about her." The words came out before you'd fully decided to say them, raw, unguarded. "It was never really about her, Leon. She just knew exactly which door to knock on."

"Then tell me what's actually behind it."

"No—" you shook your head, jaw tight, “,that's what she does. She finds the one thing you're not saying and turns it into a weapon. I'm not going to let her be the reason we finally have this conversation."

"Then have it because I'm asking. Not because of her.”

“Oh, stop it Leon. Don’t play that card on me. You know how this works. How us work.”

"Bullshit." The word came out flat, immediate, cutting you off completely. "That's what you tell yourself. It's not true, and it hasn't been true since Naples, and we both know it."

Your breath caught while you shook your head. “Don't bring up Naples."

"Why not?" His voice had dropped, quieter now but somehow sharper for it. "You think I don't remember standing outside that safehouse for twenty minutes because you needed a second before you could walk back in and brief command like nothing happened? You think I didn't notice you couldn't look at me for two days after, or that you started double-checking my six on every op after that like you were afraid I'd disappear if you looked away too long?"

"That's not fair."

"Neither is watching you almost drink poison tonight and then pretend the only thing that matters is chain of custody on the evidence." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, rain-slicked and unsteady, forcing you to hold his gaze instead of looking away like you wanted to. "You don't get to keep doing this. Filing every single thing that happens to you into a report and moving on like none of it touches you. Not with me. Not anymore."

"What do you want me to say, Leon?" Your voice cracked despite yourself, furious at how unsteady it came out. "That I've spent two years pretending Naples didn't happen? That I know exactly how many seconds you stood outside that door because I was counting them too, and I still walked back in and gave a briefing like my hands weren't shaking?"

"Why?" The word came out almost desperate, like he'd been waiting years to actually ask it instead of just wondering. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Because if I let you see it," you said, and your voice dropped, quieter now, stripped of the anger, something far more exposed underneath, "then it stops being something I can control. And I don't know how to be good at this job and also let someone else carry the parts of it that scare me. I never have."

Leon went still, something in his expression shifting, the fury draining out of it into something far more careful. "You think I'd think less of you. For being scared."

"I think you'd start hesitating." You held his gaze, unflinching even as the rain kept soaking through everything, even as your voice threatened to give out entirely. "In the field. If you knew how much it actually costs me every time you walk into a room I can't follow you into. And hesitation gets people killed, Leon. It gets you killed. I would rather you think I don't feel any of it than watch you die because you stopped to check if I was okay."

"That's not your decision to make for me."

"It's the only decision I know how to make."

Silence settled between you, broken only by the rain and the distant, muffled sound of the ballroom still pretending nothing had happened. Leon's thumb moved slowly against your jaw, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all its earlier edge, gone rough in an entirely different way.

"I've been angry at you for two years," he admitted, quiet, almost reluctant. "Not at Ada. Not really. At you, for building a version of yourself so good at surviving that I couldn't find a way in. I told myself it was about her because that was easier than admitting the actual problem was standing right in front of me the entire time, being so relentlessly, infuriatingly fine about everything that I never had an opening."

"I'm not fine." The confession came out barely above a whisper, torn loose from somewhere you usually kept sealed shut. "I haven't been fine since Naples. I don't know how to be anything else around you."

"Then don't be." Leon's forehead dropped to rest against yours, both of you breathing hard, rain running down the both of you in cold, steady sheets. "Just—stop pretending. That's all I'm asking. Not tonight. Not with me."

You didn't answer him with words. You closed what little distance remained between you, and this time it was you who kissed him first—not soft, not careful, but something charged and furious and two years overdue, all the things neither of you had said finally pouring into something you could actually do instead. Leon's hand slid from your jaw into your soaked hair, his other arm banding tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he'd been waiting exactly this long without letting himself admit it.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead still resting against yours, neither of you moved to put distance back between you.

"That," Leon said, voice rough, "was two years late."

"Don't get used to it." Your own voice came out unsteady, but there was something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth despite everything. "This doesn't fix Naples. Or tonight. Or any of the rest of it."

"I know." His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together, grounding, steady despite the rain. "I'm not asking it to fix anything. I just wanted you to stop lying to me about being fine."

"I make no promises."

"Wouldn't believe you if you did." A faint, tired huff of something close to a laugh escaped him, and he pressed one more brief kiss against your temple before finally pulling back, some of the careful operational focus sliding back into place over both of you like armor being buckled on again. "We still have a Director to ruin."

"Together," you said, steady this time, no argument left in it. "No splitting up."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

a/n: if you reached the end, thank you so much for reading! again, this took lotssss of time. if you want to make a suggestion for next time, do it! I’m always open to feedback :-) But anyway… does anyone want to know what happened in Naples? 🤭

[miserymorgue]

observations | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x lawyer fem!reader

summary after six months as the night shift's litigation handler, you finally get a night off with jack abbott. he cooks pasta, you ramble about stationery, and the date goes suspiciously well. (i fucking hate summaries bruh)

tags/warnings mdni! (18+, smut) age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), lotta lawyer talk, bitta doctor talk, abbots dead wife mentioned :p, flirty silly, unprotected pnv, oral, handjob etc, the dayshift is betting on yall, first date and abbot can cook bc i said so. also abbot has sisters bc its fun. also reader is a dork and loves paper idk lol

wc 13.1k

could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)

Seven Months Earlier

"I've interned with both the VA and Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh."

Gloria nodded, making a note. "What was Children's like?"

You smiled politely.  "Busy. Emotionally… complicated. It’s own kind of beast, I suppose."

She waited.

"Pediatrics is unique because you're rarely dealing with just one client. Legally speaking, you have the child, the parents or guardians, sometimes Child Protective Services, sometimes the state. Consent becomes complicated very quickly. Capacity, custody disputes, emergency exceptions..." You shrugged lightly. "You learn pretty quickly that medicine isn't actually, I guess, you know the difficult part. It's everyone around it. People are the complicated part."

Gloria smiled. "So you're comfortable with emotional people."

"I'd say I'm comfortable with frightened people."

"What's the difference?"

"Angry people usually want someone to blame." You folded your hands neatly in your lap. "I think that… scared people, they really just kind of need someone to explain what's happening."

Gloria's eyebrows lifted. She just nods. A good answer.

She glanced back down at your résumé.

"University of Pittsburgh Law. Law Review. Healthcare compliance clinic."

You nodded.

"And the VA?"

"I mostly handled EMTALA questions, which you’d be familiar with. Um, informed consent issues... occasional malpractice claims before litigation, risk-management investigations." You smiled apologetically. "Mostly a lot of document review."

"Not glamorous."

"It rarely is. But I’m a fan, admittedly."

Gloria chuckled politely. Hospital Administration is far from the glamour and prestige of participating in the medicine itself.

The office overlooked one of the main administrative corridors. Doctors, nurses, transport staff and administrators drifted constantly past the glass.

"PTMC's legal department is..." Gloria searched for the right word. "...busy.” She settles. “We're a Level One trauma centre. Every bad day in western Pennsylvania usually winds up here."

She folded her hands.

"When you’re assigned to a case, a doctor, you aren’t there to protect physicians. You understand that?”

You nodded.

"I'm there to protect the hospital."

"I like hearing that, but I do encourage a slightly different order. You're there to protect patients, staff, and the hospital. Usually in that order. You’d be advising attendings, reviewing documentation, assisting with subpoena responses, helping navigate consent questions, preserving records after sentinel events, occasionally reminding surgeons that emails do in fact mean something."

A beat. She cleared her throat, as she thinks of some sort of obstacle.

"Say an attending calls you at two in the morning."

She watched your face.

"And they've got an unconscious trauma patient. No family. Police want blood drawn immediately. Administration wants an answer. Risk management isn't picking up. What do you do?"

You thought for only a second. "I ask what they're trying to accomplish before I tell them what they can do."

Gloria nodded once, writing something down. "Go on."

"Police authority and medical necessity aren't always the same thing. If the blood draw is clinically indicated, document it. If it's solely for law enforcement, that's an entirely different analysis involving state law, hospital policy, potential warrants and patient privacy." You go on, rattling off Law School and past experience in a way that seemed like it could make sense.

Another nod.

"I wouldn’t give legal advice until I know which problem they're actually trying to solve."

“That’s good to know you are… thoughtful and considerate in that way.”

“Thank you.” You nod, appreciative.

Before she could continue— A loud voice echoed from the hallway.

"For Christ's sake, that's not what EMTALA says."

Another voice answered immediately.

"It isn't what I said either."

You glanced instinctively toward the glass wall.

Two physicians stepped off the elevator. One was tall, broad-shouldered, dark beard peppered with grey, coffee in one hand. The other was shorter, silver-haired, moving with quickness and mutterings.

Both still wore black scrubs.

The shorter one spoke with his hands, stabbing the air with obvious frustration.

"...I'm telling you the transfer documentation was garbage."

"It always is."

"No, Mike, this one’s goddamn creative. Guy fucking wrote 'good luck' on the damn transfer note."

The taller man snorted. "I'd frame that."

They kept walking.

The silver-haired doctor's irritation seemed to fill the hallway around him. Not quite explosive, but just simmering, always at the edge of something worse but can’t quite find itself to a true boil.

You watched without meaning to. He was pretty. Brows furrowed together, jaw tensed and tight, eyes wrinkled at the edges with earnestness and charm. Missing was politeness, but remained sincerity.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as they approached Gloria's office.

Gloria noticed where you were looking. "...Excuse me one second." She stood. "You'll meet our Emergency attendings eventually." She sighed. "Hopefully not today."

She crossed the room and opened the office door.

The silver-haired physician had already reached it.

"Where are my nurses?"

"Can you survive five minutes?" Gloria asked. "I'm interviewing."

Jack looked past her automatically.

Not at you.

Just... through the office.

He registered a young woman sitting neatly in the visitor's chair. Mary Janes. Hair pinned back. Professional suit. Probably another administrator.

Then his attention snapped straight back to Gloria.

"Our charge nurse is downstairs trying to convince six agency nurses not to walk."

"They're not going to walk." Gloria sighed.

"They're threatening to."

"They've been threatening to since Tuesday."

"Well, they mean it today."

The bearded physician leaned casually against the wall.

"Dana said if staffing drops again she's bringing the entire Emergency Department upstairs."

Gloria pinched the bridge of her nose. "I know."

"And?"

"...I'm working on it."

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. "We've got hallway beds."

"I know."

"Boarding patients."

"I know."

"Four psych holds."

"I know."

"We're running one nurse over ratio in resus."

"I know."

"And legal's already breathing down our necks about hallway privacy like a bunch of… fucking A-holes."

Gloria looked directly at him. "They're doing their jobs."

"So are we."

Neither of them blinked.

Finally Gloria sighed.

"Five minutes."

Jack rubbed a hand over his face.

"...Fine."

He turned to leave. Then paused. “Why does it smell like Cherries?” He asked.

You instinctively glanced down at yourself, lifting your wrist to your nose.

Cherry perfume.

You hadn't even thought about it when you'd put it on that morning.

How he'd picked it out over antiseptic, stale coffee and hospital disinfectant, you'd probably never understand.

"Shut up," Robby muttered, already hearing whatever comment Jack was about to make.

Jack ignored him.

His gaze drifted through the office almost absent-mindedly and landed on you. You happened to look up at the exact same moment. For half a second, neither of you looked away.

You offered the small, practiced smile you'd perfected during interviews and awkward introductions: polite, a touch uncertain, trying not to look like you'd been caught staring.

Something in Jack's exhausted expression softened.

Just enough to be noticeable before he looked away again.

"C'mon, Mike."

The two doctors disappeared down the hallway.

Gloria shut the door. "...Sorry."

You smiled, briefly in thought. He seemed familiar in his own way and you can’t help but ask— "He a veteran?"

She furrowed her brows, confused as to how you would guess that. "Yes, actually."

She sat back down.

“Reminds me of the guys I worked with at the VA... Stubborn people.” You admit.

Gloria nodded. "Well, that," she said, pointing toward the hallway they'd vanished into, "...was Doctor Jack Abbot and Doctor Michael Robinavitch. Our Emergency Department." She hesitated. "They're... acquired tastes."

"They seem passionate."

"They're impossible." Another pause. "...They're also some of the best physicians I've ever worked with." She looked back at your résumé. "We're always looking for someone fresh assigned to Emergency."

She studied you over the top of the folder.

"You think you can handle personalities like that?"

You thought about the two men arguing in the hallway. About the way they'd been fighting for staffing instead of ego. About how exhausted they both looked.

"I think so."

Gloria smiled back.

"...Good." She closed your résumé. "Because I have a feeling they're going to keep you very busy."

PRESENT

Jack wonders what you’d be like in sex. 

He pictured you on your knees.

Between his spread legs, that bright pink gloss catching the light as you looked up at him with that wide, contagious grin. Your lips parted and you leaned in, taking his cock into the warm, wet heat of your mouth. His fingers sank into your hair, gripping tight, guiding your head as you swallowed around him. He wondered if you’d let go completely—if you’d turn that busy brain off and just let him take care of everything.

He pictured you above him.

Thighs straddling his hips, manicured nails raking lightly down his chest and pausing near his throat. You’d sink down onto his cock in one slow, deliberate motion, your pussy gripping him tight as you started to ride. Every roll of your hips dragging slick and hot over his length, your movements growing harsher, needier, chasing the friction you craved.

He pictured you beneath him.

Back arched against the sheets, fingers laced tight with his. Him pressing you down into the mattress, hips driving deep and steady while you whimpered his name into the pillow, voice breaking with every thrust. Your body trembled under him, soft and pliant, completely open to whatever he wanted to give you.

"...Doctor Abbot?"

Jack blinks.

Right. Conference room. He clears his throat, dragging himself back into the present.

Lawyers. Doctors. Hospital policy… Serious things.

He looks up to find you watching him from across the mahogany table.

You offer him a small, patient smile, an elegant pink pen poised over your notebook. Beside you, Jane—the hospital's General Counsel—waits expectantly, while Charles from Risk Management flips through the meeting packet, your main senior colleagues.

Under the table, Robby's shoe taps Jack's ankle. Hard enough to get his attention.

"Sounds good to me," Jack says with a nod.

Charles pauses. "...We haven't actually gotten to the proposed revisions yet."

Jack sighs. "Right."

Jane folds her hands. "Doctor Abbot, we're discussing updates to the Emergency Department's informed refusal documentation, the revised EMTALA transfer checklist, and the new policy regarding body-worn camera footage requested by law enforcement."

“I’m sure it’s great, I’ve heard all the highlights from your associate here. Robby here’ll take care of all this, don’t think we need the whole gang, right?” Jack sighs. “I finished an hour ago, so.”

Charles gives you a brief look, a glance between you and Jack.

Jane chuckles a bit at that. “I understand my junior and you have a good rapport, Doctor Abbot, but it’s of the law that you stay here to hear all the changes,” Jane insists, strict.

You wince a bit at the correction of associate to junior. You shoot Jack a look that says please stay.

Jack nods. “Right. Of the law.” He sighs. “This could’ve been an email, is all.”

“Man,” Robby nudges again, this time a little harder. 

Jack nods. He raises a hand in surrender. “Sorry. Go ‘head, please.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.

Jane notices.

"So," she continues, clicking to the next slide, "effective next month, any patient leaving Against Medical Advice must have decision-making capacity documented separately from the AMA form itself. Signing the paperwork alone is no longer considered sufficient documentation."

The meeting drags on.

Slides change. Policies blur together. Jane walks everyone through revisions to the Emergency Department's informed refusal policy, updates to documentation standards for patients leaving against medical advice, changes to subpoena response procedures, and a new workflow requiring Legal notification before releasing records tied to pending litigation. 

Charles jumps in every so often to explain how Risk Management wants incident reporting standardised after several recent malpractice claims had exposed inconsistencies between physician notes and nursing documentation.

It’s all very… tedious.

Jack just can’t find himself to listen. Not when he’s been awake for nearly twenty hours. His shift officially ended over an hour ago, though, like most shifts in Emergency Medicine, "ended" mostly meant he stopped getting paid while continuing to answer questions.

Normally he'd already be halfway home by now.

Instead he's trapped in a conference room, watching you. He tells himself to stop. He doesn't. Can’t. 

You sit two seats down from Jane, taking notes in impossibly illegible handwriting, occasionally underlining something before quietly passing a comment to Charles. Every now and then you nod along to Jane's explanation, your expression thoughtful, brows knitting together whenever someone mentions a regulation you clearly disagree with.

Your hair, perfectly pinned when the meeting started, has begun surrendering to the morning. A few loose strands have escaped around your face. You tuck one behind your ear absent-mindedly.

It's ridiculous. He's survived Iraq, residency, mass casualty incidents, hospital administrators, and fifteen years of night shift.

Yet somehow he's losing a fight with a twenty-something lawyer wearing pink lip gloss.

His eyes drift back to you again. You smile politely at something Charles says.

He wants you to smile at him. To laugh. The one that makes you throw your head back a little. The one you do in his truck. The one you do when you spend twenty minutes passionately explaining why one brand of stationery is objectively superior to another.

The meeting limps along for another fifteen minutes before Jane finally closes her folder.

"Questions?"

Nobody volunteers any.

"Good." She stands. "Thank you, everyone."

Chairs scrape across the floor. Binders snap shut. People begin filtering toward the door.

Jack doesn't move.

Instead, he watches you gather your things.

You stack your papers with almost surgical precision before sliding them into your laptop sleeve. A pencil rolls toward the edge of the table. You catch it without looking, tucking it neatly beside your notebook.

Your hair has escaped its clip even more now. Another loose strand falls across your cheek.

"Where the hell's your head at?" Robby mutters quietly as he gathers his stethoscope.

"What're you talking about?"

Jack barely tears his eyes away. Robby follows his gaze.

"...Jesus Christ."

Jack finally looks over. "What?"

"You've got handoff in five minutes."

"I know."

"You sure?"

Jack gives him a flat look.

Robby just sighs.

"I'll start without you."

He slings his bag over one shoulder before disappearing with the rest of the Emergency physicians.

Jane and Charles linger in the hallway, already discussing accreditation deadlines and Joint Commission surveys.

Within a minute, the conference room is nearly empty.

You slide your laptop into your bag.

Jack wanders over.

"Counselor."

You look up.

"Doctor."

He nods toward the mountain of policy binders. "Riveting morning."

A smile tugs at your mouth. "I had a feeling your mind wasn't on informed refusal documentation."

"Oh yeah?" He slips his hands into his pockets. "Where do you think it was?"

You tilt your head thoughtfully. For a moment, he’s curious to know if you’ll somehow telepathically see the images he has of you on your knees.

"I don't know." A beat, to his reprieve. "...Not sure I want to know."

Jack chuckles quietly. "Probably for the best."

Silence settles comfortably between you as you zip your bag.

Jack wants to kick himself with his prosthetic. He's spent the better part of forty-five minutes pretending to pay attention while thinking almost exclusively about you.

"I think I know what you were thinking about." Your voice breaks through his thoughts.

Jack smiles. "Go ahead then."

You study him for a second with mock seriousness. "You've secretly been married this entire time."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"And your wife's coming back into town." You nod solemnly. "So now you're trying to figure out how to cancel tonight without telling me you've been living a double life."

Jack laughs. A proper one this time. "...Where the hell'd you get that?"

You point toward his left hand.

"You fiddle with your ring whenever you're distracted."

Jack freezes. Sure enough, his thumb has been unconsciously turning the plain silver band around his finger. He hadn't even realised. He lets his hand fall. You smile, pleased with yourself.

"I know you're not married," you add quickly. "I looked."

He furrows his brows briefly, needing you to continue.

"I have access to credentialing files."

Jack stares. "You abused hospital resources?"

"I... exercised professional curiosity."

Jack snorts.

"I also figured one of your residents would've accidentally told me if you had a wife." A beat. "So..." You nod toward the ring. "Decoration?"

Jack hesitates. For just a second.

"...I'll tell you tonight."

You brighten immediately.

"Oh." You grin. "Good. I was starting to think you'd forgotten our date."

"I could forget my own birthday before I forgot tonight."

The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You tilt your head with a sweet smile. "You sure you can actually take the night off?"

"'Course."

Almost without thinking, Jack reaches up, gently brushing the loose strand of hair back behind your ear. His fingertips barely graze your temple. You still beneath the touch.

"I'll see you at seven," he says quietly. "My place."

You nod, cheeks warming despite yourself.

Jack gives you one last look before turning toward the door.

As he leaves, he can't help smiling to himself.

★★★

You spend most of the day bouncing between conference rooms and clinical floors.

Policy revisions. Documentation audits. A physician wanting to know whether police can subpoena trauma photographs without a warrant.

Risk Management asking if a family complaint qualifies as a reportable event. Someone from Orthopaedics accidentally emailing protected health information to the wrong specialist… Again.

By six o'clock your brain feels like someone has replaced it with oatmeal.

Which somehow lands you standing beside Trinity and Dennis in Trauma Three while they prepare to sedate a fourteen-year-old with a badly displaced forearm fracture.

Normally Legal wouldn't be anywhere near this. Today, however, the kid's parents are divorced, Dad is present, Mom is on FaceTime from Cleveland insisting nobody touches her son until she arrives, and everyone has collectively decided this is now your problem.

Trinity wheels the sedation cart into the room. She nods toward you. "And this is our lawyer."

The father immediately stiffens. "...Do I need a lawyer?"

"No," you answer before Trinity can speak.

Trinity answers anyway. "She's here to stop you suing us."

Dennis closes his eyes. You smile apologetically.

"I promise, I'm not here because anyone's done anything wrong." You glance toward the father. "I'm just making sure we've got the right consent before they proceed."

The teenager grimaces from the stretcher. "My arm's sideways."

Dennis crouches beside him. "That's why we'd like to unsideways it."

The kid snorts despite himself.

You continue gently. "Your dad has legal authority to consent to treatment." You nod toward the phone balanced on the bedside table. "Your mum's concerns are being documented, she's been informed of the risks and benefits, and because this isn't elective care, delaying reduction could increase the risk of complications."

The father nods slowly.

"So... he needs this now."

The mother sighs loudly through the speaker. "...Fine."

Trinity claps her gloved hands together. "Excellent."

She looks at Dennis. "Drugs."

Dennis shakes his head. "Maybe don't call them drugs."

Twenty minutes later you're back in the hallway.

"...Jesus Christ." You stare down at your pink blouse. A few splatters of blood have somehow landed near your shoulder. You don't even know when. "I hate procedures."

Dennis is peeling off his gloves. "You weren't even doing anything."

"I witnessed a seventeen-gauge needle."

"You looked away."

"I heard it."

Trinity tosses her gown into the biohazard bin.

"This is why I became a lawyer."

Dennis laughs. "Fair."

The three of you head back toward the nurses' station.

You're already typing notes into your iPad. Consent confirmed. Capacity documented. Telephone consent witnessed and recorded. Risk Management notified. Everything exactly where it should be.

"You sticking around for nights, Kirby?" Trinity asks.

"I seriously think you people don't know my name." You hum. "I've gotta head home, got plans."

Dennis glances over. "Plans as in another night of online shopping?"

You shake your head. "Very funny… Got a date."

Trinity immediately elbows Dennis hard enough to make him grunt.

"...That was assault," you observe.

She folds her arms. "So."

You already know the look.

"...Is your date perhaps with one silver-haired Emergency attending?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters immensely."

Princess doesn't even look up from triage. "Wait." She raises one finger. "You and Jack are finally going out tonight?"

You suddenly become aware that half the nurses' station has stopped pretending not to listen.

Dana slowly lowers her coffee. McKay looks up from a chart. Mel blinks twice.

You sigh. "I'm beginning to understand why HIPAA training has to be repeated every year."

Princess grins. "So that's a yes."

You gather your notebook. "I'm not participating in whatever betting pool you've all apparently started."

Dennis's eyebrows shoot up. "...You knew?"

"I didn't." You smile sweetly. "...Now I do."

You sling your bag over your shoulder.

"For the record, you're all legally in the clear. Have a good rest of your shift." You start walking away. Your heels click down the hallway.

The second you're out of earshot—

Princess slaps a hand onto the counter. "Pay up."

Trinity groans dramatically. "Oh, come on."

Princess holds out her palm. "Nope."

"You said next month."

"I said before Thanksgiving."

Dennis reaches into his wallet. The whole day shift seems to have to hustle their cash out for this.

★★★

Jack's apartment looks exactly like him. It’s not cold or minimalist, rather it’s solid. It’s comfortable and warm. The kind of place built over decades rather than decorated over a weekend.

You step inside as he locks the door behind you, the deadbolt clicking into place with a heavy clunk. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, something simmers gently on the stove. Garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. Fresh basil. Pasta.

Your stomach immediately reminds you that you'd skipped lunch.

"Oh," you murmur, taking in the space. "...You are rich rich."

Jack sighs before he's even finished shrugging out of his jacket. "Please don't say it like that."

He hangs the jacket over the back of a dining chair with the unconscious neatness of someone who always puts things where they belong. "It isn't that fancy."

You wander further inside anyway, your heels clicking softly across worn hardwood.

The apartment stretches out far more than you expected. Open-plan, but not cavernous. Everything feels proportioned for someone who actually lives here. Huge industrial windows dominate one wall, pouring warm evening light across the kitchen and into the living room. Outside, Pittsburgh glows amber beneath the setting sun.

In the distance, PTMC rises above the skyline. All glass. Concrete. Fluorescent misery. From up here, it almost looks peaceful.

"It's..." You look back out the window. "...nice."

Jack glances over from the stove. The sincerity seems to catch him slightly off guard. Now that you're actually looking, you start noticing him everywhere.

A well-worn leather recliner angled toward the windows, a folded army-green blanket draped neatly over one arm. A record player tucked beneath a shelf of vinyl. Fleetwood Mac. Springsteen. Nina Simone. Tom Petty. Radiohead. Pearl Jam.

Medical textbooks shoved beside dog-eared paperbacks. Blu-rays stacked with almost obsessive precision.

Military histories squeezed between Steinbeck and Cormac McCarthy. An old baseball sitting on a bookshelf for no obvious reason. Challenge coins lined carefully along another shelf beside framed photographs.

Your eyes drift over a faded army rucksack tucked neatly beneath a console table. A pair of polished boots by the front door. An old camouflage jacket hanging beside his hospital coat.

Then you notice the photographs. Dozens of them. Parents. Hospital staff. Army friends. Residents. Christmases. Cookouts. Retirement parties. You stop in front of one without thinking.

Jack and Robby. Both younger by fifteen years, maybe more. Scrubs wrinkled.Hair darker. Standing outside what looks like the ambulance bay at PTMC with beers in hand.

Robby has one arm slung around Jack's shoulders while Jack flips off whoever's taking the picture with complete sincerity. Both of them look utterly exhausted. Both of them are grinning like idiots.

You smile before you even realise you are. "...Cute."

Jack looks over from stirring the pasta. He follows your gaze. "Oh, don't encourage him."

He walks over beside you. "That picture's done enough to boost his ego already."

You glance between the photograph and the man standing beside you. "You both look exactly the same."

Jack snorts. "Stress preserves you."

You drift to the next photograph.

A much younger Jack stands beside a military helicopter, dressed in camouflage, squinting into harsh desert sunlight. His hair is brighter—almost copper—and there's far less grey, but the expression is unmistakably his.

The same furrow between his brows. The same look that suggests somebody has just asked him something profoundly stupid.

You hear footsteps behind you. Jack abandons the pasta for a moment, wiping his hands on a tea towel as he comes to stand beside you, following your gaze.

You lean in closer. "...Oh my God."

"What?"

"...You were ginger."

Jack looks offended immediately. "I was—" He points at the frame. "That is not ginger. That is auburn."

"Oh, Jackie." You smile sweetly. "That's just PR for ginger."

"It was distinguished."

"It is... literally reflecting sunlight- that’s- I don’t know, that’s pretty orange to me."

Jack lets out a tired sigh. You grin to yourself, studying the photograph again.

Younger Jack somehow looks sharper around the edges. Leaner. Cockier. Twenty-something. Probably convinced he already knew everything. Maybe a little insufferable. You find yourself liking him immediately.

Your attention drifts to another frame.

Two women are crowded onto a couch with Jack wedged between them, both clearly bullying him into smiling for the camera. "Sisters?"

"Yeah." He nods, hands settled behind him, back straight as he stays behind you. "Two."

You glance sideways at him. "...Middle child?"

Jack narrows his eyes. "...You can tell?"

"Kind of." You shrug. "You need attention in a very specific way."

He thinks about it for a second, shrugs and nods. Sounds about right. You look back at the military photograph.

Your voice softens. "...You were pretty."

Jack blinks.

"...Pretty?"

You nod. A quiet laugh escapes him. "That's a first."

You look between the young soldier in the frame and the man standing beside you. "You've got nice eyes."

Jack clears his throat. "You flirting with twenty-five-year-old me or forty-five-year-old me?"

"I'm weighing my options."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

"And?"

"I think I like the older model."

His eyebrows lift.

"Better warranty."

That makes him laugh properly. The sound is warm enough that you feel oddly pleased with yourself. You study the photograph again.

"Do you still have any red left?"

Jack tilts his head toward you. "Probably." He leans down slightly. "Go 'head."

You step closer. Close enough to see the silver threaded through his hair properly. Most of it is charcoal now, streaked heavily with lighter grey around his temples. Tentatively, you lift a hand.

Your fingers brush through it. It's softer than you expected. Thicker, too. He must have a good routine, you think to yourself. Jack doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe much. He just lets you.

"Hm," you murmur dramatically.

"What?"

"It appears you’ve gone all grey… A tragic loss for the ginger community."

"They'll recover."

You smile. Your fingertips drift lower before you quite realise you're doing it. Just enough to brush the roughness along his jaw. Freshly shaved this morning, but already growing back.

The texture catches lightly against your skin.

"It suits you."

"What does?"

"The silver fox thing."

Jack goes still. His eyes lift to yours. Steady. Heavy enough that you suddenly become very aware of how close you're standing.

Your stomach gives a traitorous little flip. You're the first to look away.

"...You collect DVDs?"

The moment breaks. Jack clears his throat.

"Blu-rays." He corrects you automatically. "I don't trust streaming."

You smile to yourself and crouch in front of the shelves. Rows and rows of films. You slide one halfway out. "American Pie?"

Jack looks over from the kitchen.

"An American classic."

"That explains a lot, actually."

"Be kind."

"Ooh." You pull out another. "Happy Feet."

"That one's my niece's." A beat. "...Though the penguin can dance."

You glance back over your shoulder.

"You've watched Happy Feet by yourself."

Jack opens the fridge without missing a beat.

"Absolutely." He reaches for a bottle of wine. "God, those feet sure are happy."

Jack rolls the sleeves of his henley up to his forearms before turning back to the stove, stirring the pasta with absent familiarity.

"You drink red or white?"

"Yes, please.” You hum, barely looking away from the blu-ray shelf, more interested in examining him through his choice in films.

Jack smiles a bit at that, pours you a white.

You sigh and go join him. You hop onto one of the counter stools, resting your chin in your palm as you watch him move around the kitchen.

You realise, with some alarm, that watching Jack cook might be one of the most attractive things you've ever seen.

Knife work precise. Movements economical. Reading glasses sat low on his nose while he checked something on his phone despite clearly already knowing the recipe by heart.

There is something deeply unfair about watching a man near fifty confidently cook pasta while explaining wine pairings to you in that low gravelly voice.

"You're staring."

Jack doesn't even look up. He's stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for the parmesan with the other, moving through the kitchen with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. Like he's cooked this meal a hundred times before.

You blink. "...Sorry."

Heat creeps into your cheeks before you can stop it. Jack glances over then, just long enough to catch the embarrassed little smile tugging at your mouth.

"You do that." He returns his attention to the pan, giving it another slow stir. "Started noticing it when you first came down to the ED on nights."

He notices the way you've gone quieter, the way your fingers curl around the stem of your wine glass.

"What goes on up here?"

He gestures lightly with the handle of the wooden spoon toward his own temple before nodding at you.

You think about it for a moment.

"...I'm observing."

"Oh?" He sounds amused. "What're you observing?"

You hesitate.

"...That..." You smile to yourself. "...I think you're very good at this whole..." Your hand makes a vague circle through the air. "...courtship thing."

Jack is quiet for a second. Then he smiles—small enough you almost miss it. "I try."

You curl your fingers beneath your chin, clearing your throat quietly as you shift conversation. “Do… you cook often?”

“I’m forty-five, sweetheart,” he says dryly. “Not a raccoon.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Jack glances over finally. “Yes,” he nods. “I try to cook whenever I can. Good to keep the hands busy.”

You smile as you listen, feeling like there’s more to that answer.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. That’s- that’s good.” You tell/ Then- “Can I help, at all?” You ask.

He shakes his head, simple. “Long as I don’t screw up my sister's recipe in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll be alright.”

You nod. 

“Not much of a cook?” He wonders as he chops the vegetables.

You watch his quick hands. “Not really. I’ve been a big buyer of microwaved meals since Law School. Cheap, quick. And sometimes when my parents come by, they leave me with leftovers to last me like, a few weeks.”

“You close with them?”

You shrug. “Sorta. They live far, so, don’t talk as much as I’d like to. Yours?” You then realise maybe things are different, a brief awkward beat– “I mean, if they’re- ali-”

“-My dad’s around,” he says with a small chuckle, getting to your train of thought before it could crash. “Mom passed… shit, when I was about your age, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” you hum, sincere.

Jack gives a nod of appreciation, focused on the vegetables before sliding the diced onion and fennel into the pan. The oil snaps immediately, sharp and fragrant, garlic following a few seconds later once the onion starts turning translucent around the edges. He lowers the heat automatically with the side of his wrist, stirring with a wooden spoon.

“Neither of mine could cook,” Jack says, almost absentmindedly. “My parents. They made a mean plate of buttered toast and mashed potatoes, but that was about it.” He scrapes the fond from the bottom of the pan carefully. “Then I enlist, and the army’s basically the same diet but with worse coffee.”

You smile faintly into your wine.

“Didn’t even realize I was missin’ out on anything ‘till I moved here and had Indian food when I was twenty-something,” he continues. “Thought, ah, that’s what I missed. Food’s actually supposed to taste like things.”

“Life changing?”

“Nearly made me wanna quit this whole damn country. That and my leg, but you know. Equally as rough in retrospect.”

You laugh softly.

Jack glances over at the sound for half a second before returning to the stove. He adds tomato paste next, letting it cook down properly instead of rushing it, the colour deepening slowly as he stirs.

You watch him deglaze the pan with wine, the sharp hiss filling the kitchen.

There’s something weirdly intimate about it all. You catch yourself smiling again, utterly enamoured by the sight of such an esteemed figure doing all this. He adds crushed tomatoes, a pinch of salt between his fingers, then reaches for fresh basil.

“You know,” you say carefully, “I think this is the first apartment I’ve been in where a man actually owns ingredients.”

Jack looks over, borderline offended. “What the hell kinda men are you dating?”

“Law students, usually.”

He shakes his head. “Bleak.”

“One of them put ketchup in a wine glass because he didn’t own bowls.”

Jack stops stirring entirely to stare at you. Judge you, more like it. You’re reminded of the incredulous face an actual Judge would give you when you have to recite the most inane quotes from clients.

“You let that man touch you?”

“You’re judging me in very vulnerable years.”

He turns back toward the stove, letting the sauce simmer lower now. Patient. Unhurried.

He stays quiet for a bit. Not quite stoic, just stirring in his own thoughts, brows furrowed slightly. Marvin Gaye hums softly from the record player.

Half an hour later, you've both all but cleaned your plates.

His sister's recipe, according to him. Though, after adding chilli flakes, swapping the wine, doubling the garlic and "fixing" the seasoning, you're fairly certain his sister would sue him for defamation.

It's excellent.

You don't realise how comfortable you've become until you're already halfway through explaining why the closure of Regent Paper is a genuine tragedy.

"...and it's ridiculous, because—do you remember Regent?" You ask that more rhetorically as Jack loosely nods, mostly confused but listening as you continue. “They made the worst A3 cartridge stock imaginable."

You lean forward, already warming to the topic.

"The GSM was inconsistent. The fibres were too short. Fountain pen ink feathered if you even looked at it wrong, the coating lifted whenever you erased graphite—"

Jack watches you with complete seriousness.

"Hm."

"And don't even get me started on Reflex."

"Worse?"

"So much worse."

"What'd they do?"

"They changed manufacturers."

"...The bastards."

"They are bastards." You point your fork at him. "I'm serious."

"I can tell.” Jack tilts his head a bit at you as he leans forward. “What’s the difference?”

You open your mouth. Pause. Then another. Your eyes drift down to your plate as the full weight of what you've been enthusiastically talking about settles over you.

"...Jack."

"Hm?"

"You really don't have to do this."

He frowns. "...Do what?"

"Sit here while I explain paper to you."

"I'm listening."

"I know, but..." You laugh quietly at yourself, rubbing the back of your neck. "I've just spent..." You glance at the ceiling as if calculating. "...At least four uninterrupted minutes talking about cartridge stock."

"So?"

"So this is supposed to be a date." You wave your fork vaguely between the two of you. "We're supposed to be mysterious. Flirt. Talk about interesting things."

"Mysterious? Right… okay, well… What're people your age talking about these days?"

"I don't know."

“Oh come on,” Jack lowers his gaze at you. “I don’t think either of us can pull off the mysterious card considering you did actually spend four minutes talking about cartridge stock.”

You sigh. 

"You don't care about paper."

"I don't." He admits. "I care that you care about paper."

You let out a small breath, heart fluttering a beat at that.

Jack shrugs one shoulder as though it's the simplest thing in the world.

"I want you to keep talking."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He nods toward your plate. "You want seconds?"

"What? No." You laugh. "That was amazing, thank you, but I'm full."

Jack stands, gathering both your plates before you can protest.

"I'll be right back."

He carries them into the kitchen, rinses them under the tap, then wanders back into the living room, drying his hands on a tea towel.

As he sits beside you again, he nods once.

"Alright."

"What?"

"You were saying."

You launch into a completely earnest explanation of grain direction, archival stock, brightness ratings, acid-free cotton rag paper, why legal pads have become objectively worse in the last decade, and how certain brands somehow make ink look flatter than others despite identical specifications.

Jack contributes exactly three things. "...Huh....Really? ...You should sue them."

You snort at that last one, now the two of you seated on the couch. "I should. They're evil."

He snorts. "Oh, are they?"

"You laugh now but… They’ve got a dark underbelly."

"I'm sure they do."

"They're ruining stationery."

He raises his beer in solemn agreement. "Won't somebody think of the binders."

You try not to laugh.

Jack shrugs one shoulder. 

His hand finds your knee almost absent-mindedly on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you, heels abandoned elsewhere. His hand is warm and heavy. His thumb brushes once against the fabric of your skirt as he reaches for his beer again, like he doesn't even realise he's done it.

The city glows beyond the windows, Pittsburgh painted gold beneath the last of the evening light.

Somewhere between another story about disastrous law school roommates and Jack confessing he'd once accidentally eaten military rations that expired before you were born, the distance disappears.

Your legs end up tucked beside him.

Then against him.

Then, when you shift to make room for his prosthetic as he stretches out, he catches your waist without thinking.

"You comfortable?" he asks quietly.

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

Instead of answering, you slide a little closer.

His arm settles around you with the same easy certainty it'd had resting on the back of your chair all evening.

The conversation slows.

Not because you've run out of things to say.

Just because neither of you seems particularly interested in talking anymore.

You look up at him.

He's already looking at you.

"...What?" you ask, smiling.

"Nothin'."

"You're staring now."

"I know."

"What's going on in there?" you ask, echoing him from earlier, tapping lightly against his temple.

He smiles to himself.

"...Observing."

"Oh?"

"What're you observing?"

His eyes travel over your face, slower than they probably should.

"...That I think," he says quietly, "you're very good at this whole courtship thing too."

Your breath catches.

You don't remember who kisses who first. Only that somewhere between smiling and laughing, you're suddenly close enough that there's no room left for anything except him.

By the time you realise you've shifted again, you're straddling his lap, your skirt riding higher over your thighs, your knees braced either side of him.

Jack's hands settle carefully at your waist, then drift slowly up your sides as if he's still asking permission with every inch.

“I have a question,” you ask, voice soft.

Jack nods, a hum as his gaze flickers between the two of you, where your hands trail over his henley, manicured nails sweet against the dark cotton, to your glossed looking lips that curl into a small smile, curious.

“How many girls do you cook for?” You wonder, dry yet earnest.

Jack smiles a bit at that, the question seemingly so naive to him. “Lost count.”

“Damn,” you hum. “Thought I was special.”

“You are special,” he murmurs, his hand sliding higher beneath the hem of your skirt until his broad palm settles warm against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shift instinctively, your body finding him before your mind catches up. He feels himself harden beneath you and lets out the smallest breath through his nose.

“I've never cooked for a lawyer before.”

You laugh softly, already a little breathless.

“Can't say I can say the same about doctors.”

“No kidding,” Jack hums.

His hand travels a little farther until his palm cups you gently through the lace of your underwear. He doesn't rush. Just holds you there for a second, feeling the warmth that's already soaked through the fabric.

Your lips part before you can stop yourself. A quiet gasp escapes you as your hips tilt almost involuntarily into his hand.

Jack watches every reaction like he's studying something important.

“Tell me more,” he says, voice low.

“Um...” You swallow, trying to gather a coherent thought. “When I was... doing my first junior associate placement... about a year ago... it was with the legal department at UPMC Passavant.”

He nods once, clearly knowing the hospital.

“North Hills,” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

His thumb presses just a little more firmly through the damp lace before slowly dragging the fabric aside.

The first glide of his fingers against your slick folds makes your breath catch altogether. You let out a shaky breath as you try to push yourself further onto his fingers.

“No, no,” Jack murmurs. “Keep yourself still for me, alright?” He instructs gently. “Tell me somethin’. These panties pink?”

You nod quickly as he moves a thumb over your clit, swiping against you, stilling your hips, obedient.

“Knew it,” he says. “Was it Richardson?”

You furrow your brows, brief, confused, replaced with a soft moan that has Jack struggling tto jst his hips right to yours. 

“The doctor,” he says. “Senior resident of Neuro. Used to work with him few years back. Seems like your type.”

“What’s-what’s that supposed to mean?” You moan as he almost casually shoves a finger inside, then another, pumping in and out of you.

“You know, organised, kind of nerdy, bad handwriting,” he lists off.

“I don’t-I don’t have bad handwriting what are you–” You begin. “Jesus, Fuck- right there.”

Jack smiles a bit at that, a slow nod. “So, yes?”

You shake your head. “No- I didn’t- It wasn’t him. It was Thompson. Um… He’s- fuck, I can’t remember-”

“-Oh, Fred Thompson? From Ortho.” Jack recalls.

“Can we talk about this another time,” you try, completely focused on how he pumps his fingers in and out of you, eager, deep, thumb rubbing sweetly over your clit.

“No, no, please. I mean, well, you brought it up,” he reminds. “I went to Med School with Fred. Shit, kid, he’s pretty old for you don’t you think?”

You can’t answer, whimpers and moans blending like music to his ears as he smiles at you, a nod again.

“Guess I was right. You do have a type.” He shrugs, maybe a bit of pride or relief, or fascination. Maybe all.

“Jack, please,” you moan softly.

Jack’s voice stays low and warm as he watches you nod. “Atta girl. You want more?” His thumb strokes your cheek once before he pulls back. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” He gives your hip a gentle squeeze. “Up you go.”

You exhale, a small, impatient sound, lips still wet from his mouth. He chuckles under his breath.

“My room’s the first door on the left. Give me a second, yeah?” He brushes a last kiss across your collarbone as you slide off his lap.

“Don’t take too long,” you answer, fingers grazing his jaw before you turn and head down the hall. You feel his eyes on your back; behind you he clears his throat, palm dragging over his face as he stays seated.

Halfway to the bedroom you pause, reach behind yourself, and start the zipper of your dress. The soft rasp of it carries. Jack is on his feet before the sound even fades, following like instinct has taken over.

His door stands open. You perch on the edge of the bed, dress slipping down your arms inch by inch, gaze lifted to meet his when he steps inside. He swallows hard, crosses the room in three strides, and stops in front of you.

“This okay?” he asks, voice rough, one hand resting over the fabric still clinging to your waist.

You nod.

He eases the dress lower, the material whispering against your skin. His mouth finds yours again, guiding you backward until your spine meets the sheets. The dress comes away in one smooth tug; cool air brushes your ribs while his palms, warm and sure, slide upward, thumbs tracing the lace edge of your bra.

You almost panic when Jack lets out a low chuckle.

"What?" you murmur immediately.

You're suddenly aware of everything at once—of the matching lace set, of the soft light from the bedside lamp, of the way he's looking at you. Your skin feels warm beneath his attention.

"Nothing, sweetheart," he says, smiling. "It's cute."

His fingers hook lightly beneath the strap of your bra. The set is pink, delicate, decorated with tiny bows where the straps meet the cups and a small gemstone set at the center. Your tits flush against the material. The matching panties have the same details.

Jack studies it with an expression that makes your face heat.

"Looks like somebody gift-wrapped you," he murmurs.

You groan softly and cover your face.

"Oh my God."

"What?" he asks, entirely unapologetic.

"That's such an old man thing to say."

Despite himself, he's grinning.

You roll your eyes.

"I usually rotate between pink, white, and black," you admit. "Just in case a doctor ever has to see me unexpectedly."

Jack lets out a laugh at that.

"On behalf of the medical profession, your dedication to preparedness is appreciated."

You snort.

"A real public service." He adds.

His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady.

"Though I gotta say," he continues, shaking his head, "I've treated gunshot wounds, car crashes, industrial accidents. Never once have I looked at a patient and thought, ‘Thank God they coordinated.’"

You laugh despite yourself.

The smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels quieter than before.

Your pulse kicks a little harder under the weight of his attention. His hands are rough and hasty over you, smart and well travelled as his gaze flicks between where his hands land over your cunt and your face as your lids flutter a bit, hips immediately coming to meet his wrist, panties wet.

His gaze drifts between your face and the growing impatience written all over it, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Stop teasing," you sigh, shifting instinctively toward him.

"Not teasin'," he murmurs, sounding entirely unconvinced himself.

You give him a look. "Categorically," you say, "you are teasing."

A quiet laugh rumbles out of him.

"Jesus," he mutters, dipping his head to brush a kiss against your collarbone. "I get it. You went to law school."

"I did."

"What now?" he asks, another absent-minded kiss lower, seemingly just appreciating your figure, the bare skin, the pink lace that hugs snugly against you, fingers trailing over the little bow above your panties. "You gonna cite a statute that says I have a legal obligation to sleep with you?"

"Uh-huh."

"That right?"

"The Stop Teasing Me and Fuck Me Already Act of 2026."

He huffs a laugh against your skin. "Never heard of that one."

"Pennsylvania state legislation," you say with complete confidence. "Section twenty-seven, subsection five, paragraph C."

He raises an eyebrow. "Go ‘head then, you’ve committed yourself now."

You clear your throat dramatically, adopting your best courtroom voice. "'Any physician found to be deliberately provoking his very patient, pretty, sweetheart, super chill… vaguely colleague not really colleague who has had a big crush on him for months… shall, without unnecessary delay, cease all smug behaviour and—'" You dissolve into a grin. "'—do something useful.'"

Jack actually laughs this time, shaking his head.He moves, kisses over your chest, lips harsh and tongue dragging over your tits. He feels you hitch your breath as he squeezes at your breasts, lips soft and stubble scratchy, his breath warm against your skin as he chuckles.

"I'm interpreting legislative intent here, it’s- this is what four years of college does to someone. I know that was a hundred years ago for you but, you know.."

"Think you’re fabricating legislative intent." He murmurs, kissing further down over your sternum, taking his sweet time.

"I'm advocating for my client."

"Yeah? Who’s the client?" He moves his hand to further spread your legs apart as his finger traces loosely over the growing wet patch on your panties.

You point to yourself. "Me. Obviously."

"Obviously." He repeats with mild mocking.

"She's suffering."

He snorts.

"From what, exactly?"

You shuffle onto your elbows, back raised now as you look down at him. "Unreasonable delay."

Jack closes his eyes for a brief second, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though he's gathering the patience to deal with opposing counsel.

“Bossy,” he remarks. “No patience.”

“Jack-” You whine.

“Want you to ask me nicely now,” he says, kissing at your inner thigh. “Come on. No more lawyer talk.”

He didn’t think you’d be so demanding. It checks out, in hindsight. You’re a particular kind of person.

“Jack, please just-” you cut yourself off with a frustrated whine as he pulls down your panties, slowly, caught off guard when you quickly replace his hands, and kick them off at the corner of the room. 

You inhale sharply as he looks at your slightly credulous. A beat of quiet passes at your clear eagerness.

“Eager,” he murmurs, mockingly.

“Please, Jack,” you try. “Fuck me.”

He nods, brows furrowed, earnest. “I can do that f’ you.” He adds jokingly– 

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman beg me to fuck her using fake legislation.”

You smile at that, lips dropping open as he moves his finger over your wetness, thumb rubbing in circles at your clit.

His long, thick fingers plunge in and out of your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously with each thrust. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mingling with your needy moans.

"There we go," Jack groans, curling his fingers to hit the sweet spot inside you. “That feels good doesn’t it?”

You can barely do anything else but nod, moving your face into the pillows.

“No, no, come on, baby, look at me,” Jack insists, he moves another hand to beneath you jaw, roughly forcing you to look at him. You whimper, feeling as his fingers fill you up, pumping faster.

He adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up further. His thumb moves to your clit, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive bud.

“Oh fuck, fuck, Jack," You keen, feeling your orgasm building fast. "Please, please, please." You blabber, his grip on your jaw loosening until his fingers end up near your lips, and you take them into your mouth, moaning over his fingers, feeling as he stutters a bit at the sight.

“Shit,” Jack murmurs at the sight. 

“Gonna-” You let loose of his fingers briefly, keeping them close to your lips as you moan. “Gonna come, fuck, please, don’t-” You whine.

"That's it, thaaat’s it," he encourages, fingers plunging deep. "Go on.”

Your pussy spasms around him as you come with a scream, juices gushing out to coat his hand. He works you through it, milking every last drop until you're a boneless, shaking mess.

He moves his hand away from your mouth, going back over your sensitive core, feeling as you whimper at that, them bringing it back to your lips, watching as you briefly hesitate before opening your mouth and sucking yourself clean off of his fingers, tongue wrapping over, as you take his digits deeper.

Jack almost chuckles at the sight of your neediness. 

Before you can catch your breath, he's moving down your body, settling between your spread thighs. You feel his hot breath on your sensitive flesh, making you shiver.

"You let me know how it feels, sweetheart," he kisses your inner thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your pussy, licking long stripes from entrance to clit. He sucks the sensitive bundle between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.

You cry out, hands fisting in his hair as he devours you. His stubble scratches deliciously against your thighs as he eats you out like a starving man.

"Jack… Jack, please, fuck," You keen, hips bucking into his face. "Mm, oh god. Oh, fucking- Jack… Please, please."

He groans in response, the vibrations shooting straight to your core. He plunges his tongue inside you, fucking you with the slick muscle as his nose rubs against your clit.

He seals his lips around your clit again, sucking hard as two fingers plunge into your cunt. He curls them just right to hit that magic spot inside you as his tongue flicks over the swollen bud.

It doesn't take long for the dual stimulation to send you careening over the edge again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers as you come with a scream, juices flooding his mouth.

He laps it up eagerly, working you through your orgasm until you're a boneless mess beneath him. 

You pull him back up by his shirt, your knuckles white as you grip the cotton, while your other hand hooks firmly into his belt loops to yank him flush against you. Your lips meet in a sloppy, desperate collision, tongues swiping and tangling with a hunger that tastes of anticipation.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you mutter against his mouth, the words vibrating between you.

“That right?” Jack murmurs, a low rumble in his chest. He lets out a sharp groan when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to sting before you slide your hands under his hem, urging him to strip.

You lean back on the mattress, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as he stands at the edge of the bed. He pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and you take a moment to simply admire him. He has the rugged look of a man who spends his days under the sun; his chest and shoulders are a map of golden freckles and sunkissed skin, marked by the pale lines of tan-lines above his elbows and the faint, faded burns across the crest of his shoulders.

Your gaze drops as his fingers move to his belt. Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, you crawl forward on your knees, spreading them wide beneath you. You reach out, your fingers brushing over his as you take over the task, looking up at him through a veil of long lashes.

“Let me,” you murmur.

Jack doesn't speak; he simply nods, his hand sliding into your hair. He pats your head gently, his eyes darkening as he watches you deftly slide the leather through the loops. As the belt falls away, you let your palm press firmly against the denim of his jeans, feeling the heavy, pulsing heat of him beneath the fabric.

“This is what I was thinkin’ about,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping to a sweet, soft rasp.

You press a lingering kiss to the bulge of his crotch, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down until your mouth is grazing the cotton of his boxers. You pull the denim and fabric down in one motion, humming a questioning what? as you glance back up at him.

“In that… meetin’, or whatever,” he explains, his breath hitching. “All I could think about was you. What you’d be like. Bossy as I imagined.”

You smile against his skin, trailing a line of wet kisses up the snail trail of hair leading over his stomach. His grip in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with a possessive urgency, guiding you back down toward his cock. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, freeing his hard length.

“You’re nicer than I imagined,” you tease, before sliding your tongue in one long, slow stroke from the base to the very tip.

Jack hisses, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He guides you gently, his fingers curling into your scalp as you take him into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, savoring the salty taste of pre-cum before sliding deep, your throat tightening around him. You focus on the sensation—the way he tastes, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you suck him with a rhythmic, vacuum-like pressure. 

You use your hand to stroke the base, your thumb rubbing over his balls while your mouth works the shaft, alternating between deep, guttural swallows and teasing licks at the rim.

He lets out a strangled sound, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Jesus—yeah, atta girl, just like that. Fuckin’ hell, making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Christ…” He mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. 

He watches with hooded eyes as your drool mixes with his pre-cum, the glistening fluid sliding over his length in thick, wet streaks. Your eyes are watering, the depth of your throat making you gasp for air, but you don't stop.

He groans, his hips twitching. “Shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna come, alright?”

You nod frantically, sliding the underside of your tongue along the sensitive underside of his shaft, the sudden, soft wetness making him grip your hair with a possessive force.

“Fuck,” he groans. 

He suddenly yanks you off him, his fingers locked in your hair, forcing your head back so you have to look up at him. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, demanding kiss. It’s sloppy and desperate, your tongues clashing as he trails wet, biting kisses from your lips to your chin and down your jawline.

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes focused. “Turn around. Ass up. You can do that for me?” he instructs, the tone shifting from sweet to a command.

You hesitate. You clear your throat, trying to regain some control. 

He hums, briefly worried, checking in “You wanna stop?”

You shake your head quickly, your voice a bit breathless. “Want you to finish in my mouth.”

He chuckles, worry leaving, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Yeah? You want it right here?” He reaches out, his hand cupping your jaw, and shoves a thick finger into your mouth. You take it instinctively, your tongue swirling around the digit just as you had his cock, your eyes fluttering. He watches you, a look of amusement and hunger on his face. “Patience, baby. I wanna feel you first.”

You let out a small whine, but he shuts you up by forcibly turning you over. He drags you by your shoulders, the friction of the sheets against your skin heating you up, until he pushes you down. Your face is pressed firmly into the mattress, your back arching as he forces you into a deep, presenting curve, your ass thrust high in the air.

He smiles, the sound of his zipper finishing its descent echoing in the room. He kicks his jeans into the corner, completely naked now, and his large, calloused hand comes down to knead the soft flesh of your ass. “How’s this feel? That alright?” He checks.

You nod into the pillow.

“Words.” He says simply, lightly tapping your ass. “Wanna know what you want what you don’t want, alright?”

He leans over your figure, kissing at your spine as he presses the head of his cock over your folds, hearing you whine a bit at the tease of the feeling.

“Anything,” you mutter.

He chuckles a bit, lips over your skin. “Anything? I don’t know about that, pinkie pie.”

You don’t even care about the stupid nickname in that moment, whining into the pillow as you try to push yourself back onto his cock, his tip slipping into you briefly, the two of you moaning at the feeling before he pulls out.

“So sweet, yet so bossy,” He murmurs. “How’s this?” He slides his hand around your throat. “Words, again, now. Go.”

“I like that,” you murmur. “Just fuck me already, please.”

“Please. There we go, just need some manners there,” Jack chuckles. “Touch yourself first for me.”

You moan, groaned and frustrated.

“Poor girl,” Jack almost chuckles, teasing as he keeps you face down, pussy dripping for him as he lightly taps his cock of your wet folds. “Life’s so tough for you, isn’t it.”

You oblige his instructions and move your hand down to your pussy, rubbing over your clit, making eye contact with him as his hand that stays on your throat keeps you looking at him, gently applying a firm, steady pressure.

“You tell me stop the second you don’t like it anymore, alright?” Jack murmurs. You nod at that, understanding his words but also focused on bringing yourself to the edge. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than me?”

Jack’s jeans hit the floor with a dull thud. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, the thick length of his cock already half-hard and heavy between his legs. His palm landed on your ass, kneading the soft flesh with slow, possessive squeezes.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and even. “Tell me.”

You mumbled something into the pillow. His hand came down in a light, warning tap.

“Words,” he reminded you. “I need to hear what you want and what you don’t.”

You lifted your face just enough to answer. “It’s good. I like it.”

“That’s my girl.” He leaned over you, pressing slow kisses down your spine while the blunt head of his cock dragged through your slick folds. Every pass over your clit made you twitch and whine. He didn’t push in—just teased, letting the tip catch at your entrance before slipping away again.

“Anything I want, huh?” he murmured against your skin. “Careful with that, sweetheart. I might take you up on it.”

You pushed your hips back, trying to force him inside. The head of his cock slipped in for one brief, perfect second before he pulled out again. Both of you groaned.

“Needy little thing,” he chuckled. “So sweet and so damn bossy at the same time.”

His hand slid around your throat, fingers settling with firm, controlled pressure. He didn’t squeeze hard—just enough to make you feel it.

“Talk to me,” he said. “You like that?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Jack… just fuck me.”

He gave your throat a gentle squeeze. “Please. There it is. Manners and everything.” His thumb stroked the side of your neck. “Touch yourself for me first. Let me watch.”

You whined in protest but slid your hand between your legs anyway, fingers finding your clit. You rubbed slow circles while his cock rested heavy against your folds, tapping lightly, keeping you on edge.

“Poor girl,” he teased, voice warm. “Life’s so hard when Daddy won’t give you what you want right away.”

Your fingers moved faster. He watched, eyes dark, hand still resting on your throat so you couldn’t look away.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Better than me?”

You shook your head hard, moaning. “No—fuck—no, nothing’s better than you.”

He hummed in approval. “Good girl.”

Without warning he drove his cock into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your moan broke into a whimper as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. He stayed there for a second, letting you feel every inch, then started moving—hard, steady strokes that made the bed creak.

His chest pressed to your back, skin slapping with every thrust. One hand stayed on your throat while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Such a good girl for me, pinkie pie. So fucking tight.”

You clawed at the sheets, voice breaking into desperate moans. He angled his hips and the new depth made your vision spark.

“Please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for. “Please—harder—”

He gave you exactly what you asked for, pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. His hand tightened around your throat just enough to make your head float, the lack of air mixing with the brutal pleasure until your thoughts scattered.

“Come on my cock,” he ordered, voice rough. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, thighs shaking as you cried out into the sheets. Jack groaned, fucking you through it, hips stuttering as your walls milked him.

“Fuck—there she goes,” he panted. “So fucking tight when you come. That’s my girl.”

He didn’t stop right away. He kept thrusting slow and deep while you trembled, letting you ride out every aftershock. Only when your moans turned soft and shaky did he pull out.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice gentler now. “On your knees for me, pinkie pie.”

You let him guide you upright. Your legs felt weak. Mascara streaked your cheeks and your lips were swollen and glossy. Jack cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “Look at you.”

You leaned into his touch, then dropped your gaze to his cock—still hard, slick with your cum. Without being told, you opened your mouth and took him deep in one smooth motion. Jack’s hand found your hair, fingers tightening as you swallowed around him.

“Shit,” he hissed. “That’s it. Good girl. So good at that, aren’t you?”

You bobbed your head, sucking hard, tongue working the underside. He watched you with heavy eyes, hips rocking gently into your throat. It didn’t take long. His grip tightened and he came with a low groan, hot pulses filling your mouth. You swallowed what you could, some of it spilling over your lips and down your chin.

Jack pulled out slowly, then used two thick fingers to push the mess back between your lips. You moaned around his fingers, sucking them clean.

He leaned down and kissed you, tasting himself on your tongue. The kiss turned deep and slow. He eased you onto your back, climbing over you with a quiet grunt as his prosthetic knee hit the mattress.

“Still with me?” he asked, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded, dazed and pliant under him.

“Good,” he murmured, settling between your thighs again. 

You lay there for a moment before you straddle him again.

"Bathroom," you announce, pointing a finger at him. "And no moving."

Jack lets out a tired laugh.

He reaches out, squeezing your thigh as you climb off the bed.

"The ensuite's through there."

He nods toward the door tucked beside the wardrobe.

You lean down for one quick kiss before padding across the room, stealing one of his old Army band T-shirts from the back of a chair on the way. It hangs almost to mid-thigh when you pull it on.

When you step back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Jack is sitting on the edge of the mattress in a fresh pair of sweatpants.

His prosthetic is still on.

He'd rolled his pant leg up and was loosening the suspension system with practiced, absent-minded movements, the routine clearly one he'd repeated thousands of times.

You stop in the doorway.

"...Can I help?"

Jack glances up.

"You don't have to."

You walk over anyway, settling onto the floor in front of him. "I want to."

He studies you for a second before giving the smallest nod.

He taps the socket just below his knee.

"First, release the suspension." He shows you the small release mechanism with two fingers. "This one uses a locking pin."

You watch carefully. He presses the release with his thumb.

"Now support the socket while you slide it off. Slow's easier."

You follow his instructions carefully, one hand steadying the prosthesis while the other eases it forward.

It comes free with a soft mechanical click. Lighter than you'd expected.

"Heavier than it looks?" Jack guesses.

"A little."

He nods.

"Carbon fiber helps."

You set it gently against the bedframe exactly where he points.

Then your attention drifts to the silicone liner still covering the residual limb.

"And this?"

"I peel the liner off."

He rolls it down carefully, turning it inside out as he removes it.

The skin underneath is slightly pink where the socket had pressed throughout the day. Nothing dramatic. Just the marks left behind by twelve hours on his feet.

You frown instinctively. "Does it hurt?"

"Not today."

He rubs absentmindedly over the skin.

"Some days it gets irritated. Sweat's usually the bigger enemy."

Jack nods.

"I’ll clean the liner later. "He gestures toward the bathroom. "Wash the limb. Let everything dry. Same process in reverse for putting it back on, pretty much."

You nod thoughtfully, taking it all in.

A quiet settles between you.

You glance at the prosthesis resting beside the bed as he resettles in bed.

"So..."

He raises an eyebrow.

"...Can I ask something without you making fun of me?"

"I make no promises."

You smile as you climb back in bed, back besides him, curled up over him. A beat.

"Does it have a name?"

Jack looks genuinely offended. "What?"

"A lot of people name things."

"My truck has a name."

"Exactly."

"My leg does not."

"You've never called it anything?"

"No."

You think for a moment.

"...Lieutenant Dan?"

Jack groans so dramatically he has to hide his face in one hand.

"Absolutely not."

You beam.

"I'll workshop it."

"Please don't."

"I've got at least six more ideas."

Jack reaches down, hooks a hand behind your neck, and pulls you close enough to kiss the top of your head.

He smiles into your hair.

"Thank you."

You wake to the feeling of something soft brushing across your shoulder.

For one blissful, half-conscious second, you assume it's Jack.

Then something furry smacks directly across your face.

Jack is many things. Furry isn't one of them.

Your eyes crack open.

A scruffy brown tabby stands proudly on Jack's pillow, bright green eyes fixed on yours.

You stare at the cat.

The cat stares at you.

A long beat passes.

Without breaking eye contact, it slowly turns around and drapes its tail directly over your nose.

"Oh."

The cat blinks.

You blink.

Just the two of you, apparently waking up together.

Neither of you looks particularly thrilled by the arrangement.

You glance toward the other side of the bed.

Empty.

The sheets are cold.

Your brows knit together.

Jack never mentioned owning a cat.

There hadn't been a litter tray. No food bowls. No scratching post. No toys scattered around the apartment.

He'd spent twenty minutes explaining the thermostat.

He'd lectured you on why olive oil belonged in a dark cupboard.

He'd somehow found time to explain the difference between good and acceptable coffee.

Yet he'd forgotten to mention an entire animal?

The cat, deciding your internal investigation is taking too long, hops down onto your chest.

Immediately—

Prrrrrrrrrr.

Loud.

Violently loud.

"Well."

You cautiously scratch behind one ear.

The purring somehow doubles in volume.

"Oh."

Another scratch.

The cat practically melts into you.

"...You're easy."

Satisfied, it closes its eyes.

You smile despite yourself.

Maybe five more minutes.

You settle back into the pillow.

The cat immediately stands.

Tap.

One paw on your shoulder.

Tap.

Then again.

You crack one eye open.

The cat is staring.

Expectantly.

"...You're needy."

"Mrrp."

"So am I."

"Mrrrow."

The cat hops off the bed.

Walks three steps.

Looks back.

Waits.

Clearly expecting you to follow.

"...Seriously?"

"Mrrrow."

"That's emotional manipulation."

The cat says nothing.

Mostly because it's a cat.

You sigh dramatically.

"Fine."

You push yourself upright, wincing slightly as muscles protest from yesterday.

The cat is already waiting patiently beside the bedroom door.

"What?"

"Mrrrow."

"What do you want?"

"Mrrrow."

You scoop it into your arms.

It accepts this immediately, settling against your shoulder like you've known each other for years.

"Alright."

You scratch beneath its chin.

"Let's find out what's so urgent."

The moment you open the bedroom door, the smell hits you.

Coffee. Fresh coffee. Good coffee.

You follow the smell into the kitchen.

"...No, she isn't terminal," someone is saying. "Hospice probably makes more sense than another admission, but—"

You stop.

Jack sits at the dining table in an old henley, mug in one hand.

Across from him sits Michael Robby.

Also holding coffee.

Both men look up at exactly the same time.

Conversation stops.

Silence.

The cat meows.

"...Counselor," Robby says politely.

"...Doctor Robinavitch."

Another silence.

You slowly raise the cat in your arms.

Like Exhibit A.

"...Um."

Robby's eyes move from the cat...

...to you...

...to Jack...

...then carefully back to the cat.

The cat meows again.

You look between them.

"I think your cat's hungry."

A beat.

Robby points vaguely toward the furry creature.

"...Since when do you have a cat?"

"I don't."

The cat meows again.

"...Compelling argument," Robby says.

Jack sighs the sigh of a man who's apparently had this conversation before.

He stands, walks over, and gently lifts the cat from your arms.

The cat immediately starts purring.

Jack scratches under her chin before sliding open the balcony door.

Outside, tucked neatly beside one of the planters, sits a small stainless-steel bowl.

He fills it from a container on the counter.

Robby watches the exchange over the rim of his mug, lips twitching. You’re grateful for the cat to be the point of interest here rather than you.

"I didn't peg you for a cat man."

"I'm not."

Robby nods slowly.

"...She's your cat."

"She absolutely is not."

The cat finishes eating, wanders straight back inside, and rubs herself around Jack's prosthetic.

Robby raises one eyebrow.

Jack pretends not to notice.

“She’s just some stray that comes around every few days.” Jack explains.

You smile to yourself.

You yawn, rubbing one eye.

"I'm going back to bed." You look toward Robby. "Nice seeing you, Michael."

"You too, Counselor."

Jack crosses back over, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of your head as he passes. You still feel faintly self-conscious about the whole spent the night thing, but you let him. He smells like coffee and soap.

"I’ll be there soon."

"Don’t be too long." You whisper to him, making Jack chew the inside of his cheek to stop his smile as he clears his throat.

You disappear back toward the bedroom, closing the door behind you.

The apartment settles into silence again.

Robby waits until he hears the bedroom door click shut. Then takes another slow sip of coffee.

"...Don't." Jack begins.

“Didn’t say anything."

Jack pours himself another coffee.

"I thought you'd be gone before she woke up."

Robby nods toward the balcony.

"Instead you got cockblocked by a homeless cat."

Jack looks out through the glass.

The cat is sprawled across one of the balcony chairs like she pays rent.

"Yeah, well, Mittens has great timing."

Robby frowns. "What? Mittens? You named the cat?"

Jack busies himself with the coffee machine.

"Next question."

Robby grins.

"Anyway… the patient?"

Robby smiles into his mug.

You hear the front door click shut from where you're curled up in Jack's bed, the sheets gathered around your waist as you mindlessly scroll through your phone.

A moment later, his footsteps pad down the hallway.

He appears in the doorway wearing grey sweats and a faded black T-shirt, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs.

You look up over the top of your phone. "That’s alright..." A smile tugs at your mouth. "Why didn't you tell me you had a cat?"

"Because I don't," Jack says automatically.

You raise an eyebrow. "...Mittens?"

He stops. He lets out a long sigh through his nose. "You heard that."

You grin. Jack shakes his head, resigned. 

He crosses the room anyway.

You reach for him before he can say another word, fingers catching lightly at the back of his neck as you pull him down. He smiles into the kiss almost immediately, one hand bracing on the mattress beside you while the other settles instinctively against your waist.

It lasts only a few seconds. Comfortable. Easy.

As he starts to sit back, your attention catches on the silver band around his left hand.

Your smile softens. He looks down as you gently take his hand in both of yours.

Your thumb brushes lightly over the ring.

"You said you'd tell me."

Jack's expression changes almost imperceptibly.

The teasing slips away. He watches your fingers for a moment before instinctively turning the ring once around his finger, an old habit he clearly doesn't realize he's doing.

"She passed," he says quietly. "About five years ago." He swallows. "She was... a good woman."

A faint smile.

"Better than I deserved some days.” His eyes find yours again. "I just never really got around to taking it off."

You nod slowly, not rushing to fill the silence. "I don't think you have to."

His brows lift a fraction.

"With me, I mean."

Your thumb strokes gently over the ring once more. For a long moment, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. Then his free hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the same quiet care he'd shown a dozen times before.

You smile, though your eyes soften. "I'm sorry."

He gives the smallest shrug. "It's alright."

It isn't, entirely. You both know grief doesn't really become alright. It just becomes familiar.

After a moment, he exhales, as if deliberately setting the weight of the conversation down.

"I'd rather think about right now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You lean forward and press another gentle kiss to him.

"I have to get ready for work soon," you murmur.

He makes a dissatisfied noise. "No, you don't. You're one of the night crawlers."

You laugh. "I'm the night-crawler's litigation strategy."

He smiles despite himself.

"But I've got court this afternoon."

Jack's hands settle comfortably at your waist as he looks up at you. “You hate court."

"I do."

"You like me."

"I do."

"So." His mouth twitches. "Think we've established the correct priority."

You laugh, shaking your head.

He gives your side a light squeeze before smiling up at you. “How’s that for my case?”

“Yeah, alright. Could use some work.” You press a quick to the corner of his smug lips.

could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)

a/n: ironic that i spent all that time in exams, then holidays, and now im back at uni and i decide to finish this! seems like a good indicator to this next semester. i dont have much to write :3 i feel really iffy about this. i feel most proud of the little "stop teasing and fuck me already act" part i thought that was silly lol. i also liked doing that little flashback scene. sorry if the legal stuff is a bit iffy, im australian, and im still a first year, so i dont really know much about healthcare law i kind of just looked up some stuff and went from there lol. yeah idk i think i just felt a bit like this had no direction? no substance? i dont know, working on anaother part, but feeling like i might just do some other writings for now.. thanks for reading!

[goldiwrites]

⋆˙⟡ JACK ABBOT witnesses a new side to his girlfriend after her bra breaks

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI big boobed!reader, curvy/plus-sized!reader implied, "i'll pay for it", teasing, dirty talk, breast & nipple play, dry humping, mentions of previous smutty time, kinda brat!reader ? she's annoyed, pet names (doll, honey, baby, pretty girl), swearing, no other physical descriptions of reader, no use of y/n, dual pov, (1.9k wc)

layout inspired by my angel @mariasont

MASTERLIST

── ⋆˙⟡

Jack wasn't prepared for his front door slamming just before eight pm on his night off. And he definitely wasn't expecting the annoyed groan reverberating off the walls as you stomped your way to the lounge. It was a stark contrast to the soft humming he was usually graced with the second you walked through his door.

He sat up straighter, muting the TV to give you his undivided attention. You barely glanced his way as you walked through the threshold, and he couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising at the sight of you.

Your grey scrub top was slightly twisted and riding up, exposing a sliver of your stomach that he itched to trace. A cute pout had taken your face hostage—your lower lip jutting out and brows furrowed, making it difficult for him to suppress a smile. All humour vanished as his eyes fell to your chest; your full breasts hanging without support, pebbled nipples calling for his mouth. The tightening of his pants was immediate, along with the jealous fire that heated him from the inside out—who else had seen you in this state?

It was a losing battle for him as he tried to keep his eyes off the way your boobs bounced as you walked towards him. Honestly, he didn't know why he even bothered.

You collapsed onto the couch next to him with a huff, knocking his crutches to the floor as you ripped your bag off your shoulder with more force than necessary.

Jack had never seen you like this. In the four months you had been dating, he'd seen you cry more times than he could count—videos of dogs reuniting with their owners were your kryptonite—and had seen you lose your cool less than a handful of times. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of trepidation stepping into this unknown territory.

Before he could start running through any events or anniversaries he may have missed, you found your rightful place—wrapping your arms around his right one, curling your body into his side with a sigh. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, closing his eyes as he inhaled your comforting scent.

Some of the tension eased from your shoulders, your body conditioned to relax in Jack's presence. He rested his cheek atop your head, his affection diluting the annoyance thrumming through your veins.

"What's going on, doll?"

"My bra broke. Right at the start of my shift." You grumbled, nuzzling further into his warmth.

"Okay," he dragged out hesitantly. "That's annoying."

"Yeah, you could say that," you huffed. "The wire was digging into my skin for twelve hours straight," you whined, resembling a petulant child. "I could feel it every time I moved. Do you know how uncomfortable that is?"

He lifted his head off of yours, tilting your chin up to shoot you a look. You had massaged his leg enough to know that was a stupid question.

"Right, sorry, don't answer that." One hand moved from clutching his bicep to his right thigh, tracing patterns with your index finger. You let out another sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. "It was my last decent one. Now I only have sports bras that aren't even near the realm of sexy."

"So just buy a new one."

Jack regretted the words as soon as they slipped out, his body tensing and eyes squeezing shut.

Your annoyance returned tenfold. You ripped away from his body, levelling him with a scolding glare.

"Do you know how expensive bras are, Jack?" You started, diving into a gesticulating monologue. "Especially if you've got big boobs—it's just capitalism once again profiting off of women's struggles! The bigger you are the more expensive everything is because they're trying to make us feel bad—"

"Honey," Jack tried, his voice dropping to the authoritative tone that never failed to make your ears perk up like an obedient puppy. Well, that never failed until now.

You pressed a finger into his stupidly beefy chest. "You're a man, you don't get to speak right now."

He held his hands up in surrender, his dick twitching from you giving him attitude—at the thought of fucking it out of you. An interesting revelation that he was looking forward to exploring later.

You removed your finger, continuing your rant. "No bra ever fits right—unless you go to a boutique and spend at least three hundred dollars on a custom made one."

Jack was drawn in by the fire in your eyes, the outrage and passion you were exuding making you even more beautiful.

"The amount of money I waste on fabric that barely does the job it's meant to do is insane. At this point it'd be fucking cheaper to get a breast reduction." You fell back against the couch, your chest heaving slightly from your tirade.

He rested an arm over your shoulders, his thumb rubbing circles on your upper arm. "You're not getting a breast reduction."

A searing glare burned the side of his face. "Oh, so now you're telling me what I can and can't do to my body?"

A thrill raced down Jack's spine—another side effect of your newfound attitude.

"No," he said placatingly. "I'm just remembering the conversation we had last week." His mouth ticked up with the beginnings of a smirk. "Y'know, the one after I made you look at yourself in the mirror while you came on my cock."

The hand on your arm slid away slowly, featherlight fingers caressing across your chest before making their way to your nipple, circling the pert bud lazily. Your breath stuttered, a whine lodging itself in your throat from your boyfriend's touch.

He dipped his head towards you, his husky baritone filling your ear as his lips brushed along the sensitive skin. "You remember how good you looked, baby? Couldn't stop staring at yourself, could you?" He tugged your earlobe between his teeth. "Looked like a fucking goddess—you always do."

Heat blossomed across every inch of your body, a familiar insatiable need jolting your core at the memory. You had been entranced by the image in the mirror—lidded, glazed eyes staring back at you, Jack's hand around your throat keeping your attention secured on your reflection, your tits bouncing as he drilled into you from behind.

Jack's keen eyes caught the way your plush thighs squeezed together, how your chest was rapidly rising and falling beneath his hand.

"You've made your point," you whispered, lust thwarting your annoyance.

He hummed, pressing faint kisses along your jaw. His free hand trailed up your thigh—a fingertip tracing the seam of your pants inducing a shiver. "I'll pay for it, for the bras. I'll buy you a whole closet full of 'em."

"Okay," you relented, suspicion rising in Jack at your quick response.

He moved his head away from yours, an eyebrow quirking up and deepening his wrinkles. "…That's what you wanted all along, isn't it?"

"No," you murmured, pressing your face into his bicep. He would've believed you if it wasn't for the smile he could feel stretching against his skin.

"Uh-huh, sure."

He grabbed your chin, pulling your face away from your hiding spot and seeing the twinkle in your eyes instantly. He huffed a laugh, leaning in to kiss you softly.

"You know you could've just asked," he mumbled against your lips, teasingly nipping your bottom lip.

A giggle slipped from your mouth into his. "Where's the fun in that?"

"So you admit this was all just an act." He grasped your hips, effortlessly lifting you to straddle his lap. You gasped out at the bulge pressing against your core. "You think threatening to take these away from me is funny?" His hands drifted from your hips, creeping underneath your top and up your sides until they cupped your heavy breasts.

You whimpered at his calloused fingers stroking and pulling; one of them brushing along the tender, irritated patch the wire from your bra had left behind.

Jack noticed the spot straight away—he had every inch of your skin memorised, his fingers knowing your body better than your own. "Let's look at the damage, hmm? Can't have my pretty girl hurting."

You nodded, your brain already turned to mush from his light teasing.

He moved his hands back down your body to reach the hem of your scrub top—a whine leaping out of you from the brief loss of his touch. He lifted your top over your head, moaning once your tits were on full display for him.

He swore he died and went to heaven whenever he saw you like this—sat prettily on his lap, hazy eyes fluttering, full breasts begging for his hands and mouth. He revelled in how your hips would grind against his absentmindedly; his pretty, needy girl desperate for her silver fox from the smallest touch. Your unyielding desire did wonders for his ego.

He brought his hands back up, relishing the sight of your tits overflowing in his large hands. Your eyelids drooped and your lips parted, breathy sighs falling from them. His thumb moved to brush along the tender spot on the side of your boob.

"Poor thing," he muttered, leaning forward to press light kisses to the irritated skin. "Won't happen ever again—not while you're mine." Molten gold eyes stared into yours. "And you're always going to be mine."

His tongue licked the sensitive skin before he blew cold air on it, causing goosebumps to erupt across your body with a gasp slicing the air. Your hips rocked harder against his, your core growing wetter with every touch.

He covered your boob in kisses and spit, sucking and biting to leave behind marks he adored—his marks. His rough hand pawed at your other tit, pulling and twisting the nipple—making you mewl above him, your hips moving faster as fire raced down to your pussy, igniting embers along the way.

His mouth latched onto your neglected nipple, his tongue drawing circles around it and sucking harshly. You let out unabashed moans, his own starting to vibrate against your skin and through your chest. He was rock hard beneath your hips, precum leaking into his boxers as your movements grew frantic. He could feel the flutter of your pussy, the heartbeat in your clit, even through your layers of clothes.

His free hand moved to your ass, giving it a smack. Your responding yelp dissolved into a moan, your hips jerking forward and finding the perfect position that had your clit pressing directly onto his bulge.

He pulled his head away from your chest, admiring his perfect girl using him for her pleasure. He wanted to spend the rest of his life worshipping at your altar—to bask in your divineness until his dying breath.

His hand trailed up from your breast to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, catching a bit of drool. God, he loved how he could unravel you just as you did him.

But before he could help you reach your release, he needed to remind you of something—to correct a statement you made earlier, one that had been eating away at him.

He tilted your head until your unfocused eyes meet his—his cock jumping at how utterly fucked you looked from a bit of dry humping.

"Let's get one thing straight, doll. The lace and bows are nice, but they're not what are sexy. That's all you, baby."

── ⋆˙⟡

a/n: can you guys tell one of my bras broke today. i honestly don't even know what this mess is. am loving the girlies popping off with big boobed blurbs lately tho 😌

[lanadelreyylover]

40,000 feet

Jack Abbot x Reader

Leave it to the doctor sitting next to you to have the perfect trick for calming down your mid-air anxiety

Not even the martini you gagged down in the airline’s premium lounge, nor the gelatinous goody lost at the bottom of your purse could prepare you for the wave of anxiety that would course through your veins as you settle into your seat and buckle the belt. You tighten it across your hips as much as possible, the act itself calming as though the woven band will guide you slowly back to the earth in event the plane drops out of the sky. 

And of course, on the day that you’re a bundle of nerves, a sack of live wires thrashing like electric eels, the most handsome man you’ve seen in your life has the seat next to you. 

“Hi there,” he says with a smile, reaching up to slide his carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment. As he does so, the hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, revealing a stripe of toned skin just above the band of his pants. 

“Hi,” you say back as he settles into the seat, quickly busying yourself with the self-soothing (and self-destructive) act of picking at your cuticles. 

As the plane takes off, you command yourself not to lose your marbles, summoning the strength of the arm rest you’re digging your fingers into. If you’re not careful, your nails might actually snap off. At least then, you’d be distracted from the fear bubbling in your gut, if only for a moment. 

By some miracle, the plane finds its path, the seatbelt light turns off, and smooth sailing is promised by the pilot over the intercom. You remind yourself to look at the flight attendants. If they aren’t panicking, all is well. Or maybe they’re all trained to hide it, saving face until the moment the plane breaks in half and they no longer have one because it’s torn from their skeleton–

“Drink?” 

You let out a breath that had been building in your lungs, the huff of air escaping through parted lips. It’s the voice of the man beside you, reiterating the question asked by the attendant pushing the beverage cart. 

“Nothing for me, thank you,” you reply sweetly, and the attendant moves on. You’re far too afraid that, if you fill your bladder (which may be impossible as you look at the size of the cups they hand out), you’ll have to stand up and use the restroom and you’ll tumble and fall right through the floor of the plane and into the sky by some defiance of nature’s laws. 

When the plane hits a rough patch of air, your hand races to the forearms of the man beside you, your fingertips digging into his brawn as your eyes screw shut. Thankfully, the turbulence passes just a moment later and your panic subsides.  

“Sorry about that,” you say with a nervous titter. 

“All good. Nervous flyer?” He asks, pivoting toward you. 

You nod. “Is it obvious?” 

His brow quirks slightly and he tilts his head back and forth an inch. “A little.” 

You’ve never liked planes. There’s something so unnatural about being suspended in the sky, held up by nothing but air, and you tell him exactly that, to which he responds with the science behind the laws of gravity that hold the plane in the sky, and how technically, there’s no way for the vehicle to just fall from the clouds. He likens it to an object submerged in jell-o. It’s stuck, unmovable. 

“Are you an engineer?” You inquire, impressed by his miniature lesson on airplane physics. 

He chuckles breathily, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m a doctor.” 

“Ah. That makes sense.” He arches a curious brow, begging you to elaborate. “You’re a very calming presence, and I’m sure that translates to your bedside manner. Let me guess. Pediatrics?”

“Emergency Department, actually,” he corrects. “But we do get our fair share of kiddos who need a teddy bear to squeeze. Didn’t bring one with me today. Sorry about that.” 

“Makes even more sense. Deal with a lot of crazy people in there? Crazier than a grown woman afraid of flying?”

“You have no idea,” he says, rolling his eyes, testing the next phrase on his tongue. His eyes glance down at the plastic cup sitting steadily on his try table. “None as beautiful as you, though.”

Your face burns, heat rising to your cheeks as the compliment settles in your belly, warmth blooming across your chest. 

“I’m Jack, by the way.” 

You give him your name with a smile, shaking the hand he’s extended toward you. The two of you share biographies, your respective reasons for flying to your shared destination, and you beg him for at least one emergency-room horror story to distract you from the wave of turbulence that rocks the plane. 

“That sounds awful,” you say with an exaggerated wince. “Tell me another one.” And so he does, and it works. The ball of tension between your shoulders loosens, and you’re able to stop bouncing your knee like a maniac. 

Maybe it’s his face, or the slightly rasp to his voice when he speaks softly to you, or perhaps it’s the freckles that dot those deliciously muscular arms. But it’s not long until you’re able to sink back into your seat and laugh heartily at his humor. That is, until the plane bounces and you convince yourself that a nosedive is impending. The turbulence lasts too long, the seatbelt light flickering back on, and an announcement from the pilot that the rest of the flight might be bumpy. 

“I am never flying again,” you promise aloud. “I wish someone would just hit me over the head and knock me out, put me out of my misery already.” 

That garners you a laugh that quickly dissipates into thick silence. He leans into your space, filling the air with the faint scent of his cologne, the clean musk of his skin. “I have a better idea.” 

You turn your head to face him. “Like what?” 

“You can tell me to stop, anytime.” His hand lands on your knee, palm caressing its say up the length of your leg. 

“Jack, we’re in public,” you say, quickly tossing your jacket over your lap, hiding the hand he has trailing between your thighs. And I just met you.

“It’s hardly public. We’re in the air.” 

“Same difference. Someone could see.” 

He shrugs. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Everyone’s sleeping anyway.” You glance around the plane. It’s dark–the lights off, every window shut–and quiet except for a gentle hum. Lots of eye masks and fallen heads. “Just focus on being quiet for me, alright?” 

You turn to him, nodding as you lock eyes, staring intently into a pair of warm, hazel irises. He’s so handsome, and that’s all it takes apparently–salt-streaked hair, fine lines that tell of a life well-lived, and a charming smile–for you to let his hand snake all the way up to the apex of your thighs. 

He uses his right hand, the one you share an armrest with, to discreetly travel to the button of your slacks, to the zipper below it. Undoing the blockades with only a surgeon’s precision, he gains access to the band of your panties, slowly trailing beneath them tauntingly trickling your pelvic bone with a fingernail as it traces up and down your skin. 

For the first time in your life, you’re grateful you went with the best deal and chose a seat in economy. The rows are close together, and the flight attendants have hardly ventured past first and business classes. It’s just you and Jack, and his hand down your pants.

“Shh,” he says, slanting into you. There’s a slight smile tugging at his lips as he whispers in your ear. “Feeling better?” 

The plane shakes with almost perfect timing. “No,” you say, leaning over slightly, giving him your cheek to bump the tip of his nose against. 

You nearly whimper when he slides his fingers, splitting them on either side of your clit, just slithering up and down the valleys between your lips. Thigh instinctively clenching, head tilting back, you let out a gasp. He draws a few lazy circles on the bud, pinching here, tapping there. Then, he inserts the pads of his fingers, stretching you out before thrusting the full length of middle and pointer into your pussy. 

“That’s it,” he rasps at your ear, his voice still low and hushed. “You like that?” 

You can only nod, the gift of speech being snatched from you, your voice completely out of commission with the exception of a few strangled gasps and muffled moans. 

“Just breathe,” he coaches, and you take his cues to inhale and exhale, letting the anxiety melt off your chest. You meet his eyes, pupils affixed to your mouth as he listens for the breaths leaving your lips. “In and out. Just like that. Good girl.” 

The praise has your vision blurring at the corners, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he works you open with them. With studied and practiced movements, he crooks his digits at the knuckles, pads finding the button behind your front wall. His hand stays in place, only bending at the hinges to keep pressing against the spot that has you grappling at his forearm, swallowing moans. 

“I’m so close, Jack,” you breathe, your abdomen tensing and releasing, your core squeezing his fingers like you’ll never let them go. 

“I know, I can feel you.” He continues his ministrations, though your body is aching for more of him. “Don’t chase it,” he says. “Let it happen.” 

And with that advice, you take in a cleansing breath, forcing the tension from your hips, letting your head fall back against the cushion rest behind it, and your pleasure continues to grow. The climb is violent, and if you weren’t confined to a seat and to the strictures of polite society, you’d be crying out like a dog, clawing at whatever could fit in your fists to help quell the heat rushing through your veins. All you can do now, is sink your fingers into Jack’s forearm, his thigh. 

“You’re so close, that’s it. Keep going,” he coos at the crook of your neck. “You can do it. I wanna feel you come around my fingers. Give it to me.” 

Overwhelmed by the pressure in your core, the lulling words dripping from Jack’s tongue, you reach your peak, thighs shaking as you right through your violent high. As you come down, one labored breath at a time, Jack removes his hand from your pants, taking with him the sticky evidence of your orgasm. The sheen coats his skin, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the moisture right off of them. 

“You’re so incredible,” he whispers, leaning over to plant a kiss on your clammy temple. When he retreats, his pupils are blown, and there’s a look of complete admiration splashed across his face. “Any chance you’re afraid of hotel rooms too or do I have to get you on another plane?” 

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[sintaera]

𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

“Tell me, does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife, does he lose control when he fucks her, or does that sweet blushing bride of yours recieve the same dreary restraint the realm so adores you for?”

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, rough sex, consent is given, this is some dark shit, oral (female and male receiving), minors dni.

Please be aware that I normally don't write stuff as dark as this, but for the love of fuck I couldn't keep this out of my head. Remember to take care of your mental health.

In this AU, Prince Oberyn Martell is the youngest brother to Prince Moran Martell and Queen Myriah Martell. Because I couldn't help myself.

𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 was not a man 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 appreciated being near you, his sweet, innocent wife, who couldn't tell whether a man was being kind with his words, or tempting the wrath of a dragon, which from Baelor's perspective, the youngest brother of his mother, greatly delighted invoking.

Prince Baelor Targaryen had never been a suspicious man by nature. He trusted you, completely, but he knew the kind of man Prince Oberyn was, from his countless paramours, to the many bastards he had sired throughout Dorne, the Red Viper, was not a man Baelor admired, something he had more often than not expressed to his mother when she had informed him that he'd be visiting her.

“Then do me the kindness of keeping that man away from my wife,” Baelor loved his mother dearly, but even now as he stood before her, arms folded behind him, he could not contain the disdain in his voice, “she does not know him as well as I.”

“I cannot recall a single moment where you had been this fierce over Lady Jena Dondarrion. I know who and what Oberyn is. I did not think after Jena died you'd love another.”

Baelor did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between mother and son, heavy as castle stone.

His jaw tightened, mismatched eyes drifting toward the open balcony where the sea glittered beyond the walls of the Red Keep. For a fleeting moment, he looked less the celebrated prince who had broken rebel lines and more the weary man who had buried his first wife beneath cold earth.

“When Jena died,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only his mother could hear, “I believed that part of me had gone with her.”

His mother watched him quietly.

Baelor's shoulders tensed for a moment. “I never intended to wed again.”

“I know.”

“I certainly never intended…” He paused, almost sounding irritated with himself. “...to love again.”

Queen Myriah's expression softened, “And yet you have.”

Baelor gave a short, humorless breath. “I have.”

There was no shame in the admission. Only resignation, as though he had lost a battle he had never agreed to fight.

“You speak of Jena.” His gaze settled upon his mother once more. “I honoured her. I respected her. I cared for her deeply.” His brow furrowed. “But what I feel for my wife now…” He shook his head once. “...it is a far more dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous?”

“I think of her before councils. Before battles.” His mouth became a hard line. “I look for her whenever I enter a room.”

His mother smiled knowingly.

“If she smiles…” he continued quietly, “...the day becomes easier.”

“And if she cries?”

Baelor's eyes darkened, “I would burn kingdoms to discover who caused it.”

The Queen reached forward, resting a hand upon his arm. “You are your father's son.”

“I pray not.”

“You love with frightening devotion, Baelor.” Myriah murmured as she watched Baelor.

“I know.”

“And Oberyn?” For the first time, genuine irritation flashed across the prince's face.

“Oberyn flirts because it amuses him.”

“Likely.”

“He enjoys seeing men lose their composure.”

“Also likely.”

“But he will not use my wife for sport.” His words carried no heat, “I trust her with my life.” His gaze sharpened. “It is him I do not trust.”

His mother regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “You are aware that Oberyn is nearly twice her age.”

“I am painfully aware. He has lived a life of indulgence. He has charmed noblewomen, common women, widows, wives, and maidens alike.” There was no admiration in his voice, only fact. “He knows precisely which words to use, which smiles to offer.”

Baelor's expression hardened further. “And she," he said quietly, “has not spent her life learning to defend herself against men like him.”

“No.”

“She is young. She sees kindness where others hide intention.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “She would sooner believe a compliment sincere than wonder what lies beneath it.”

“That is why you fear this.”

“I do not fear that she would betray me.” His answer was immediate. “I fear that she would not even realise she was being pursued until someone less honourable believed he had been encouraged.”

His mother's eyes softened. “You have never doubted her.”

“Never.”

“But you doubt Oberyn.”

“I doubt any man who finds amusement in testing another husband's restraint.”

Baelor had no intention of allowing that dance to begin. “If your brother so much as corners her alone,” Baelor said with unsettling calm as he turned toward the door, “he will discover that I inherited more from the blood of the dragon than a name.”

It was the fierce protectiveness of a husband who knew his wife was young enough to believe the world kinder than it truly was, and who knew Prince Oberyn Martell was more than old enough to exploit that innocence if it entertained him.

His mother watched him leave, shaking her head with the smallest smile. “Gods help Oberyn,” she murmured, “for my son certainly will not.”

The feast had begun as such celebrations always did.

Music drifted through the great hall beneath painted rafters where dragons and heroes watched from faded frescoes overhead. Hundreds of candles burned in polished chandeliers, casting warm light across crimson banners and cloth-of-gold hangings until the Red Keep itself seemed wreathed in flame.

Silver goblets were lifted in endless toasts, servants threaded gracefully between crowded tables bearing roasted boar, lemon cakes, river trout, and sweet Arbor wines, while laughter rose and fell like waves against the vaulted ceiling.

King Daeron II had spared little expense in honour of Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival from Dorne.

The occasion pleased more than the court. At the king's right hand sat Queen Myriah, once Princess Myriah Martell, whose composed expression had softened into a smile warmer than many had seen in years. Her youngest brother had finally come to King's Landing.

He simply had not come on time.

The lateness itself scarcely occupied your thoughts. Your attention had been claimed by your husband long before the feast began.

Prince Baelor Targaryen was not a man inclined toward grand declarations of affection. His love revealed itself in subtler ways, in the quiet certainty of familiar gestures.

A steady hand resting against the small of your back as the two of you crossed a room. Fingers brushing yours beneath the table whenever conversation grew tedious.

A brief glance cast your way to ensure your cup remained full and that you had eaten enough before he thought to touch his own plate.

It was the sort of devotion few people ever noticed. You always did. Tonight, however, there was nothing subtle about it.

From the moment you had entered the great hall, Baelor had scarcely allowed more than an arm's length between you.

Whenever another lord lingered overlong in conversation, his hand settled naturally around your waist. Whenever you moved through the hall, he guided you with effortless gentleness, never hurried, never rough, yet always unmistakably present beside you.

No one remarked upon it.

Very few men possessed the courage to question the heir to the Iron Throne.

Still, something felt... different.

You leaned closer until your shoulder brushed his sleeve, lowering your voice so only he could hear.

“Is something troubling you, my love?” you asked softly.

Baelor did not immediately answer as his mismatched eyes remained fixed upon the great doors at the far end of the hall. “No,” he replied at last, the answer came too quickly, too smoothly.

You followed his gaze toward the entrance before looking back at him. “You are waiting for Prince Oberyn.”

“I am,” Baelor admitted.

You studied his face for another heartbeat before asking carefully, “You do not sound pleased.”

For the briefest instant, a muscle tightened along his jaw. “I am not.” His voice remained perfectly calm.

Somehow that unsettled you more than anger would have. You tilted your head. “Has he offended you?”

“Not yet.” Baelor turned his head towards you, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against your brow, “But I suspect he might.”

The evening stretched onward.

Musicians exchanged lively dances for softer melodies. Servants cleared one course only to replace it with another. Lords drifted from table to table, exchanging gossip while cups were emptied and filled again.

Even King Daeron's patience began to show signs of strain.

He checked the entrance more than once.

So did Queen Myriah.

Then, at last, the towering doors to the great hall swung open, conversation faltered and Prince Oberyn Martell strode inside wearing the unmistakable smile of a man entirely satisfied with himself.

His embroidered tunic remained immaculate by most standards, though his dark curls had been left pleasantly disordered by hurried fingers. His collar sat ever so slightly crooked, and lingering beneath the perfumes of feast and court clung another scent entirely.

Sweet perfume.

Heavy perfume.

The unmistakable fragrance of a King's Landing brothel.

Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest moment before pinching the bridge of her nose.

Across the table, several Dornish retainers developed an intense fascination with their wine cups.

King Daeron tipped his head back, staring toward the painted ceiling as though appealing silently to the Seven for patience.

Baelor did not sigh, yet beside you, every muscle beneath his embroidered doublet hardened until he seemed carved from stone.

His hand, still loosely holding yours beneath the table, tightened almost imperceptibly, never enough to hurt—not that you would have minded the pain— only enough for you to notice.

Prince Oberyn crossed the length of the hall with effortless confidence, seemingly oblivious to every disapproving stare fixed upon him, or perhaps he simply enjoyed them.

Stopping before the king's table, he placed one hand over his heart and inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Oberyn said cheerfully. “King's Landing insisted upon delaying me.”

King Daeron regarded him with patient disbelief. “I somehow doubt King's Landing itself bears the blame.”

“It is a city overflowing with distractions.”

“It possesses brothels,” the king observed dryly.

“It does.”

“I imagine one detained you.”

Oberyn's grin widened. “I would hardly describe the experience as detention.” Laughter rolled through the hall, even a few members of the Kingsguard struggled to hide their amusement.

Only one man remained entirely unmoved, Baelor watched him without so much as the flicker of a smile.

The heir's gaze never wavered, steady enough to make lesser men reconsider every decision that had brought them into his presence.

Oberyn noticed immediately and the smile lingering upon his lips sharpened. “Baelor,” he greeted warmly, eyes filled with hidden amusement as he shifted his stance, curious eyes falling briefly towards you.

“Oberyn,” Baelor answered with equal politeness.

“You look well.”

“I was about to return the compliment.” Baelor straightened quietly, head cooking to the side.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “You changed your mind?”

“I remembered where you had been.”

Silence settled between them, you felt yourself frown quietly, shifting as Baelor's mismatched eyes briefly flickered towards you.

Then Oberyn laughed, the rich, unrestrained sound echoed easily through the hall. “It would seem rumours travel faster than I do.”

“They needn't travel,” Baelor replied evenly. “You were thoughtful enough to bring the evidence with you.”

Curious, Oberyn glanced down at himself before discovering the faint crimson imprint staining the edge of his collar.

His laughter only deepened. “So I did.”

You looked from one prince to the other, sensing a tension unlike ordinary dislike.

It was something infinitely more dangerous.

Two men who recognised capability when they saw it and men who respected one another's intelligence and who trusted the other's judgement about as far as either could throw the Red Keep itself.

Without drawing attention to the gesture, Baelor's arm settled securely around your waist.

The movement was slow enough to appear entirely natural.

He drew you just a little closer until your shoulder rested comfortably against his side.

Not for the benefit of the watching court.

Not to parade possession before curious eyes.

He had never needed such displays.

It was for one man alone.

For Prince Oberyn Martell.

A quiet, unmistakable reminder that the young woman standing beside the heir to the Iron Throne was not merely under his protection.

You were his wife.

And Baelor intended that, from the instant the Red Viper entered the hall until the feast's final candle guttered into darkness, there would not be a single moment in which Oberyn Martell could forget it.

Only after the laughter had faded did Oberyn's attention finally drift from Baelor.

It settled upon you.

The shift was subtle, yet every instinct in the room seemed to sharpen alongside it.

Prince Maekar Targaryen, seated further down the royal table, noticed it at once. Unlike his elder brother, Maekar's displeasure rarely concealed itself behind measured courtesy. His pale violet eyes moved from Oberyn to Baelor, studying the heir with quiet vigilance.

Baelor had not moved, not so much as an inch, yet Maekar knew his brother too well.

The rigid line of his shoulders. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The hand still resting at your waist, steady enough to appear relaxed, though Maekar knew the strength contained within it.

Oberyn smiled as though the silence belonged entirely to him. “So,” he said, turning fully towards you, “this is the lady who has stolen the heart of the Dragon Prince.”

His dark eyes lingered only long enough to admire, never straying into outright impropriety, though there was an unmistakable warmth behind them.

“My sister neglected to mention that her gooddaughter possesses such remarkable beauty.”

Before you could think to respond, Oberyn reached gently for your hand, the movement was graceful, almost courtly. His fingers barely enclosed yours as he bowed his head, pressing a light kiss against your knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”

Heat blossomed across your cheeks almost instantly, as no man save your husband had ever greeted you with such effortless confidence.

Flustered, you offered a timid smile before instinctively drawing your hand back towards yourself, your fingers curling against your skirts as though uncertain what to do with the attention.

“Th... thank you, my prince,” you murmured, your voice scarcely louder than the music surrounding the feast.

Oberyn's smile softened. “Shy,” he observed lightly. “How refreshing.”

Before another word could leave his lips, Baelor spoke. “My wife blushes easily.”

Oberyn noticed that innocence almost immediately and Baelor Targaryen noticed the lingering amusement that remained in his uncle's eyes as they followed you like a viper scenting something delicious to sink it's fangs within.

Yet beneath those few words rested an unmistakable message.

Oberyn met Baelor's gaze again and for a heartbeat, neither man spoke and then, with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, the Dornish prince released the matter entirely, lifting his goblet instead.

“As you say, Baelor.”

Across the table, Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose. The storm had not broken.

But it had certainly announced its arrival, and Maekar suspected that this visit would only awaken something in his brother he was not comfortable naming.

The conversation lingered only a little longer before the weariness of the evening finally settled upon your shoulders.

You turned towards your husband, your expression softening as his attention immediately shifted from the gathering back to you.

“My love,” you murmured quietly.

Baelor inclined his head, lowering it enough that only you might be heard. “Yes?”

“I believe I have had enough of feasts for one evening.”

The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “I feared as much.”

You smiled in return, leaning close enough to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. It was a fleeting gesture, tender and entirely unselfconscious. “I should like to retire.”

His hand instinctively tightened at your waist. “I shall accompany you.”

“There is no need,” you assured him softly, laying your hand over his. “Remain a little longer. Your father will expect the heir beside him, especially now that Prince Oberyn has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Baelor frowned.

“I would rather see you safely to our chambers.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I am hardly embarking upon a perilous journey. The Red Keep is full of guards, and I know the halls better than most.”

For a long moment he simply looked at you.

There was reluctance in his eyes, protectiveness and then, with visible effort, he relented. “If anything delays you…”

“I shall send for you.”

“If anyone troubles you…”

“I shall send for you.”

“And if Oberyn wanders the corridors…”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “I shall most certainly send for you.”

That, at last, earned the faintest smile from him. “You have my leave to retire, then.”

“As though I required it,” you teased gently. His answering look was one of fond exasperation.

You squeezed his hand once before offering respectful farewells to the king and queen. With your ladies trailing behind, you slipped from the warmth and noise of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind you until the music became little more than a distant murmur.

Your absence did not go unnoticed.

Oberyn watched the doors for a thoughtful moment before lazily swirling the wine within his goblet and only when several heartbeats had passed did he glance back toward Baelor.

A slow, knowing smile spread across the Dornish prince's face. “I confess,” Oberyn said conversationally, as though remarking upon the quality of the wine, “I had expected you to follow her.”

Baelor met his gaze without expression, “My wife wished to retire.”

“And you obeyed.”

“I respected her wishes.”

“Hm.” Oberyn took an unhurried sip of wine before resting his elbow upon the table, “Tell me something.”

No one missed the change in his tone.

Prince Maekar's attention sharpened immediately.

Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest instant.

King Daeron sighed quietly into his cup as Oberyn's dark eyes never left Baelor.

“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife?” he asked with infuriating casualness. “Or does the knowledge of having such a young woman at his side temper even your legendary stamina? I must admit, I thought your blushing wife would be older. Not such a spirited little thing.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

A goblet stopped halfway to a lord's lips.

Somewhere near the musicians, a serving girl froze where she stood. Maekar slowly set his cup upon the table with a deliberate clink.

His stare fixed upon Oberyn with open disbelief. “...Have you truly decided,” Maekar said at last, his voice low and edged with warning, “that provoking my brother in the king's own hall is a sensible use of your evening?”

Baelor did not answer immediately.

He remained perfectly still, one hand resting upon the arm of his chair, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for indifference by anyone who did not know him.

Those who did knew better.

His silence was rarely empty.

It was the silence of a man deciding precisely how much restraint the moment deserved. “You speak boldly of another man's wife,” Baelor finally admitted, setting down his own goblet, “especially mine.”

Oberyn's gaze sharpened, intrigued. “I wonder if you fuck her like you used to fight,” he said, voice dropping lower. “All that raw power unleashed without mercy.”

Baelor bristled, jaw tightening, fingers curling against the armrest.

Oberyn muttered, almost to himself but loud enough for the table to hear, “A young thing like her should know the beast beneath his skin.”

Oberyn leaned in closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a dagger. “You think she fears your wrath, Baelor? Or is it the quiet storm you carry that unsettles her?” His voice was silk and steel, designed to wound and provoke.p

Before Baelor could respond, Queen Myriah Martell’s voice cut through the charged air, firm and commanding. “Enough, Oberyn. Your words serve only to inflame what peace we have left. Do not tempt the dragon further.”

Oberyn’s smirk flickered, a shadow of respect crossing his features as he glanced at his sister, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim.

Baelor rose abruptly, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor, a storm brewing in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides—every muscle taut with barely contained fury.

But before he could move, Maekar stepped forward with calm authority, placing a steadying hand on Baelor’s arm. “This is not the moment, Baelor. Temper your fire, or you risk burning those you care for most.” His voice was a grounded force, steadying the tempest ready to break loose.

Baelor’s breath hitched, the tension coiling within him fought down by Maekar’s timely intervention. Slowly, he sank back into his seat, eyes locked on Oberyn with a dangerous promise lingering in their depths.

The room exhaled collectively, the fragile balance restored for now, yet the undercurrents of rivalry and restraint thrummed just beneath the surface.

Baelor’s voice dropped low, hard as steel. “Silence your tongue, Oberyn, lest I cut it from your mouth.” His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a clear warning that his patience was threadbare.

Oberyn laughed, a rich, dark sound that filled the room with defiance. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Tell me, Baelor,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper yet carrying venom, “have you ever truly lost control… in fucking her?”

The question hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, daring Baelor to confront the chaos beneath his carefully maintained restraint.

Baelor’s breath hitched, the room suddenly tighter, heavier, as silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken truths and raw challenge.

Baelor’s chair flew backward with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sudden movement shattering the tense quiet. For a brief, electrifying moment, his mismatched eyes, one piercing blue, the other a deep, restless brown, darkened, shadows flickering across their depths like storms brewing beneath calm seas.

“I pray that you take this moment and reflect on how close you were to losing that tongue of yours, for one more fucking words and I shall deprave your whores from singing songs of it.”

A low growl rumbled from deep within him, raw and guttural, barely held in check. Without another word, Baelor turned sharply and strode from the room, his departure leaving a charged silence hanging in the air, words left unsaid, emotions unleashed in his absence.

The tension lingered palpably, a fragile calm on the edge of eruption.

Baelor’s steps slowed as he made his way through the corridors, Oberyn’s mocking words echoing relentlessly in his mind. The sharpness of the insult cut deeper than he cared to admit, stirring a storm of anger, doubt, and something darker, an uneasy introspection he wasn’t prepared to face.

When he reached the shared chambers, Baelor hesitated at the threshold, the weight of his own turmoil pressing down on him. Then, as if drawn by some silent need, he stepped inside, the world narrowing until it was only you and the churning emotions he could no longer keep at bay.

The chamber door clicked shut behind him, the iron latch settling into its cradle with a sound that felt louder than a war horn. Baelor stood with his back to the oak, his knuckles still white from the grip he'd kept on his sword hilt all the way from the hall, from the moment Oberyn's smirk had curled around those words and slid them into his chest like a Viper's fang.

“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife? Or does the knowledge of having a young woman at his side temper his sexual stamina? Do you ever lose control in fucking her?”

The question had been poison wrapped in silk, delivered with that Dornish lilt that made everything sound like a joke at someone else's expense.

His hand was still shaking. He could feel the tremor climbing from his fingers into his wrist, the residue of a rage that had no battlefield to spend itself on.

Across the chamber, the window seat caught the last light of dusk. You sat there, your hair spilling over your shoulder in a loose braid, the red of your gown pooling around you like a promise. “Baelor? You are shaking.”

You were reading, or had been. The small leather-bound volume rested open on your knee, your finger marking the page, but your eyes were already on him. They were always already on him, as if you sensed the exact moment he crossed the threshold, as if some invisible thread between them tugged at your attention whenever he drew near.

You rose without a word. “Do not,” Baelor murmured quietly, mismatched eyes ablaze with unrestrained fury, “do not come any closer.”

The movement was unhurried, unafraid as your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you crossed to him through the amber glow of the fire, your gown whispering against your ankles, “What has made you so upset?”

The candle on the sill guttered and steadied. The room smelled of beeswax and the faint lavender you kept in a sachet beneath your pillow, the scent that had become, in the two years of their marriage, the scent of home. Of safety and the one place in this court of knives where he did not have to be the Breakspear or the Hammer.

Your palm settled flat against the leather over his heart, “Is it Prince Oberyn? Has he said something?”

Through the boiled hide, through the wool beneath, you must have felt the thrum of his pulse, still too fast, still hunting for an enemy that was not here.

Your voice was quiet, not a whisper, you never whispered, not even in the godswood, but pitched for his ears alone, a current that flowed under the noise of the world and found him every time. You said it without accusation, without concern. Just a fact, laid out between them like a piece on a cyvasse board, waiting to see what he would do with it.

He caught your wrist, “I despise that man. He is my mother's brother, but he does not think when he provokes me.” The grip was firm enough to hold you there, to stop your hand from moving, but he could feel the delicate bones beneath his fingers, the flutter of your own pulse against his callused palm.

He had never touched you with those hands the way he wanted to. He had been so careful. Two years of gentleness, of holding you like you were made of glass, of pulling every blow before it landed. Every night they shared, he had kept himself leashed, had loved you with a tenderness that left him aching and unfinished, had fallen asleep with his hands fisted in the sheets to stop them from gripping you too hard.

You had never complained. You had only ever looked at him with those warm eyes and said I am here, and he had wanted to tell you that was the problem, that he had killed men who looked at him the way you had looked at him, that the hunger you woke in him was the same hunger he fed on battlefields, and he did not know how to separate the two.

But he had never said it. He had only held you gently, night after night, and felt the leash grow thinner.

Tonight, Oberyn had snapped it.

You did not pull your wrist free, nor did you flinch when you held his gaze, your gaze calm steady and unmoved, “What did he say to you?”

“He wanted to know whether I fuck you like I fight? If I know how to make you scream,” Baelor's breath hitched when you reached up and unlaced the throat of your gown, the fabric parting to reveal the column of your throat, leaving the skin bare and visible, the pulsing beat of your heart vulnerable, “if I hammer into you like a dragon given flesh.”

You took his hand, the one he had wrapped around your wrist and lifted it.

His fingers splayed across your throat. He could feel the weight of your head in his palm, the fragile architecture of your spine, the flutter of your pulse against the calluses of his sword hand. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and his hand covered almost the entire breadth of your neck.

He could close his hand. He could squeeze. He could —

“I am not afraid of you,” you said. “Husband.”

The word cracked something in his chest. The leash he had held for two years snapped in a single breath, and the hunger that had been pacing behind it, patient and starved, surged forward.

He bent and took your mouth like a man starved.

There was nothing gentle about it. His free hand fisted in your hair and he yanked your head back, opening your throat to his mouth. “Gods,” you gasped against his lips, a sound that was not quite a surprise, and he swallowed it, licked into your mouth, took everything you offered and demanded more, “Baelor.”

You gave it.

Your hands came up, not to push him away, but to grip the leather of his doublet, to hold him closer. Your nails scraped against the stitching, and the small sound you made, low, hungry, wanting, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock, “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me now.”

He walked you backward, each step a claim as his body pressed against yours, the solid bulk of him driving you across the room until your spine met the carved oak of the bedpost and you had nowhere left to go, “I have been afraid. I have been afraid of breaking you, of wanting to fuck you without the gentleness.”

The post dug into your shoulder blades, and he pinned you there, his hips grinding against yours, letting you feel exactly how hard he was, how long he had been hard for you, how much of that hunger he had been hiding.

His hand was still on your throat, he did not squeeze, “That man has sunk his fangs into me, poured poison into my veins and I cannot stop thinking about proving that I am capable of not being the man the realm adores, I want to show you I can pleasure you in ways I never have before.” Baelor felt the shape of it beneath his palm, the temptation of it, the way your pulse beat against his fingers like a small animal trusting him not to close his hand.

“Is that what you want, my sweet husband? Do you wish to fuck me?”

The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you that he had kept you separate, had protected you from the part of him that broke across the battlefield. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable, and you were looking at him with those eyes like you already knew the answer and were waiting for him to find the courage to speak it.

He pressed his thumb against the hollow of your throat, felt you swallow against the pressure. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a confession. “I should not, but the thought of what he had said, what he had made me feel, it unlocked something in me and I cannot,” he shook his head, kissed you once more, grinding against you, because this was not who he was, this was not the Baelor you had come to love and cherish. “I will frighten you.”

You reached up and covered his hand with yours, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. “You won't.”

Something in him wanted to argue, but you were looking at him, steady and unbroken, and your grip on his hand was not a plea, it was a dare.

He took it.

His other hand found the lacings of your gown, and he pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound of parting seams, sliding from your shoulders to puddle at your feet. You wore nothing beneath it, you never did, not when it was only him and the firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, the soft curves of your body laid bare for him.

He stepped back just long enough to tear at his own clothes. The leather doublet hit the floor, then the linen tunic beneath, then the laces of his breeches. He was already hard, his cock curving up against his stomach, and the sight of you, naked, flushed, wanting, made him ache in a way that was almost painful.

He pushed you back against the bedpost, one hand bracing against the wood beside your head, the other finding your hip and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing harder than he ever had, and you moaned.

Not a whimper.

A groan, low and hungry, that vibrated through your chest and into his.

He dropped to his knees, the shift was sudden, and you looked down at him with wide eyes, the question forming on your lips. But he did not wait for it. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the skin of your thigh warm against his ear, and he pressed his mouth to the curls between your legs.

You gasped.

He had done this before, of course he had, every time they coupled he had knelt between your thighs and worshipped you until you shook, but never like this.

Never with teeth.

Never with the edge of hunger that made his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. He licked into you, broad strokes of his tongue that parted your folds and found the bud of your clit, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, holding him there.

He did not need the encouragement.

He ate you like a man who had been starved. “Fuck!” Tongue flat and wide, pressing into you, lapping at the wet heat of you. You were already slick, your arousal spilling onto his chin, and the taste of you, salt and something darker, something that was only you drove him further.

He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk, and he pressed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your clit and circled hard.

“Baelor —”

Baelor didn't let you finish. He swallowed the sound of his name, his mouth clamping down on you with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He wasn't just tasting you anymore, he was claiming you, his tongue driving deep into your soaking heat, mimicking the rhythmic thrust of a cock.

The sensation was overwhelming, the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the brutal pressure of his thumb grinding against your clit. He was relentless, his movements fast and hungry, pushing you toward a ledge you hadn't even realized you were approaching. Every time your hips bucked, trying to escape the intensity or pull him closer, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, marking you as his.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, the words muffled against your pussy. He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to let the cool air hit your drenched folds, before he lunged back in.

This time, he used his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and then he sank his teeth lightly into the plump flesh of your labia. You shrieked, your back arching off the surface beneath you, your fingers clawing desperately at his scalp. The pain was a thin, sharp line that only served to heighten the pleasure, turning the arousal into something jagged and desperate.

He felt you begin to tremble, the tell-tale rhythmic pulsing of an impending climax. Baelor sensed it, and he doubled his efforts. He abandoned the teasing and went for the kill, his tongue flattening out to lap at you in broad, greedy strokes while his thumb maintained a punishing, circular friction on your clit.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. “Give it all to me.”

The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the heat, the wetness, and the sheer force of his hunger. You felt the tension snap. A violent shudder ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of blinding white heat.

Your internal muscles clamped tight around his tongue, milking him as you sobbed his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his face.

Baelor didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking in every drop of your release, his tongue continuing to flick and probe your sensitive depths even as you collapsed, shaking and spent, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. He looked up at you then, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes dark and predatory, showing no sign that he was finished with you.

His name on your lips, broken and desperate, and he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it until you screamed it.

He pulled back, his chin slick with you, his eyes dark and hungry. “More,” he said, and it was not a question. “I want more.”

You did not argue. You let him stand, let him guide you away from the bedpost and toward the bed, let him push you down onto the tangled furs face-first.

The breath left you in a huff as you landed, your hair spilling across the pillows, your ass raised in the air because that was how he had put you.

He climbed onto the bed behind you.

His hands found your hips, yanking you back toward him, and you went willingly, your knees spreading, your back arching. The sight of you, open, wet, waiting, made his cock throb, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip.

He did not make you wait.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he pushed in without warning. The sound you made, a sharp, keening cry, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. You were tight, so tight, your body clenching around him as he buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.

He stilled, just for a moment, his forehead dropping to the curve of your spine. You were hot and wet and his, and the feeling of you around him, yielding but not broken, was almost too much.

The stretch was a burn that melted into pure, blinding pleasure. He felt every inch of you yield, your walls rippling, trying to accommodate his girth, then gripping him as if to pull him deeper, letting you feel the fullness, the way his cock pulsed inside you, a second heartbeat buried in your warmth.

Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, leaving only the tip nestled between your folds. You whined, your hips pushing back, chasing the friction, but he held you there, teasing. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched your pussy cling to him, glistening and desperate. He slammed back in.

This time, the sound was a wet, slapping noise that echoed in the room. Your body jolted forward onto the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets. He followed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, and he fucked into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.

“That’s it my sweet girl, take it.”

Each stroke hit that sweet spot deep inside, the one that made your toes curl. Your moans turned into broken words please, yes, don't stop spilling from your lips like a prayer. He answered by wrapping a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive claim, while his other hand found your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts, driving you higher, pulling you toward that edge.

Your body began to tremble, your walls fluttering around his cock. He felt the telltale squeeze, the way your breath hitched, and he pushed harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own.

When you came, it was with a scream that dissolved into a sob, your cunt clenching in waves, milking him. He buried his face in your hair, groaning, and let go, pumping his cum deep into you, each pulse a hot rush that seemed to go on forever.

When he finally stilled, your bodies were slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the quiet. He stayed buried inside you, softening, unwilling to let go just yet.

But Baelor Targaryen was not done.

His hips slammed against you once more, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber, and you took every inch of him, your body riding the force of his need. He reached around and found your clit, rubbing hard circles as he fucked into you, and you bucked against his hand, a stream of wordless sounds falling from your lips.

He pulled out and flipped you onto your back before you could gasp for breath, your legs falling open, and he settled between them, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance once more. This time, he held your gaze.

This time, his hand found your throat.

He wrapped his fingers around your neck, not squeezing, but just resting there, a reminder of the power he held, the trust you had given him.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

Your eyes locked onto his, steady, unafraid, burning with the same heat that was consuming him.

He pushed inside you.

His hand tightened on your throat as he filled you, a ring of pressure around your neck that you did not fight. Your body arched, your mouth falling open, and the sound you made, a moan that was almost a sob, was the surrender he had not known he needed.

He fucked you like that. His hand on your throat, your gaze locked on his, each thrust driving him deeper into you, deeper into the trust you had laid bare. Your hands came up to grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To guide his pressure. To tell him, without words, that you were his to take, and that you wanted to be taken.

The orgasm built in him like a wave, cresting toward a shore he had kept at a distance for two years. He wanted to hold it back, to stay inside you forever, but you clenched around him, your body shuddering as you came, a sharp, broken cry of his name and the wave broke.

He emptied into you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours as his release poured into you in hot pulses. He collapsed against you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body sheened with sweat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The fire crackled, the candle guttered. His hand was still on your throat, but the pressure had gentled, his thumb stroking the hollow where your pulse beat steady and alive.

“I did not break,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips brushing his temple.

He laughed. A broken sound, almost a sob. “No.”

“I told you.”

He lifted his head and looked down at you. The shadows from the fire carved his face into planes of light and dark, and in his mismatched eyes there was something raw, not a fear conquered, but a door left open. “I know.”

Your hand came up to cup his cheek. You felt the tremor still running through him, the aftershock of everything he had held back for so long. “Come back to me,” you had said softly. “You do not have to be gentle. But I need you here.”

He turned his head and kissed your palm. “I am here.”

He pulled out of you slowly, the loss of heat making you shiver. The sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the evidence of your fucking, and the sight of you, marked, satisfied, whole, sent a quiet satisfaction through him that was nothing like battle.

He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your hair spilled across his arm, and you sighed, a sound of contentment that he had not earned but that you gave him anyway.

The door was still closed.

But here, in this chamber, with your pulse steady beneath his palm and your body warm against his, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen felt the leash he had worn for two years fall away — and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a second sword, that he would never pick it up again.

His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat, not hard enough to block, hard enough to feel the slow drum of your pulse beneath the pad of his finger, steady now, no longer the rabbit-fast flutter of before, but something deeper, more settled. The rhythm of a woman who had been taken and was not sorry for it.

You lay against him, your back to his chest, as the fire had burned low, casting the chamber in a dim orange glow that made the shadows long and soft. The damp sheets clung to your skin, and the air between you was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the lavender that lived in your pillow.

He traced the line of your throat with his thumb, following the column down to the dip at its base, then back up to the angle of your jaw. You sighed at the touch, a sound of pure contentment, and tilted your head back to give him more access. Like a cat offering its throat to a trusted hand.

The question sat at the back of his throat, heavy as a stone.

He had never asked for it. In two years of careful nights, of holding himself back, of pulling every blow before it landed, he had never once spoken the words that had paced behind his teeth like a caged animal. He had been afraid of what you would say. Afraid of what you would think of him for asking. Afraid that the asking itself would crack something between them that could not be mended.

But you had met him tonight with your throat bared and your trust unbroken, you had looked at the beast he kept leashed and had not flinched. You had told him you were not afraid and then you had proved it, taking every inch of his hunger and returning it with your own.

His thumb stilled.

He felt his own pulse in his temples, a thrum that matched the slow beat beneath his hand. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the curve of your spine against his chest, the warmth of your ass against his spent cock, the way your fingers had curled loosely around his forearm where it crossed your waist.

“Sweet girl,” your name followed and it came out rough, scraped raw by the thing he was trying to give shape to. You did not open your eyes, but you hummed, a small sound that meant I am listening.

He pressed his thumb into the hollow of your throat again, just resting there, a reminder of where his hand had been, of what you had let him do.

“There is a question I have never asked you.”

You opened your eyes then and turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight, and your hand came up to cover his where it rested on your throat. Your fingers were warm, your grip gentle but present.

“Ask it now,” you had said quietly, not a command, not a plea. Just an opening, held steady for him to step into.

He looked at the shadows on the ceiling. At the canopy of the bed, dark velvet that had witnessed every night of his careful restraint. He thought of Oberyn's smirk, of the way the words had slid into his chest and found the fear he had been carrying since the day he first held you in his arms.

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

The words fell into the silence between you like stones into still water. You feel the ripple of them move through your chest, through your hand where it rests on his throat, through the air that suddenly seems too thin to fill your lungs.

You do not stiffen. You do not pull away.

You are still for a long moment, your amber eyes fixed on some point in the darkness beyond the firelight. Your hand remains over his, warm and steady. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb, still slow, still even. You are thinking. Turning the question over, tasting it, finding the shape of your answer.

“I have thought about it,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he almost misses it. “I have wondered what it would be like. Not in fear as I have never feared you, Baelor. But I have wondered.”

His throat tightens. The air in the room feels heavier, denser, pressing against his chest from the inside.

“What did you wonder?”

You shift in his arms, turning fully to face him. The movement brings your body flush against his, your breasts pressing to his chest, your thighs sliding against his. Your hand falls from his throat to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost cruel after the question you just asked.

“I wondered what it would feel like,” you say, “to be marked by you. To carry proof of your wanting on my skin.”

Something in his chest cracks open. A door he has kept barred with two years of gentleness, of careful hands and measured hunger, swings wide on its hinges.

“It is not the pain I want,” you continue, your voice still soft, still steady, your eyes holding his mismatched ones in the dim light. “It is you in it. The part of you that you hide from everyone. The part that fights and kills and comes home with blood on your hands and tries to wash it off before you touch me.”

He flinches.

You had named something he had never spoken aloud, and your hand on his jaw held him there, would not let him look away.

“I want that part of you too,” you said. “I want him in our bed. I want him to take me.”

His hand found your hip, gripping it hard enough that you gasped, a small sound, not pain, not quite surprise. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, and you did not pull away. You leaned into it, your eyes darkening, your breath catching.

“He would not be gentle,” Baelor said, and his voice was not his own. It was lower, rougher, the voice he used on the training ground, the one that made squires flinch.

“I know.”

“He would leave marks.”

“Show me.”

The words hit him like a blow, but not one that hurt. One that woke something in him that had been sleeping too long. He rolled, pinning you beneath him in a single sharp movement, his weight settling over you, his thighs parting yours.

You looked up at him, your hair spilled across the pillow, your lips parted, your amber eyes bright and unafraid. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, and there was no hesitation in your face.

His hand found your throat again. This time, he squeezed.

Not hard.

A test.

A question asked through his fingers. Your eyes widened, just a fraction and your mouth fell open, a soft sound escaping you, not out of distress but rather something in between, something that looked like surrender and tasted like trust.

His grip tightened, “Fuck, sweet girl. You should not allow me to do such things to you.”

The pressure was deliberate, measured, a slow closing of his hand around the column of your neck. He watched your face as he did it, watched the way your breath caught, the way your pulse beat against his palm, the way your pupils blew wide until your eyes were nearly black.

You did not fight. Your hands came up, but they did not push at his wrist. They settled on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the muscle there, holding him.

“Tell me if—” he started.

“I will.” Your voice was thinner, compressed by the pressure on your throat, but steady. “I will tell you.”

He believed you.

He held you there, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his hand a ring of pressure around your neck. The moment stretched, taut and electric, and he could feel everything, your breath against his wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the slight tremor in your thighs where they bracketed his hips.

He bent and kissed you.

It was not gentle, his mouth hard on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hand held your throat. You made a sound against his mouth, a muffled moan that vibrated through your chest and into his, and your nails scraped across his shoulders.

He released your throat. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the plane of your stomach to the thatch of curls between your legs. You were slick again, your body ready for him even after everything you had already done, and the discovery of it, that you still wanted him, that you were still open and wet and hungry sent a pulse of heat through his blood.

He pushed two fingers into you without warning.

You cried out, your back arching, your head pressing into the pillow. He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure.

“Look at me,” he said.

Your eyes opened. Dark, dazed, fixed on his.

“You want me to hurt you?”

You nodded, a jerky motion.

“Then beg for it.”

The words hung between you, heavy and charged. He saw the flicker in your eyes, not fear, but something like surprise, as if you had not expected him to ask for that. As if you had expected him to simply take, to show you the beast without making you name it.

But he needed to hear it. He needed to know that this was what you wanted, not just something you were willing to endure. He needed you to speak the wanting aloud, so that he could believe it.

You swallowed. Your throat moved beneath his gaze. Your hand found his wrist, not to pull it away, but to grip it, your fingers tight on his skin.

“Please,” you said.

Your voice was small, but not weak. It was the voice of someone stepping off a ledge, trusting that they would be caught.

“Please hurt me. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sound that went straight to his cock. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick with your wanting.

He did not push in.

He held himself there, at the threshold, his eyes locked on yours. His hand found your throat again, his fingers curling around the soft column of your neck. The trust in your gaze was absolute, terrifying, beautiful.

“Remember,” he said, his voice low, “you asked for this.”

He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion. Your body clenched around him, a sharp cry breaking from your lips, and his hand tightened on your throat, not cutting off your air, but pressing, a constant pressure that reminded you who was taking you.

He fucked you like he meant to leave a mark.

Each thrust was deep, punishing, the angle driving him into you with a force that made the bed frame groan. His hand stayed on your throat, and he watched your face, watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your mouth stayed open on silent gasps, the way your body surrendered to every drive of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake. He grunted at the sting, and it only made him fuck you harder.

He released your throat and caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, one of his hands spanning both of your small bones. You were trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the sight of you, spread open, marked, wanting, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Mine,” he said, the word torn from his chest.

“Yours,” you gasped, and the word was a prayer. “Baelor, please more.”

Baelor releases his grip on your wrists, “Gods, sweet girl,” he leans down and kisses you with such fierceness, his restraint snapping, and then his fingers curl around and tighten around your throat and then his other hand grips your jaw, smushing your cheeks together. “You want me to hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Baelor didn't hesitate. The word "yes" was the only permission he needed to strip away the last remnants of his control. He slammed his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you with a violent force that knocked the wind from your lungs. He didn't give you a second to recover before he ripped himself out and drove back in, the wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting your ass echoing through the room.

His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing your mouth open, stretching your lips wide. He wanted to see every flicker of pain and pleasure crossing your face. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, brutal intensity, each thrust designed to bottom out against your cervix, jarring your entire frame.

“You're a pathetic little thing, aren't you?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Begging for it. Begging for me to break you.”

He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even further, exposing your soaking pussy to the harsh light and his hungry gaze. The change in angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock stretching your walls to their absolute limit. You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand crushing your face, your eyes rolling back as the friction ignited a fire in your core.

He released your jaw only to slide his hand back down to your throat. He didn't just press this time, he squeezed, his thumb digging into the side of your neck, cutting off the air just enough to make your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you have craved?”

The oxygen deprivation heightened every sensation, making the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you feel like electric shocks.

You thrashed beneath him, your hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet his punishing pace. He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound, and increased the speed. He was no longer just fucking you, he was conquering you. He hammered into you, his movements frantic and raw, the bed sliding across the floor with every violent shove.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release.

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated dominance. He saw the desperation in your gaze, the way you were completely undone by him, and it pushed him over the edge.

He let out a guttural roar, his hand tightening one last time around your throat as he delivered a final, devastatingly deep thrust. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside you, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.

As he collapsed onto you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, he didn't let go of your throat immediately. He lingered there, feeling your pulse race under his palm, ensuring you knew exactly who owned every inch of your shaking body.

You followed a moment later, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shuddering through a climax that pulled a broken cry from your lips.

The room was warm and dark and smelled of you.

He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comfort rather than a demand.

“I did not hurt you too much,” he said. It was not a question, but it was. A plea, wrapped in a statement.

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the dark strands, stroking with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

“You gave me exactly what I asked for,” you said. “And you were still here, the whole time.”

He lifted his head. Your skin was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes soft and glazed with satisfaction. There were red marks on your throat where his hand had been, fingerprints blooming like dark flowers on your pale skin.

He touched them with his fingertips, featherlight. You did not flinch.

“I will have to cover those,” you said, and there was a smile in your voice. “The gowns I wear to court do not come high enough.”

A laugh escaped him, rough, surprised, almost a sob. He dropped his forehead to yours, your breath mingling in the space between.

“I am sorry,” he said, but you shook your head.

“Do not be sorry. I am not, perhaps Prince Oberyn will now know that the formidable Breakspear does indeed hammer his wife.”

You held his gaze, steady and certain. Your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

“You are mine, Baelor. All of you. And I want all of you. Not the version you keep gentle for the court. Not the one you wash the blood off before you touch me. All of you.”

He closed his eyes. Let the words settle into his bones, into the places that had been hollow and guarded and afraid.

When he opened them again, something in him was quieter. Not tamed, never tamed but no longer fighting itself.

“And if I want to hurt you again?” he asked.

You smiled. A small, knowing curve of your lips that held no fear, only welcome.

“Then you will ask me first. And I will tell you yes. Or I will tell you no. And you will listen.”

It was not a demand. It was a promise, an agreement, forged in the space between his hunger and your trust.

“And if you say no?” he asked.

“Then you will be gentle with me, as you always have been. And I will love you in the gentleness, and wait for the next time you ask.”

The word hit him in the chest like a war hammer.

Love.

You had said it before, in quiet moments, in the dark of your bed, but never like this. Never as an anchor, holding him steady in the storm of his own wanting.

He kissed you. Soft, this time. A promise sealed with lips and breath.

The quiet settled around you like a held breath. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a deep amber glow that made the shadows long and soft. He was still inside you, softening, the heat between you slowly cooling as your breathing steadied.

His hand had fallen from your throat to rest on your chest, palm flat over your heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath your skin.

You were watching him. He could feel your gaze on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips were still parted from the force of his release. Your hand came up, not to his face this time, but to his hand on your chest, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your heartbeat.

“There is more,” you said. Not a question. A statement, delivered with the same calm certainty you used to name the weather.

He looked at you. Your eyes were steady, unafraid, and there was something in them that had not been there before tonight, a knowledge, a hunger that had been awakened and was not yet sated.

“You are still hard,” you said, and your lips curved in that small, dangerous smile he was beginning to recognize. Not the smile of the gentle wife who greeted him at court. The smile of the woman who had asked him to hurt her.

He looked down. You were right. His cock, still half-sheathed in your warmth, was stirring again. The sight of you, the marks on your throat, the flush on your chest, the way your body had accepted everything he had given and asked for more was enough to kindle the fire that had barely banked.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was rough, still scraped raw by the confession he had made, the trust you had given.

You shifted beneath him. The movement was small, a subtle roll of your hips that made him slide deeper into you, and you gasped at the sensation.

The feeling of you, still wet, still open, still wanting sent a fresh ache through his blood.

“Then show me,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. “Show me what else you have been holding back.”

He could have taken you again. Could have flipped you onto your stomach and driven into you with the same brutal hunger that had carried him through the last hour. But something in your voice, in the steadiness of your gaze, made him pause.

He had asked you what you wanted, and you had told him. You had begged for it. Now you were asking him for more, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the same quiet courage you had shown every time you bared your throat to his hand.

He wanted to give you something you had never had. Something that would show you that his hunger was not only a beast to be unleashed, that it could be shaped, directed, used to carry you somewhere new.

He pulled out of you slowly. You made a small sound at the loss, a whimper that he felt in his chest. But you did not protest. You watched him, your eyes tracking his movements as he shifted away from you, as he sat back on his heels between your spread thighs.

The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin was flushed, your hair a tangled halo on the pillow, your breasts rising and falling with each breath. The marks on your throat were dark against your pale skin, fingerprints that would take days to fade. You were beautiful. You were his.

He reached for your hand. You gave it without hesitation, your small fingers wrapping around his, and he guided you, gently, turning you onto your side.

You went willingly, your body moving with his direction, your back curving as you settled onto your hip. He moved behind you, the solid wall of his chest pressing against your spine, his thighs slotting against the backs of yours. You were warm and soft and yielding, and the position was familiar, he had held you like this a hundred times in the quiet of your bed, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist.

But this time, his other hand found the nape of your neck.

He guided your head back, gently, your throat arching as you let him move you. His arm came around you, his bicep brushing against your jaw, his forearm settling across your collarbone.

It was a cage, gentle but absolute, his arm forming a ring around your head and throat that you could not easily escape.

“Baelor,” you breathed. Not fear. Curiosity. A question formed on the edge of his name.

“Trust me,” he said, his lips brushing your ear.

You did not answer in words. You relaxed into him. Your spine softened, your head settling into the crook of his arm, your body molding against his as if you had been made to fit there.

His cock was pressed against the curve of your ass, hard again, leaking a bead of moisture that smeared across your skin. He did not enter you.

He held you there, in the cage of his arm, and let you feel the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse against your back. “You are safe,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no edge in it. “You are always safe with me. But I want you to feel something.”

You turned your head, just enough to catch his profile. Your lips were parted, your eyes dark and searching. “What?”

“How it feels to be held by me. Not taken. Held.”

His arm tightened around you. Not enough to hurt, enough to remind you that it was there, that he could close the cage at any moment, that his strength was a constant presence around your neck and head. His hand found your hip, gripping the soft curve of flesh, and he pulled you back against him, the head of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass.

You shivered. A full-body tremor that ran through you and into him, and he felt it in his chest, in the arm that cradled your head, in the hand that gripped your hip.

“I am going to take you like this,” he said. “Slowly. Gently. And you are going to feel every inch of me, from the inside, while my arm stays around your throat.”

Your breath caught. Your hand found his forearm, your fingers curling around the muscle there, holding him as if you were afraid he would disappear.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”

He guided himself to your entrance. The angle was different, your thighs pressed together, and the head of his cock slid against your slick folds, searching for entry.

He found it, the wet heat of your opening and he pushed in, slow, steady, the pressure building as he sank into you inch by inch.

You moaned. A low, trembling sound that vibrated against his arm where it crossed your throat, and he felt it in the curve of his bicep, in the skin of his forearm. You were tight, so tight, and the angle pressed him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting a place that made you gasp and arch against him.

He stilled when he was fully seated. His arm was still around you, his hand gripping your hip, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You were trembling, small shivers running through your body, and your hand had tightened on his forearm until your knuckles were white.

“Breathe,” he said, his lips against your ear. “I am not going anywhere.”

You exhaled. A shaky breath that seemed to carry the tension out of you, and you softened around him, your body accepting the fullness of his presence inside you.

He began to move.

The rhythm was slow. Each thrust was measured, deep, controlled, his hips rolling against you in a steady wave that pushed him into you and pulled him back to the edge before driving forward again.

His arm stayed around your throat, not squeezing, just present, a constant reminder of where he was, of the trust you had placed in his hands.

You made small sounds with each movement. Whimpers, gasps, half-formed words that died in your throat. Your hand stayed on his forearm, gripping, releasing, gripping again, as if you were grounding yourself through the contact.

“Look at me,” he said.You turned your head. The movement brought your cheek against his bicep, your eyes meeting his mismatched ones in the dim light. The angle was awkward, intimate, your face cradled in the crook of his arm as he moved inside you.

“I want to see your face,” he said. “I want to watch you feel this.”

Your lips parted.

A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, and he saw it, the moment the pleasure crested, the moment you surrendered to the slow, steady rhythm of his body inside you.

Your eyes stayed on his, dark and dazed and full of trust.

He fucked you like that for a long time, slow, deep, kissing your brow, swallowing your moans, “You are so good for me,” he would murmur against your skin.

Gentle in a way that was not gentle at all, the gentleness was in the control, in the measured pace, in the arm that held your throat without pressing.

He was giving you the lie of safety, the pretense of softness, while his cock stretched you open, hitting depths you had not known you possessed.

Your breathing changed. Small, quick gasps that came faster and faster, your hips beginning to move against his, chasing something. Your grip on his arm tightened, your nails digging into his skin, and the small sounds you made grew higher, more urgent.

“I am close,” you gasped. “Baelor —”

His arm tightened around your throat.Not enough to cut off your air. Enough to press, enough to remind you who was in control, enough to make you freeze beneath him, your eyes flying wide.

“Not yet,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no cruelty in it. “I want you to feel this longer.”

You whimpered, but you nodded, a small jerk of your head against his arm, and he felt you relax into his control. Your body was a wire drawn taut, trembling on the edge of release, and you held it, waiting for his permission.

He kept the rhythm slow, each thrust pressed him into you, the angle making you gasp, and he watched your face, watched the struggle between surrender and want, the way your lips stayed parted on silent breaths, the way your eyes stayed locked on his.

When he could feel you starting to shake, when your body was trembling so hard that he could feel it in his own, he loosened his hold on your throat.

“Now,” he said.

You came apart.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your cry sharp and broken as you rode the release. He watched your face through it, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your mouth opened on a silent scream, the way your body arched and bucked against him, taking every inch of his cock as you pulsed around him.

He did not let you recover.

He pulled out of you, the sudden loss making you gasp, and he moved before you could draw breath. His hands found your hips, rolling you onto your stomach, and you went willingly, boneless and trembling, your cheek pressed to the pillow, your arms stretched above your head.

He settled behind you, his knees spreading yours, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He did not enter you. He leaned forward, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing your ear.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low growl, ”I am going to stop being gentle, but you need to tell me, my love. You must tell me if it is too much.”

“Gods, please Baelor, fucking use me!”

He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion.You cried out a sharp, keening sound that was not pain but the shock of fullness, the sudden stretch of him driving deep.

He did not pause. He set a rhythm that was punishing, each thrust slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber. “There you go, let them hear who's fucking you.”

The bed frame groaned beneath you, and you took it, your body yielding to every drive of his hips.

“Baelor!”

His hand found your hair, fisting in the strands, and he pulled your head back. Your spine arched, your throat exposed, and he drove into you from behind, the angle deeper, harder, each thrust hitting the place that made you gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.

“You are mine,” he said, the words torn from his chest. “Only mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word broken by the force of his thrusts. “Yours, yours —”

He came with a groan, his release pouring into you in hot pulses, his hips grinding against yours as he emptied himself into you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled by the pillow, your whole self shuddering through the aftershocks.

He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged against your shoulder. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, the slow return of the world beyond the walls of your chamber.

He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his body covering yours, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder.

Your hand found his, your fingers threading through his, and you squeezed.

“Well,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips curving against the pillow. “That was not gentle.”

He laughed, a rough, surprised sound that was almost a sob. “No.”

You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. Your smile was soft, satisfied, and full of love

“I did not want gentle,” you said. “I wanted you.”

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and let the words settle into the hollow places, filling them with something that felt like home.

You turned in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, your body sliding against his as you rolled to face him. The firelight caught the marks on your throat, dark fingerprints blooming like petals on pale skin and he watched your eyes, looking for any flicker of regret.

There was none.

Only warmth, only wanting, only the slow curve of your lips as you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed.

He let you. He let you roll him onto his back, let you settle over his hips, your thighs straddling his, the damp heat of your skin pressing against his half-hard cock.

You were beautiful like this, hair wild, skin flushed, the marks of his hands on your throat like a claim he had not known he needed to make.

“My turn,” you said.Your voice was low, husky, the voice of someone who had been well loved and was not finished. You shifted back, sliding down his body, your lips trailing a path down his chest, over his stomach, your tongue tracing the line of muscle that led to his navel.

He watched you go.

The sight of you, your hair spilling across his thighs, your eyes dark and fixed on his cock made his breath catch. He was already hard again, the blood rising at the sight of your mouth hovering over the tip.

You took him in your hand first. Your fingers wrapped around the base, and you held him there, examining him, your thumb tracing the vein that ran along the underside.

The touch was light, almost clinical, and he felt the ache of it in his balls, in the base of his spine, in the raw need that was already building again.

“I have wanted to do this,” you said, your voice a murmur against his skin, “since the first night you held me.”

Your tongue touched the tip.

A single, deliberate stroke, flat and warm, that tasted the bead of moisture already gathering there. His hips jerked, a reflex he could not control, and you smiled, he felt the curve of your lips against him, before you opened your mouth and took him in.

The heat of your mouth was a shock every time. He had felt it before, of course, you had taken him in your mouth on your wedding night, shy and unsure, and he had let you set the pace, had held himself still while you learned the shape of him.

But this was different.

This was hunger.

This was the woman who had asked him to hurt her, who had met his beast and called it by name, now taking him deep with a confidence that made his vision blur at the edges.

Your head moved, slow and deliberate. Your tongue traced the vein, the ridge, the sensitive spot beneath the head that made his breath stutter. Your hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in time with your mouth, and the wet sounds you made, the small, greedy sounds of a woman who was enjoying herself, filled the chamber.

His hand found your hair, “Gods,” he did not pull. He simply rested it there, his fingers threading through the honey-brown strands, grounding himself in the reality of what was happening.

You looked up at him. Your mouth was stretched around his cock, your lips slick with spit, your eyes meeting his with a question.

He nodded. Just once.

A permission he did not need to speak.

You took him deeper.

The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you did not flinch and that made him throw his head back, “Oh, fuck!”

You held there, your throat working around him, your eyes still on his, and the sight of you, the perfect surrender of your body accepting him, drove a groan from his chest that was almost a sob.You pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock.

Then you went down again. Faster this time. Harder.

Your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth, and the sounds, the wet, obscene sounds of you sucking him, of your throat taking him, of your moaning around his cock, were the most beautiful music he had ever heard.

His hand tightened in your hair. Not to force you, you did not need forcing, but to hold you there, to feel the weight of your commitment, the trust in the way you let him guide you.

He breathed your name, and it was a prayer.

“Gods, that's it, my sweet wife,” he murmured, voice thick with a mixture of longing and relief, as if your presence was the only calm in the storm raging within him.

The moment held a fragile tenderness amid the chaos, a shared sanctuary where unspoken words found their meaning in the smallest of touches.

You responded to Baelor’s urgency with a soft, involuntary moan, the sound blending with his as the intensity of the moment deepened.

When he reached his release, you swallowed it with a gentle, caring motion, a shared expression of trust and intimacy between you.

A moan of your own escaped softly, mingling with the heavy breaths that filled the room, a quiet affirmation of the bond that held you both steady amid the chaos around you.

The space between you was charged, tender, and fierce all at once, a refuge where vulnerability and strength intertwined.

Baelor gathered you into his arms, the fierce tension of moments before softening into something tender and wholly vulnerable. His touch was careful, as if afraid to break the fragile connection you both shared.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours with a delicate reverence. Then, slowly, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans into a quiet, intimate exchange.

The kiss was gentle, lingering, an unspoken promise of healing and devotion amid the turmoil.In his embrace, time seemed to slow, and the chaotic world outside the chambers melted away, leaving only the warmth of your shared breath and the steady beat of two hearts seeking solace in each other.

“I quite liked that side of you,” you murmured, voice low and playful, “hmm, you know what they say. Why ride a horse when you can fuck a dragon.”

For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, the fire in his mismatched eyes flickering with both amusement and something rawer, pride, desire, and an unspoken connection that needed no further words.

He tightened his embrace gently, a quiet affirmation that the dragon within him, fierce and untamed, was yours alone.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Baelor's eyes linger on the bruises on your throat and he strokes your skin, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be, you get to rub it in that slimy viper’s face when he realises you do indeed fuck like you fight.”

“Hmm.”

“Gods, Baelor! Again?!”

“I cannot help that you have awakened the dragon.”

Your laughter spills into the air as Baelor rolls over you again, kissing you, worshipping you, ensuring that despite what had just occurred, you will always be safe with him.

[notlayingroses]

Everything I read about recovering from burnout is like “it takes months or even years to fully recover” and it’s like okay…. I have a weekend before I gotta clock in on Monday

[imagine-darksiders]

[this-actually-is-my-first-rodeo]

I’m full time for a 24/7 7days a week, after-hour healthcare advice call center. I’ve been here for nearly two years now, when I first signed on my manager told me that if I ever wanted to go to college they would help accommodate that/support me.

Oh this too. Just the other week I asked my manager if I could go part time so I could return to school, she said “Unfortunately it’s not in the budget. We are, however, opening per diem positions but they aren’t benefitted. So if that suits you let me know, or if you want to explore other opportunities then we’ll support you.”

And this week? My supervisor thought it was a great idea to schedule me to work nearly a whole shift by myself on a Sunday evening then give me one day off before returning to work today.

They’ll say good job for helping this patient going through a rough time, or good job for bringing up my concerns regarding proper documentation or protocols. Then they’ll say that I’ve been calling in sick too much and that we need to have a talk.

But when it comes down to it, they care about metrics and call volumes. They aren’t the ones in the office talking to countless patients and providers on late nights every weekday and weekend.

I’m thinking about finding a new job, but I will absolutely miss my coworkers. My management? Not so much. Also my role in my specific department doesn’t have a union, but the same position in other departments are.

[leclercsainzz]

may 5th, 2026

hello babes! i was wondering if you could give me some jack abbot fanfic recommendations, please 😭 i need more of him!!

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓

𝟭.) 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗡𝗢 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗔 || @geminiwritten

𝟮.) 𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡’ 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗬 𝗠𝗘 || @robbyology

𝟯.) 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗠𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗘 || @docrobinavitch

𝟰.) 𝗠𝗬 𝗪𝗢(𝗠𝗔𝗡) 𝗢𝗡 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗣𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥 || @miserymorgue

𝟱.) 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗪𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘 || @lovebugism

↳ 𝟲.) 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗞

↳ 𝟳.) 𝗗𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗥 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗥

↳ 𝟴.) 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗕𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗠𝗘

𝟵.) 𝗦𝗨𝗚𝗔𝗥 𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 || @seewhoyouwanttosee

↳ 𝟭𝟬.) 𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗦𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗘

↳ 𝟭𝟭.) 𝗚𝗢 𝗚𝗢 𝗝𝗨𝗜𝗖𝗘

𝟭𝟮.) 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 || @peachyparkerr

𝟭𝟯.) 𝗔𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗙𝗜𝗦𝗛 || @annsfics

𝟭𝟰.) 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗘 || @fromsil

𝟭𝟱.) 𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗛 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @fxckingjo

𝟭𝟲.) 𝗕𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗠 || @spikedfearn

𝟭𝟳.) 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗡𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗦: 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗗 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @s-writing-s

𝟭𝟴.) 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘’𝗦 𝗔 𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗦𝗘 𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗟 || @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

𝟭𝟵.) 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗗 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @itslowkeyatthenightshift

𝟮𝟬.) 𝗗𝗢𝗚’𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗 || @of-apollo

↳ 𝟮𝟭.) 𝗕𝗨𝗗𝗗𝗬 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗦𝗧

𝟮𝟮.) 𝗛𝗜𝗚𝗛 𝗔𝗧 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗘 || @romanticpursuit

𝟮𝟯.) 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 || @andrewmiinyard

— 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝘄 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀. 𝗶’𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗶 𝗴𝗼, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲:) 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗽 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀, 𝗶 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲!!

[oyasumiaikko]

the 4 times dennis hurt you and the one time he couldn’t look away from it anymore

dennis whitaker x fem! reader (one shot) | the pitt ★

wc 9.9k genre hurt to comfort warnings intended lowercase, established relationship, ‘baby’ used as a pet name, jealousy (coming both from dennis and the reader), talks of wanting to break up, arguments, suggestive, swearing, alcohol, reader doesn’t work at PTMC (she’s in college and works part-time as a barista in a coffee shop, major unspecified), whitaker lives with reader instead of santos

summary after treating a patient who later passes away, whitaker grows closer to amy, the man’s widow, a farm girl soon to become a mother. he decides to help her, and your relationship begins to change. you try to be understanding, but over time your unhappiness grows, and dennis continues to overlook it until it becomes impossible to ignore.

author’s note part of this fic is inspired by this fic written by @bitchinbarzal make sure to check it out !! i really liked the setting of that fic and wanted to add my own twist to it. : )

EDIT: part 2 of this fic is in the works, however since it was intended as a oneshot initially, you can still read this story on its own : )

after dennis came home from his first shift at the pittsburgh ER, he was devastated. you welcomed him with a tight hug and let him sink into you on your shared bed.

he had called you from the hospital, saying he’d have to stay longer because of the pittfest shooting, and the entire time you waited, you kept hoping he’d be okay, that the day wouldn’t break him completely.

by the time he finally walked through the door, his expression alone said more than a thousand words ever could. so that night, you simply held him, gently playing with his hair until he fell asleep in your arms. you let him process it all without asking questions. you were there if he needed to talk, but by now you knew him well enough to see when all he really needed was to be held.

the next morning, you woke up a little earlier and went to make him an omelette, his favorite, along with coffee. as you were still preparing everything, you felt two arms wrap around you from behind.

“morning, sleepyhead. you okay?” you murmured softly as he rested his head against your shoulder.

in response, he just nodded, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck, which made you let out a quiet giggle.

“just a few more minutes and you’ll get to eat. if you feel like it, you can tell me about… yesterday,” you whispered.

“i’d like that…” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before letting go and moving to sit at the table.

and then he told you everything. after resting and eating, his cheeks still full of food made with love, he opened up about the patient he lost, about how many times he had to change his scrubs, the rats running around the emergency room, how out of place he felt among all the confident, skilled doctors, and then the tragedy at the end of the day. you just listened, letting him get it all out.

it was also the first time he mentioned amy, though at the time you didn’t think much of it.

he said he was glad he could soothe her, even just a little, but that it was heartbreaking knowing she was carrying the child of someone who would never get to see their baby’s face.

still, it was one of the rare moments he felt truly helpful and useful during the shift, especially when he offered to help her at the farm and her entire demeanor seemed to calm down a little.

you nodded along, thinking it was just something he said in the moment to comfort someone, especially a grieving woman, but as the months passed, you slowly realized that his promise to amy had never been empty at all.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the first time you were left feeling hurt by your sweet dennis was during a weekend.

a lot of time had passed since his first shift, and dennis had changed in a lot of ways. he had grown a mullet, picked up a bit of sass from his colleague trinity santos, who you got along with pretty well whenever you visited dennis at the hospital to drop off lunch or something he had forgotten that day, and overall, it seemed like he had finally found his place in emergency medicine, but with that came more responsibility and less time for the two of you.

if it wasn’t him who was busy, it was you, juggling college classes, assignments, and your part time job all at once. so your dates with denny usually ended up indoors, curled up watching a movie that faded into the background as you either fell asleep or, on better nights, got distracted by each other. dennis always seemed far more interested in your lips and the soft warmth of your body than whatever storyline was playing on the tv anyways.

but this weekend was supposed to be different. for once, both of you were mostly free, and he had promised to take you somewhere fancy. you deserved it, he said. you deserved to be taken care of for once, after all the days you spent taking care of him.

“doll yourself up and leave everything to me. i have to stop by somewhere in the morning, but by four i’ll come get you and we’ll spend a lovely day together, okay?” he had said earlier, while you looked at him with a sleepy smile. he pressed a quick kiss to your lips, lingering just for a second as he admired you, beautiful even like this, soft and unguarded in the morning light, before heading out.

that was hours ago.

now it was already thirty minutes past four. you were sitting in your shared bedroom, your makeup done, your hair styled, dressed in one of your prettiest dresses. it hugged your figure perfectly, always earning you that soft, stunned “wow” from dennis, even though he had seen you wear it countless times. it was his favorite.

but he was nowhere to be seen.

you had called and texted him, but every call went straight to voicemail, and your messages stayed on delivered.

when you thought about it more, a quiet unease settled in your chest. denny hadn’t even told you where he was going. the thought made your stomach twist. did something happen to him?

the longer you waited, the worse it felt. the dress, that made you feel pretty just a little while ago, now felt too tight, pressing against your ribs as your anxiety crept in. your makeup started to feel heavy on your skin, suffocating, and your perfectly styled hair pulled at your scalp until it began to ache.

when you glanced at the clock again, it was already almost six.

and just as you were about to call trinity, ready to fully freak out, you heard the door softly open. you hurried over, only to see dennis by the door, calmly taking off his shoes like nothing had happened.

“hey… sorry i’m late,” he said quietly, his voice a little uneven. then he finally looked up at you.

you just stared at him, trying to process it. this wasn’t like him. he had been late before, sure, but he used to be the one to panic, rushing in, apologizing over and over like the world was ending. now he just stood there.

“you look really pretty,” he added after a second, quieter than usual. no soft “wow” no hint of that familiar warmth. he just sounded kind of tired.

“i’ll take a quick shower and we can still go somewhere. i’ll find a place, i’m sure something’s open…”

“dennis,” you cut in, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. “where were you?”

he paused, clearly not expecting that.

“i told you, i’m sorry. i just got held up—”

“you didn’t respond to me. not once,” you said, stepping closer. “i called you like five times. i had no idea where you were or if something happened. do you get that?”

he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i know, i know. i should’ve texted. it just… got busy.”

“busy where?”

there was a small pause before he answered. “at the farm. with amy.”

you blinked, thrown off. “amy?”

“yeah. she needed help. i thought i’d just stop by for a bit, do something small, but…” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “her baby’s only a few weeks old and she was really overwhelmed. i didn’t feel right just leaving her there like that.”he said it like it was obvious, like it made perfect sense.

“so you stayed. for hours,” you said slowly.

he didn’t answer right away, which was answer enough.

“are you serious right now?” your voice rose before you could stop it. “you stood me up, didn’t pick up your phone, and you’re telling me it’s because you didn’t want to leave another woman alone? and not just a woman, but the widow of your deceased patient? do you hear yourself?”

“hey, i said i’m sorry,” he replied, a bit sharper now. “what was i supposed to do? just walk out when she’s clearly struggling?”

“you could’ve texted me,” you shot back. “you could’ve told me anything. i’ve been sitting here for almost two hours thinking something happened to you.”

he sighed, like the whole thing was exhausting. “okay, yeah. i should’ve texted. i get it.”

“no, you don’t get it,” you said, shaking your head. “this wasn’t just ‘you forgot to text.’ you made plans. you promised.”

he looked at you for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “i mean… it’s not like you’re dealing with a newborn right now, unlike her.”

the second the words left his mouth, the air shifted.

you just stared at him in disbelief. “wow. okay.”

he ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer. “that’s not what i meant. i just… look, i miss nebraska sometimes, okay? being out there, helping like that… it feels familiar. it feels like i’m actually doing something that matters.”

“and this doesn’t?” you asked quietly.

he hesitated. “that’s not what i said.”

he let out a breath, softer now. “i’m sorry. really. i should’ve handled it better. it won’t happen again.”

you looked at him for a moment before averting your eyes, taking a slow breath, then another, trying to blink the tears away before they could fall. this just… didn’t feel right. just this morning, dennis had looked at you with so much love. it would be unfair not to accept his words now, wouldn’t it?

but it still hurt. it really did.

you had tried so hard to look pretty for him, and now all you felt was stupid. stupid for wasting your time, stupid for sitting there for hours, stupid for feeling like you had turned into something he had to squeeze in after spending his day somewhere else. like you were just another thing waiting for him at the end of it.

you didn’t want to be jealous. not of her. she had lost someone she loved, had a newborn to take care of and a whole farm. you kept telling yourself dennis was just being kind, that he had always been too kind for his own good.

he wouldn’t… cheat on you with a grieving woman.

right?

it must have shown on your face, because before you could fully spiral, before the tears could slip past your control, dennis stepped closer and gently placed his hands on your shoulders.

“hey,” he said softly. “look at me.”

you hesitated, but slowly did.

“i said i’m sorry. you told me what was wrong, and we talked it out. everything’s fine, okay?” his voice was calm, almost too calm. “you don’t need to cry.”

you were already too overwhelmed to argue. you just nodded, swallowing hard.

“just… touch up your makeup, yeah? give me a minute. i’m here.” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head before stepping away and heading towards the shower.

you went back to your shared bedroom and sat in front of the vanity mirror. your eyes were red at the edges, still glossy from tears that hadn’t fully fallen, mascara slightly smudged under your lower lashes. as you carefully fixed it, you kept replaying what had just happened in your head.

this was… so not like your denny.

he didn’t usually brush things off like that. he didn’t usually decide that “you talked it out” and then move on like nothing happened, especially not when you were still clearly upset.

but maybe you were overthinking it. you had to be. one bad moment with your otherwise caring boyfriend didn’t suddenly rewrite your entire relationship, right?

still, your chest felt tight as you stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to smooth out the expression on your face like that could fix what you were feeling inside.

in the shower, dennis just stood under the running water, unmoving for a while. he couldn’t tell if he was trying to wash off the sweat from a long day outside in the sun, or something heavier he didn’t want to name.

guilt, maybe.

not even fully guilt, just… that uneasy feeling sitting under his ribs that he hadn’t handled things the way he normally would have.

he didn’t really understand why he had spoken to you like that. usually, he was the one over-apologizing, even when you weren’t asking for it. but lately, something had shifted in him. a new kind of confidence, or maybe just a different way of justifying things to himself.

he didn’t think he needed to feel bad about amy. not really.

he was helping her. he was doing the right thing.

that was what he kept telling himself as the water ran over his face, louder than the thoughts he didn’t want to fully face.

and somewhere in the background of it all, without him really saying it out loud, your sadness became something he pushed aside to make room for that belief.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the second time happened a few weeks after that. by then, you were already a little worn down.

you didn’t work in the ER, but your job as a barista still drained you in its own way. you weren’t saving lives, but some customers surely did act like you were actively ruining theirs if their latte wasn’t perfect, even when the issue had nothing to do with you.

and lately, it had been one difficult shift after another.

you couldn’t tell if it was the summer heat making everyone more irritable, but it didn’t help your mood either. especially when you kept checking your phone for any notifications from dennis and there was either nothing at all, or messages like:

behind on charting, won’t be able to pick you up :(

there was an accident on the road and it’s all coming to us, sorry love, don’t wait for me for dinner

you’re working, right? amy will pick me up after my shift, she needs help with building some furniture for the nursery, don’t know when i’ll get home yet. good luck!

any time amy’s name appeared, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. you wanted to be understanding, you really did, but did she not have anyone else? no friends, no family, anyone at all?

it started to feel ridiculous.

and by now, you knew you weren’t the only one who thought so.

once, when you mentioned it to trinity, she had scoffed and called it weird, saying it wasn’t professional at all, that if anyone else at the hospital behaved like that, they’d be reprimanded immediately.

you didn’t really disagree.

but at the same time, you felt almost silly bringing it up again when you and dennis had already “talked” about it before. sort of.

you leaned against the cash register, exhaustion settling into your bones as another shift dragged on. your eyes drifted over to the pastry display, where an apple pie sat neatly behind the glass.

dennis really liked apple pie.

he always said it reminded him of home, how his grandma used to bake the sweetest ones.

you smiled a little at the memory and made a quiet mental note to bake him one soon.

it seemed like your relationship was lacking something sweet these days, and you didn’t want it to turn sour. after all, aside from the amy situation, everything else still felt like it was working. when you were doing your assignments, he would still kiss your temple on his way out, leaving a bowl of fruit on your desk so you’d have “something in your system.” he still held you close when you fell asleep, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you just needed to focus on the good things a little more.

as soon as you clocked out, you went grocery shopping, feeling inspired to make the best apple pie in the world.

when dennis came home later that day, the sun already long gone, he found you waiting for him.

“surprise!” you said brightly, bouncing slightly on your toes, apron dusted with flour still tied around your waist. the whole apartment smelled warm and sweet, like baked apples and cinnamon.

he paused in the doorway for a second, then let out a soft laugh. “what is this?”

you grabbed his hand immediately, pulling him towards the kitchen. “just come see.”

his eyes landed on the pie sitting on the counter. “woah,” he murmured, more genuine now. “baby, you didn’t have to do all this. weren’t you working today?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling as you watched his reaction, “but i don’t know. i just wanted to. i know how much you like it.”

that softened him. he turned to you right away, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your lips, then another to your cheek like he couldn’t decide where to land.

“you’re sweet,” he said quietly.

you smiled into him, letting yourself lean into the moment.

“let me wash my hands first,” he said after a second, already loosening his grip. “and then i’m going to absolutely destroy that pie. can’t have your effort going to waste.”

he laughed as he said it, a bit lighter now, and before you could respond, he spun you around once in his arms.

it was new. a little unexpected. stronger than before. now that you thought about it, ever since he started going to the farm more often, he did gain some muscle that he didn’t have before.

you let out a small laugh, steadying yourself against him. “okay, okay.”

while dennis was getting changed into his comfortable home clothes, you cut the pie and made him a cup of tea with two sugar cubes. he liked everything sweet.

when he came back, he kissed your cheek again and immediately dug in.

you watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

“mhmm.” he let out a satisfied hum with his mouth full, which made you laugh, a small spark of pride warming your chest. “it’s so sweet, baby. thank you, i love it.”

he reached for his tea, still chewing. “though it would be nice if you used whipped cream too. amy did it when i was at hers and it tasted like a dream.”

he said it casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all, like it was just a passing thought he decided to share.

but your expression shifted immediately. happiness dropped into something tighter, disbelief and hurt mixing in your chest.

“are you comparing me to her?” you frowned.

dennis paused, eyebrows pulling together like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.

“no? i just said it’s a tip for next time. don’t take it so personally.” he gave you a small smile, already moving on, like it was nothing.

then he continued talking about something from his shift, completely slipping back into his day, like the moment had already passed.

but you hadn’t.

you stayed still for a second too long, trying to figure out if he really didn’t see it or if he just didn’t care enough to. neither option felt good.

“i’m tired. i’m going to bed.” you said quietly, cutting through his sentence as you took off your apron.

he blinked. “oh. okay. night, baby.”

and then he went right back to eating.

you walked into the bathroom and turned on the water, letting it run loudly so it could cover the sound of your sobs. you just sat on the cold floor, knees pulled in, tears slipping down your cheeks faster than you could stop them.

so much so for wanting to do something sweet for your boyfriend.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the third time dennis hurt you came pretty quickly after that. by then, it didn’t even take much to make you feel sad.

over time, as dennis kept shining brighter, his job clearly fulfilling him, combined with all the farm visits and the confidence he had grown into, something else started happening too.

you wanted to be happy for him. you really did.

but the more he seemed to step into the light, the more you felt like you were being left somewhere behind in the dark.

at first, it showed in small things. forgetting to turn in your assignments. being late to your shifts at the café. then it got worse. you couldn’t sleep properly anymore.

the only times dennis was home, he was usually exhausted, barely able to do more than kiss you hello before collapsing into bed. your movie nights disappeared. your time together shrank into almost nothing. and somehow, the quiet moments became the hardest.

when he was asleep beside you, snoring softly, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, that was the only time you still felt like you belonged in his world. like you still had a place there.

and even then, it didn’t last.

because the second you tried to fall asleep, a thought would creep in, heavy and persistent.

what if you let go for too long and he just… drifted away?

so you stayed awake.

and then there was the faucet.

it started dripping one night, a steady, uneven sound echoing through the apartment. and if your thoughts weren’t enough to keep you up, that quiet, repetitive tap of water hitting the sink made sure you wouldn’t rest at all.

by morning, you felt completely drained.

when dennis was getting ready for his shift, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his socks, you wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back.

“baby…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. “the faucet’s dripping. can you fix it? i can’t sleep because of it…”the dark circles under your eyes had only gotten worse over the past few days.

“oh,” he said lightly, like it hadn’t even crossed his mind before. “i didn’t notice.” he turned slightly towards you, gently taking one of your hands off his waist and pressing a quick kiss to your palm.

“yeah, of course. i’ll take care of it when i get home. you’re not dating a farm boy for nothing.” he gave you a small smile, easy and reassuring, before standing up to finish getting ready for his shift.

as dennis left for work, you were left alone in the apartment with that… sound. the quiet space only made it worse, the steady dripping echoing through the rooms like it was filling every corner.

but it was okay. denny said he was going to fix it.

you took a deep breath and made yourself a light breakfast, then sat down to study and work on your assignments. you tried to focus, really, but the grating sound of the faucet kept pulling you out of it. over and over again.

at some point, you weren’t even sure if it was the sound itself that was driving you mad, or if it was everything else piling up inside you, finally starting to crack.

you texted dennis around the time his shift was supposed to end, but once again, you were left on delivered. you rolled your eyes, already knowing what that meant.

but it was okay. maybe amy just needed help with groceries or something small, and he’d be home soon. after all, he promised he’d fix the faucet for you.

and still, nothing.

by midnight, dennis still hadn’t shown up. his dinner sat untouched on the table, wrapped in foil, long gone cold. you didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore. you just sat there, staring at the sink, at the constant drip, your chest tight as your thoughts spiraled.

you couldn’t live like this.

2am passed. still nothing.

eventually, you went to the bedroom and lay down, staring at the ceiling, waiting. and waiting.

dennis finally came home at 5am. he moved quietly through the apartment, like he didn’t want to wake you. or maybe like he didn’t want to deal with you being awake.

unfortunately for both of you, you hadn’t slept at all.

“where the hell were you?” you said the moment you saw him, your voice flat from pure exhaustion.

he paused for a second before answering. “i’m so sorry, baby. i swear i wasn’t ignoring you. i left my phone at work by accident, and by the time i realized, i was already at amy’s. the storms this week caused a lot of damage on the farm, so i had to stay and help. and then it got late, and she didn’t want me driving back when i was that tired. but… i’m here now.”

you let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“yeah. to get clean clothes. you’re not here for me.”

he frowned slightly, like that wasn’t fair.

“you promised you’d fix the faucet, dennis. i haven’t slept in days. why are her problems always more important than mine?”

he stepped closer, gently holding your face in his hands like that would calm you down.

“it’s not like that, baby. i promise i’ll fix it today, okay? actually promise. it just slipped my mind.”

he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. you didn’t kiss him back, but he didn’t seem to notice.

he glanced at the time right after.

“after work, okay? i’m already late and robby’s gonna be on my ass if i don’t show up. bye. love you.”

and just like that, he was already moving again, grabbing his things and heading out, leaving you standing there in the same apartment, with the same dripping sound still echoing in the background.

you took a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself, but it got harder the moment you realized your own shift started in three hours.

great.

you could barely handle customers on a full night of sleep, let alone like this, after nights of barely resting at all. you already felt it in your body, the heaviness behind your eyes, the way everything seemed just a little harder.

you groaned quietly, frustration bubbling up. at yourself, at amy, but most of all at your boyfriend. all the apologies, all the promises that never really seemed to reach you anymore. it felt like those only meant something when they were directed at her.

you pushed yourself up anyway.

slowly, you got ready, moving through everything on autopilot. you made yourself the strongest cup of coffee you could manage and forced it down before heading out.

to say the shift dragged would’ve been an understatement.

everything felt off. you kept making small mistakes, ringing up hot drinks instead of iced ones, spilling milk on the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you poured coffee. even the simplest things felt like too much.

you were just so tired.

during a quieter moment, when the line finally died down, your coworker approached you. mark. you didn’t know him that well, just small talk here and there, but enough to know he was a year older, also in college, and had really nice hair.

“hey… you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle, careful. “you don’t seem like yourself today.”

you let out a dry laugh, glancing at him. “you can say it. i look like shit.”

he gave you a small, almost amused smile, but didn’t argue.

“thanks for asking though,” you added, shrugging lightly. “i just… couldn’t sleep. there’s this faucet in my apartment that won’t stop dripping, and i can’t fall asleep with it. and i don’t even know how to fix it myself, so…”

mark nodded, listening. then, after a second, “are you free after your shift?”

you looked at him, a bit confused.

“i mean,” he continued, leaning slightly against the counter, arms loosely crossed, “i’m pretty handy. i could take a look at it for you. probably fix it pretty quickly.”

for the first time in what felt like weeks, something in you lifted. just a little.

“really?” you blinked. “that… that would actually mean a lot. are you sure you don’t mind?”

he smiled easily. “i wouldn’t offer if i did.”

then, a little softer, a little more playful, “besides, i’ve been meaning to get to know you better anyway.” he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “don’t tell anyone, but you’re kind of my favorite here.”

you couldn’t help it, you giggled, the sound feeling unfamiliar but nice.

he winked, then straightened up again as another customer walked in, already slipping back into work like nothing happened.

after that, the rest of your shift felt a little easier. anytime you got dazed or lost, mark would quietly slide in and take over for you, telling you to take five and go easy on yourself.

it felt… nice. being seen, being taken care of, even in such a small way. even if a part of you kept insisting it was probably just politeness, nothing more.

when you got back to your apartment with mark, you actually got to know him a bit better. he told you he was majoring in sculpting at one of the fancy art colleges in pittsburgh, joking that being handy was probably the only reason he got accepted. he talked about playing basketball, about his two younger sisters, and somewhere along the way, the conversation just… flowed.

you found yourself laughing more than you expected. it was nice, talking about things that had nothing to do with dennis for once.

you liked trinity, you really did, but she always circled back to him. and right now, you just couldn’t handle thinking about any of it.

you ended up making a quick pasta as a small thank you, insisting he stay for at least a few bites before leaving. after that, you walked him to the door, exchanging a quick, easy goodbye.

once the apartment fell quiet again, it didn’t feel as heavy as before. not as suffocating. and the second your back hit the couch, exhaustion took over. you fell asleep almost instantly, finally getting the rest your body had been begging for.

dennis came home hours later.

you only stirred when you heard dennis’ keys, your body too tired to fully wake up.

he stepped into the living room, his voice low. “hey…”

you barely responded, just a small nod before turning onto your side, your back facing him. you didn’t have the energy to talk to him. not now.

he sighed quietly and went to change, but then paused.

something felt… off.

the apartment was too quiet.

he walked towards the kitchen, glancing at the sink, and froze for a second. the faucet wasn’t dripping anymore. but there were two plates sitting there, neither of them his.

he stood there for a moment before speaking.

“hey… what happened to the faucet?” he asked, his voice careful, though there was something tense underneath it.

you stirred slightly, pushing yourself up just enough to look at him.

“oh. yeah. that,” you mumbled, still half asleep. “my coworker fixed it. i was a mess at work, didn’t sleep, so he offered…”

you stretched a little, not thinking much of it.

dennis, however, did.

his expression tightened just slightly, a strained kind of smile settling on his face as he stepped closer.

“your coworker?” he repeated. “like… a guy?”

you frowned, confusion mixing with irritation as you sat up more properly.

“yeah. why? does it matter?”you pushed yourself off the couch, already exhausted again. “whatever. i’m going to bed. i need sleep.”

you tried to walk past him, but he caught your arm, stopping you.

“i don’t like you inviting other guys into our place to fix things,” he said, his tone firmer now. “that’s what you have a boyfriend for.”

for a second, you just stared at him.

“do i?” you said, your voice sharp despite how tired you felt.

you pulled your arm out of his grip.

“because i haven’t seen him in a while.”

his jaw tightened, but you didn’t stop.

“i asked you to fix it first. you brushed me off for amy. you don’t get to play house at a farm with some other woman and then get mad at me for accepting help from someone else. that’s not fair, dennis.”

dennis looked at you for a moment, clearly deciding what to do next. if it had been the dennis you first fell in love with, he probably would’ve dropped his gaze, stumbled over his words, and started muttering multiple apologies, though the dennis you started dating wouldn’t have let things get this bad with you in the first place.

but now he wanted to use his newfound confidence. to show you he had become better, not just for himself and his coworkers, but for you too.

so instead of backing down, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.

it was sudden, passionate, catching you completely off guard. your eyes widened, and before you could react properly, he pressed you back against the nearest wall, his lips moving down to your neck, slowly sucking at your sensitive spot.

your breath got caught in your throat, your body reacting before your mind could catch up, hands instinctively wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

for a brief moment, it felt like everything else faded. like things were normal again.

dennis pulled back just enough to look at you, something almost smug flickering across his face.

“you don’t need other guys for this,” he said quietly, as his hand slowly slipped into your pants, his lips returning to your neck. “could that coworker of yours do this to you, huh?”

and for a moment, you did feel it. the warmth, the closeness, the pull. and it would’ve been a lie to say you didn’t get wet from his touches, because you did. however it was his fault you were this needy in the first place. months of distance, of being tired, of him barely being there or only half present when he was. you don’t even remember the last time the two of you got intimate.

and just like that, something in you snapped back. because as quickly as your body responded, your mind caught up as well.

the missed calls. the empty apartment. the nights you spent staring at the ceiling. the sound of the faucet. amy. always amy.

your hands pushed against his chest.

“stop. stop!” you raised your voice.

dennis stepped back immediately, actual fear in his eyes. he had never forced himself on you, and this was the first time you had ever fully rejected him like that.

you stood there, breathing uneven, and then it all came out at once.

“you can’t do that. you can’t leave me hanging for months, walking away from me when i need you, choosing some other woman who should be relying on literally anyone else but you, and then come back and act like this fixes it.”

your voice shook, but you didn’t stop.

“waltzing back in here to try to do some jealous power play on me? saying how you can make me feel things that my coworker can’t? when’s the last time you even did anything like that for me, dennis?”

a bitter, exhausted laugh slipped out of you as you ran a hand through your hair.

“i love you, dennis,” you said more quietly now, voice breaking a little at the edges. “i still do. but i deserve better than this.”

you looked at him for a second longer, then turned away.

“i’m going to bed.” you walked past him, heading to the bedroom, leaving him standing there in silence. he couldn’t react in any way, because deep down he knew you were right. he just didn’t want to accept it.

didn’t want to admit that everything he thought was making him better, stronger, someone you could be proud of, was slowly pushing you away instead.

that night, he stayed on the couch.

he didn’t dare come into the bedroom. not after everything.

and as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of your perfume still lingering on the couch pillows from your nap, he realized how far away you suddenly felt.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the fourth time dennis hurt you came the next morning.

you woke up with a headache worse than any hangover you’d ever had, and instead of feeling well rested after finally getting the sleep your body desperately craved, you just felt awful.

you didn’t even want to get up, knowing you’d have to face dennis again, face that difficult and weird situation he put you into.

you just wanted to stay in bed. sleep the whole day away, maybe even the next one too, but unfortunately, you couldn’t.

you glanced at the empty side of the bed, the one dennis usually slept on, the cold bedsheets showing that he didn’t sleep there at all.

with a heavy sight you got up from the bed and carefully navigated your way through the hallway into the living room. you took a deep breath before you opened the door and then carefully stepped inside, bracing yourself for what was yet to come.

dennis was still there, which by now, was rather unusual. he was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his eyes tired, but they lit up a little when he saw you in the doorway.

you two just looked at each other for a moment, awkward silence filling the room. after another beat of silence, dennis opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his phone started ringing.

he glanced at it, hesitating for a second, clearly unsure if he should pick up.

“amy?” you asked, your voice flat, already knowing the answer.

“y-yeah, but uh let me just take this, it’ll be quick, and then we can finish our conversation from yesterday, okay?” his voice wavered slightly.

you let out a quiet, humorless breath.

“bold of you to assume i want to finish that conversation,” you said, your tone tired more than anything. “i said everything i needed to, so go ahead. pick up. wouldn’t want to leave poor amy hanging, right?” you rolled your eyes and turned away, walking out of the living room.

you meant to go back to your bedroom, to get dressed and leave, just get out of the apartment for a while.

but you didn’t go far.

you stopped just behind the door in the hallway, your chest tight, your curiosity and anxiety keeping you there.

you needed to hear it. needed to know how he talked to her. what he sounded like speaking to other woman than you.

you heard him click his tongue before picking up the call, the tension in him slipping out in that small sound.

“uh, hi amy. what’s up?” he said, his voice a little gentler now, like he didn’t want her to hear that he was stressed.

“oh, theo’s teething? is that what’s making him act up? i’m sorry to hear that.” after a pause, probably listening to what else she had to say, he responded with a light laugh in his voice. “you’d like me to come on sunday?” he repeated, glancing at the calendar hanging in your living room.

sunday was marked as your anniversary date. officially three years together. dana had once joked that even some marriages don’t last that long.

you tensed at the mention of that, waiting for his answer just as much as amy.

“y-yeah, i don’t know…” he started, clearly aware he was busy. with you. he was supposed to be busy with you.

but he didn’t finish, as amy probably started insisting. at least that’s what you assumed.

dennis ran a hand over his face before responding. “okay, sure. i’ll come. probably in the morning, because—”

and the moment you heard his defeated “okay” you didn’t even for him to finish the rest of his sentence. you had already heard enough.

you rushed to your bedroom and shut the door behind you, louder than necessary, making sure it made a sound.

you didn’t even know what came over you in that moment. probably all the pent up sadness, the anger, the constant feeling of being pushed aside finally spilling over. the more you thought about it, the more worse you felt.

you did everything for this man. you were there when he had nothing, when he was struggling financially, when he didn’t even have a place to stay. you welcomed him into your home and made it a home for both of you. you supported his decisions, tried your best to build up his confidence, to make him feel like he was enough.

and now he was using the widow of his dead patient, which was insane in itself, to boost his ego?

for what?

were you never enough?

was it because you were a city girl, while amy could give him that quiet life he always talked about? the white fence, the baby, the farm?

you couldn’t do this anymore. you just couldn’t.

so with shaking hands, you pulled out a suitcase and started packing. quickly, carelessly, not even looking at what you were grabbing, just throwing clothes in, one after another.

the moment dennis heard the loud thud from the bedroom, he ended the call with amy almost immediately and rushed in.

he froze for a second when he saw you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, frowning, already stepping forward.

then he moved closer, panic kicking in as he started pulling your clothes back out of the suitcase.

“what are you doing?” he repeated, more urgent now.

“what are you doing, dennis?” you snapped back, your voice rising as you yanked your sweater out of his hands.

“i’m tired of this. i’m tired of feeling like the other woman in my own relationship.”

your chest was heaving now, emotions spilling out faster than you could control.

“you’re going to her place even on our anniversary? seriously? grow a backbone. why couldn’t you say no to her for once, the same way you keep saying no to me?”

the words came out sharp, unfiltered, driven by everything you had been holding in.

and something in dennis… snapped.

he didn’t mean it. not really.

he was just angry. mostly at himself, honestly.

but it all came out wrong.

“yeah?” he shot back, his voice tight. “you know what? i always thought you were a good person, but now it just feels like you simply liked me better when i was at my lowest.”

you froze.

“yeah,” he continued, words spilling out faster now. “when i was that broke, clumsy med student with nothing. no money, no place, nothing. and you got something out of that.”

your heart dropped.

“you used it. you used me to feel better about yourself. and now that i’m not beneath you anymore, now that people actually see something in me, even another woman… you just can’t handle it.”

the room fell silent after that.

you just stared at him, like you didn’t even recognize the person standing in front of you anymore.

“if that’s what you really think,” you said quietly, your voice shaking but steady enough, “then i don’t understand why you’re even here.”

you swallowed, forcing the next words out.

“it’s over, dennis. i want you to leave. right now. and if you won’t, i will.”

your eyes were glossy, but your tone stayed stern.

for a moment, he just stood there, blinking, like he didn’t fully realize what he had just done. then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

the door closed behind him.

and suddenly, it was quiet again.

you sank down onto the floor of your bedroom, the suitcase still half full, clothes scattered everywhere around you.

little pieces of your life together, now just painful reminders you didn’t know what to do with.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

time moved on, but neither did you and dennis. it had been almost a week since he left the apartment, and unfortunately for both of you, today was that fateful sunday.

you decided to stay in, considering all the plans you once had for that day were long gone. you bought yourself a big tub of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and planned to spend the entire day inside, rewatching your favorite show, not even bothering to open the blinds.

dennis, on the other hand, picked up a shift. it was a convenient excuse not to go to amy’s, and at the same time, he needed something to distract himself. he figured if he focused on his patients, maybe he wouldn’t have to think about everything else.

unfortunately for him, his coworkers had other plans.

the first one to bring it up, as expected, was trinity. he had been staying at her place for the past few days. at first, she gave him space, knowing when to leave things alone, but patience had never really been her strength, and she had clearly had enough.

“so, when are you planning on fixing your fuck up, huckleberry?” she said bluntly, her tone sharp as they both sat down to do charting.

“what fuck up?” he replied, not even looking up, like he didn’t know exactly what she meant.

“oh, don’t play dumb,” she scoffed. “just a few days ago you were going on and on about how you were gonna treat your ‘queen’ on sunday, and now you’re here instead. and don’t think i didn’t notice the fifteen cans of beer in my fridge. if you drink all of that and throw up in my apartment, i swear…”

he exhaled, rubbing his face, clearly not being in the mood for this conversation.

trinity just shook her head. “to think you threw it all away for that farm girl…” she muttered.

that was enough to set him off.

“look, i really don’t want you bringing that up, especially here, okay?” he said, his voice lower now, but tense.

trinity raised her eyebrows, her tone immediately turning more biting.

“wow. look at that. acting like a victim,” she said, a sarcastic smile creeping onto her face. “as if i haven’t told you multiple times how weird this whole thing is. you kept telling me how your girlfriend is this perfect, understanding angel, and i kept thinking, who in their right mind would actually be okay with that? now look at that, she wasn’t okay with that.”

he stayed quiet.

“for fuck’s sake, amy was picking you up from work more often than your own girlfriend at this point. everyone saw it. and you didn’t seem to mind back then,” she added, her voice sharper now, as she she stood up, grabbing her things.

“i’m saying this because i actually care, huckleberry. fix it today, or you’re going to regret it.” and with that, she walked off.

dennis sat there for a moment, then dropped his face into his hands.

after a second, dana leaned slightly towards him.

“she’s right, kid. harsh, but right.”

“you too, dana… don’t even start.” he muttered, already ready to get up and grab another case just to avoid the conversation, but she stopped him.

“look, i know it’s not my business,” she said more gently, “but that girl of yours… she seemed really sweet. and she loved you. that was obvious.”

he didn’t respond.

“people mess up. trust me, i’ve had my fair share with my husband. but if the love is real, it’s worth fighting for.”

then she leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice.

“and it’s definitely not worth losing over… whatever this is with a patient’s family.”

she gave him a look before going back to her work.

dennis stayed there, shoulders slumping as he processed everything that was said to him just now, because well, they were right.

all of them.

and you… you had been right from the start.

he had seen it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. the way you held onto him a little tighter in the mornings, the way your smile slowly faded over time.

somewhere along the way, he had lost the balance between taking care of himself… and forgetting to take care of you.

before dennis could dwell on it any longer, a trauma was called in and he was needed immediately.

dennis quickly pulled on protective eyewear and a sterile gown, falling into the routine as he joined the rest of the team rushing to receive the patient. it was serious enough to require a trauma surgeon and immediate transfer to the OR, which meant everything had to move fast.

garcia was the one called in, and at that, dennis couldn’t help but roll his eyes. she had never really spared him when it came to snarky remarks, and now, knowing trinity, she probably knew everything already.

“oh, if it isn’t the funky music,” she said when she spotted him, her tone light despite the situation. “i know you’ve been going around breaking hearts, but don’t break this one too, okay?” she shot him a teasing look before turning back to the patient.

dennis huffed quietly under his breath but didn’t respond, focusing on what needed to be done as the team worked to stabilize the patient.

unfortunately for him, robby had been there the whole time too.

once things finally settled and the patient was stable, robby motioned for dennis to step aside, leading him towards the ambulance bay doors.

“you alright?” robby asked, arms crossed, studying him for a moment.

dennis frowned slightly. “yeah. why?”

robby raised a brow. “because you’ve been off all day. tired, distracted. not like you.”

dennis exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’m fine. just didn’t sleep much.”

robby didn’t seem convinced. he leaned back slightly against the wall, still watching him.

“that all?”

there was a pause.

dennis hesitated, glancing away for a second like he was debating whether to say anything at all.

“it’s just… stuff at home,” he admitted finally, quieter now.

robby didn’t interrupt.

“i messed up,” dennis added after a moment, his voice low. “with my girlfriend. like… really messed up.”

he let out a short breath, shaking his head slightly.

“i don’t even know how it got this bad.”

robby hummed quietly, not surprised. “that explains the mood.”

dennis let out a tired laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“yeah.”

there was a short silence before robby spoke again.

“you gonna fix it?”

dennis didn’t answer right away.

he just stood there for a second, the question settling heavier than he expected.

“…i don’t know if i can,” he admitted.

robby shrugged slightly. “then figure it out. because whatever’s going on, it’s clearly getting to you.”

he pushed himself off the wall, giving dennis a small nod.

“get your head back in the game. we still got a shift to finish.”

and just like that, robby walked off, leaving dennis standing there with his thoughts again, only now he couldn’t ignore them as easily.

the end of the shift couldn’t come soon enough. dennis rushed through handoffs with the night shift, barely listening as perlah and princess exchanged knowing looks, whispering to each other in a language he didn’t understand, but he could guess exactly what it was about. at this point, it felt like the whole hospital knew about his fuck up.

he didn’t even bother changing out of his scrubs. he just grabbed his things and hurried out, stopping by the nearest flower shop and spending almost all the money he had left, which wasn’t much, considering he had only just started getting paychecks, on the biggest bouquet of your favorite flowers.

then he drove to your place.

he still had the key.

dennis stood outside for a moment, taking a few deep breaths before unlocking the door and quietly stepping inside.

the apartment was dark, except for the soft glow coming from the living room, along with the familiar soundtrack of your favorite show. one he had gotten to know pretty well over time. he remembered you rewatching it during breakfasts back when he was still in med school. he used to tease you about how you could probably recite every line by heart, and you never denied it. he had grown to love it too. mostly because it reminded him of you.

he swallowed and slowly made his way towards the living room.

when he stepped in, he saw you curled up under a blanket on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine next to you. your eyes were puffy and tired, like you had been crying for hours.

his chest tightened at the sight. he hated himself for letting it get this far. for being the reason you looked like this.

“hey…” he whispered softly.

you looked at him, taking a second to fully register his presence, before a small sniffle escaped you.

“get out,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your voice shook. “i don’t want to see you.” you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your face completely.

dennis stepped closer, careful and hesitant.

“darling… baby, please just hear me out,” he started, his voice already shaky. “i know you said everything you needed to that day, but i didn’t, and i… i’m sorry. okay? i didn’t mean any of the things i said at that moment.”

he swallowed hard, his voice threatening to break.

“you are a good person. you always have been. and i should’ve been grateful that you stayed with me when i had nothing, when i was… pretty useless, honestly. and then i go and treat you like this…” he let out a breath, shaking his head. “i’m a fool. i know i am.”

his voice cracked despite his effort to keep it together.

“you’re the best thing in my life, and i don’t want to lose that. i don’t want to lose you.”

he took another small step closer, still not touching you.

“i’ll cut amy off. completely. i swear i never thought of her in a romantic way, not once, but i should’ve realized how it looked, how it felt for you. but i didn’t. i messed up. badly.”

he ran a hand through his hair, his words coming out more rushed now.

“i just… i felt good for once. at the farm, i know what i’m doing. i feel useful there. like i actually stand out. in the hospital, there are so many people who are better, stronger, more confident and then there’s you…” he let out a small, almost breathless laugh. “you’re the strongest, most amazing, most beautiful person i’ve ever met. and i think i just… lost myself trying to prove i could be something too.”

his voice softened again.

“and in the process, i pushed away the most important person in my life.”

there was a pause.

“i regret it. more than anything.”

he finally stepped closer to the couch, slowly lowering himself down in front of you, but still keeping a small distance, giving you space.

“can you… just give me a chance to fix this?”

after a few seconds, you pulled the blanket down, your face still tear-streaked, your eyes red. you had listened to everything. every word.

but you didn’t know what to say.

you loved him.

you really did.

but was that enough?

was it right to let him back in after everything?

as if he could read the doubt in your expression, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“you don’t have to forgive me. not now… maybe not ever,” he admitted. “but if there’s even a chance… let me earn it. let me prove to you that i can be better. that i can be the man you deserve.”

he swallowed, then carefully got down on his knees in front of you, placing the bouquet beside you before gently reaching for your hands. this time, he waited, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to.

“i, dennis whitaker, promise that i’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “i’ll fix every stupid faucet, anything that bothers you. i’ll take you anywhere you want to go. i’ll do all those dumb things like putting my coat over puddles just so you don’t get your shoes wet.”

a faint, sad smile tugged at his lips.

“i’ll rub your neck when you’re studying, and in return i just… want to be the one who gets to wake up next to you. the one who gets to eat your pies and whatever you bake until i’m old and annoying.”

his grip on your hands tightened just slightly.

“please. just one more chance. you’re the only one for me.”

there was a beat of silence, as if you were still weighing everything he had said, still deciding what to do with it.

then you let out a small sniffle.

“if i ever hear about amy again,” you started, your voice shaky but holding onto that familiar edge, “or if you ever dare to say my pies aren’t perfect, i’ll sell your clothes on ebay and come to the hospital to show everyone your donald duck boxers.”

a quiet, broken giggle slipped out of you.

dennis let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, a soft, relieved laugh escaping him as he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“yeah… that’s fair,” he murmured. “that’s definitely what i deserve.”

he smiled softly before looking at you properly again, his expression warmer now, but still careful.

“thank you. for letting me try again. i love you.”

you sniffled once more, your lips pressing into a small, tired smile.

“you’re lucky i love you too.”

“i really am.” he whispered.

that night was finally the first one in a while where you actually slept a little peacefully.

dennis took the bottle of wine away from you, putting it back into the kitchen cabinet and making you tea instead before gently tucking you into bed.

for a moment, he hesitated.

he wasn’t sure if he deserved to lie next to you yet. part of him thought he should just take the couch again, give you space, not assume anything.

but then you reached out for him. your hand searching for his without even opening your eyes.

that was enough to convince him. he slipped into bed beside you, and the moment you settled, resting your head against his chest, something in him softened completely.

he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting carefully against your back as he felt you slowly drift off to sleep.

he stayed like that for a while, just holding you. making sure you were really resting.

and once your breathing evened out, he carefully reached for his phone.

he stared at the screen for a moment before typing out a message to amy, that he was going to focus on building his own family now. with you. and that if things got too overwhelming, she should reach out to the hospital psychologist, but that he couldn’t be there for her anymore, because he was needed somewhere else.

he sent it, then turned his phone off completely.

when he looked back at you, you were still curled up against him, your chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

his expression softened, but his eyes stung. a few quiet tears slipped down his cheeks as he brushed his thumb gently against your arm.

“i’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered. “i won’t ever do this to you again. promise.”

fin.

general masterlist 🩺 the pitt masterlist

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[abbotafterhours]

roots (jack abbot x hairdresser!reader)

author's note: i work at the weekends in a hairdresser's, and this idea came to me this morning while i was running around like a lunatic like i'm not on minimum wage - anyways, i hope you enjoy this one! and thanks always for everyone's endless support 🤍🤍

pairing: jack abbot x hairdresser!reader

word count: 4.58k

warnings: girl literally nothing other than i'm jealous of you and your life

songs i listened to (and imagine are playing in the salon): nature boy by nat king cole, i'll look around by billy holiday, i fall in love too eaily by chet baker, autumn in new york by ella fitzgerald

description: you're literally a baddie hairdresser who owns your own boujee salon and your hot older doctor bf comes in for an overdue treatment and haircut that's it that's the fic / banner is by @uzmacchiato

Your salon is called Roots.

It had been a joke, originally. Your best friend from college had laughed for like five minutes when you told her the name, and your mother had said "very clever, sweetheart" in the tone she reserved for things she didn't entirely understand but was prepared to support anyway. You'd had the sign made in warm brass lettering, hung it above the door of the narrow Victorian building you'd spent three years saving for, and felt, on the morning you opened, like something had finally clicked into place.

That was four years ago. Now Roots takes up the ground floor of that building entirely, and has three other stylists working under you, and a waiting list that runs six weeks out, and walls painted the colour of soft cream with so many plants hanging from the ceiling and crowding the windowsills that you Saturday junior had once described walking in as like entering a very stylish jungle, which you had taken as the compliment it was intended to be.

It smells like good shampoo and coffee and something green and living, and the music is always something low and unhurried, and the light comes through the big front windows like your architect specifically designed it to. Which they did. You wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes thinking about the bill at the time. Whatever, it's cute.

You love it here.

You love it the way you love things that came from a long time of working toward them, with the specific satisfaction of someone who knows exactly what it is to not come from much, someone who's had to work really, really hard to get to feel comfortable enough to stock their salon exclusively with pink Parlux Elysium hairdryers.

The only thing you love more, at this particular point in your life, is considerably more complicated.

Considerably more grumpy.

And currently twelve minutes late.

You know he's arrived before you hear him, because Maya - twenty three, the best colourist you've ever trained, zero filter - calls from the reception desk that your four o'clock is here, in a voice that carries the particular briightness of someone who finds Jack Abbot's relationship with your salon deeply entertaining.

You set down the section of hair you'd been working on, your two o'clock had run long, a regular client who always came in with the very best gossip that you never could resist and a penchant for your signature round brush blowdry. You catch her eye in the mirror.

"Two minutes," you say. "I'm sorry."

"Take your time, hun," she says, with the easy grace of a woman who has been coming to you for the past year and knows, by now, that two minutes means you're not going anywhere until her blowdry is done.

You step around the partition that divides the main floor from the small waiting area near the door, and there he is.

Doctor Jack Abbot, standing in the middle of your salon with the expression he always has when he's somewhere that is not the PTMC, his apartment or some SWAT ambush - carefully neutral, taking everything in like this isn't a place he helped pick out the paint colour of. He's in a fresh shirt, but the same pants, which means he's probably come here after a night shift at the Pitt. You can smell your vanilla-and-oud body wash on his person from where you're standing, which means he's had a shower at your place on the way. He's looking at one of the larger hanging plants near the window with the focused attention of a man who has never entirely made peace with the quantity of foliage in this building.

"You're late," you say, your hand resting gently on your right hip.

"Twelve minutes," he says, which is not an apology but is, from Jack, the acknowledgement of a fact.

"Twelve minutes late."

"I was in the middle of something."

"You're kind of always in the middle of something."

"I work in an emergency department.", Jack smirks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And I run a business," you say pleasantly, mirroring his movements. "Sit down. I'll be with you in ten."

He looks at the waiting chairs. They're round, velvet, the deep green colour you'd agonised over for two weeks before ordering. He sits in the one nearest the door with the particular economy of a man making the best of a situation he's decided not to argue with.

Maya intercepts you on your way back to your client, appearing at your elbow with the expression she gets when she has something to say and has assessed that you are currently unable to escape.

"He looked at the pothos for like forty-five seconds," she says.

"He does that every time."

"Like it personally offended him."

"Plants make him suspicious. Don't read into it."

Maya looks over her shoulder at Jack, who is now sitting with his elbows on his knees reading something on his phone with the grim focus of a man determined to be productive in a velvet chair.

"He's kind of intimidating," she says.

"He's fine."

"He looks like he's never smiled."

"He smiles," you say.

Maya raises both eyebrows.

"He does," you say. "It's just, kind of infrequent. It's more valuable that way." You pick up your brush. "Go ask him if he wants coffee. He'll say no and then drink it if you leave it near him."

She stares at you.

"That's— how do you know that?"

"A year of paying attention," you wink at her, and go back to your client.

You finish the blowout at around four twenty-seven, which is later than you'd like but better than it could have even been, and see your client to the door with the warmth that comes naturally to you in here. This is your place, your people, and you are good at making people feel like they're the only person in the room.

Jack's still waiting where you've left them. There is a coffee on the small table beside him. It is half empty.

You say nothing about it. You simply collect your kit, refresh your station, and pull the curtain that sections off the wash basin at the back of the salon. It's a private one you use for your deep scalp treatments, tucked away from the main floor, with the good overhead light and the deep basin chair and the shelf of products that costs more than some people's rent.

"Come on, then," you call.

He appears around the curtain thirty seconds later, jacket folded over his arm. He looks at the basin chair, reclined, padded, built for comfort, with the expression of a man being asked to do something he has accepted he cannot get out of.

"You don't have to look at it like that every time," you say.

"I'm not looking at it like anything."

"You are."

"It's a chair."

"It's a very comfortable chair and you know it." You pat the headrest. "Sit down, Jack."

It takes him a moment to actually recline into it, the way it always does, he doesn't do passive easily, doesn't do being taken care of easily, but eventually the chair wins, because the chair is very well made and you bought it specifically for this purpose, and he settles back with the controlled exhale of a man exercising deliberate surrender.

You drape the cape around him, fasten it at the back, and look at the top of his head.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay what?"

"When did you last condition this?"

A pause.

"Recently."

"Jack."

"Define recently."

"This month."

Another pause, marginally longer.

"In the broader sense of the word."

You pick up a curl and let it go. It springs back, but dully, without the elasticity it should have, and you make a sound that communicates your feelings on the matter without requiring words.

"I gave you the conditioner in February," you say.

"I use it."

"The bottle I gave you in February was full. You came in in March and it looked like this."

"It doesn't look like—"

"Jack. Your curl pattern is crying."

He closes his eyes briefly. "That's not a real thing."

"It absolutely is a real thing and yours is doing it." You reach for the pre-wash treatment from the shelf, the good one, the one with the protein blend you use for clients whose hair has been neglected past the point of a standard wash fixing it, and work it through the roots with your fingers, section by section. His hair is thick and the curls are genuinely beautiful when they're looked after, which they would be, if he would simply do what you tell him, which he doesn't, because he is Jack Abbott and doing what he's told is not in his nature. Despite all this, you watch him visibly relax under the touch of your fingers, almost battling with acepting the comforting feeling.

"This is what happens," you say, working the product through methodically, "when you don't maintain it between appointments."

"I'm busy."

"Everyone is busy. Dana finds time."

"Dana has her own routine."

"Which I designed for her. Which she follows." You move to the next section. "You know what Dana's hair looks like."

A pause.

"...yes."

"It looks like that because she does what I tell her. Imagine."

His mouth does something that isn't quite a smile but is aware of one. "You're very smug about Dana's hair."

"I'm professionally proud of Dana's hair. There's a difference." You check the distribution of the product, satisfied, and reach for the shower attachment. "Dennis, on the other hand—"

"What about Dennis?"

"He came in last month. I finally convinced him to go for the cut he actually wanted instead of the safe one he always asked for." You angle the water, testing the temperature against your wrist before bringing it to his hair. "He looks amazing, by the way. The mullet suits him enormously."

Jack opens one eye. "Whitaker has a mullet."

"He has a modern mullet. There's a distinction."

"Unbelievable."

"Everyone is very happy with it. He tipped me forty percent." You work the water through his hair with one hand, the other following to ensure even saturation, and feel him go incrementally, almost imperceptibly still under your hands. He always does this, this particular quality of settling, like something that's been held at tension all day finally being given permission to release. You don't think he's aware of it. You've never mentioned it.

You reach for the shampoo.

You've been doing this for years professionally, and for considerably longer if you count the teenage years spent doing everyone's hair at sleepovers because you simply couldn't help it. You know hands in hair can be neutral, clinical, transactional, the routine of a service. But you also know they can be something else entirely, and with Jack they have always been something else, from the first time he sat in this chair ten months into knowing him with the resigned expression of a man cashing in a favour and left forty-five minutes later looking like a different person and saying, gruffly, that was fine, which you had understood to mean considerably more than fine.

You work the shampoo through in slow, thorough circles, and he is very quiet.

"Long shift?" you ask.

"Aren't they all."

"Longer than usual?"

A beat. "MVA came in at two. Three patients."

"Everyone okay?"

"Two of them."

You keep your hands moving, steady and even, and don't push further because you know when to and when not to. He'll say more if he wants to. He always does, eventually. In here there's something about the chair and the warm water and the particular quiet of the back section that loosens things in him that don't loosen easily anywhere else.

"The third was nineteen," he says, after a moment. Quietly.

Your hands don't pause.

"I'm sorry," you say. Simply. Not trying to fix it or reframe it, because he doesn't need that and wouldn't thank you for it.

"Yeah," he says.

You work the shampoo through to the ends, rinse it clean, reach for the conditioner, the deep treatment, not the regular, because his hair needs it and you are not in the business of doing things halfway. You start working it through section by section with the same thorough care.

"You're using a lot of that," he says.

"Because you needed a lot of that."

"It smells expensive."

"It is expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Jack."

"I'm just—"

"It's my product, in my salon, on your hair, which I am fixing for free because I love you. Stop asking about the price."

A pause.

He does the almost-smile thing.

"Fine," he says.

"Thank you."

"You're very bossy in here."

"I'm very bossy everywhere. You've just accepted it more thoroughly in here." You work the conditioner through the last section and reach for the wide-tooth comb. "Hold still."

"I am holding still."

"You're tensing."

"I'm not tensing."

"Your shoulders are up around your ears, Jack."

A beat. His shoulders drop approximately an inch.

"There," you say. "Was that so hard?"

"Don't push it," he says, but there's nothing in it, no real edge, just the particular texture of his voice when he's comfortable and pretending he isn't.

You detangle from the ends up, working slowly, and by the time you've reached the roots he has gone fully, properly still, the real kind, the kind that takes him a while to find on any given day. His eyes are closed. The tension that lives in his jaw, that you have memorised the particular geography of over the last year, has smoothed out into something that looks almost like rest.

You let the conditioner sit.

"How's the back?" he says, after a while.

You pause, fractionally.

"Fine."

"Y/N."

"It's fine."

"You were standing differently when I came in."

You say nothing, because the answer is that you've had back to back clients since eight this morning and your lower back has been making its feelings known since approximately two, which is an occupational hazard of the job and something you manage and not something you need to make into a conversation.

"It's an occupational hazard," you say.

"That's not the same as fine."

"Jack—"

"How many clients today?"

"That's not—"

"How many."

You exhale. "Eight."

He opens his eyes and looks up at you from the reclined chair with the expression he has when he has received information he was expecting and is not pleased about nonetheless.

"Eight clients," he says. "On your feet since eight."

"This is my job."

"I know it's your job. I'm asking if you've sat down at any point today."

"I had lunch."

"Standing up?"

A pause.

"It was a busy day."

He makes a sound. It's low, unimpressed, the particular sound that means he has heard everything you've said and has decided none of it is a satisfactory answer. He shifts in the chair, sitting up slightly against the recline.

"After this," he says, "you're going to sit down."

"I have a five o'clock—"

"After your five o'clock."

"And then I need to close up—"

"I'll help you close up. And then you're going to sit down." He looks at you levelly. "And you're going to let me make dinner."

You look at him.

At the certainty of him, the absolute unmoving quality of it, the way he delivers care like a prescription, not performed, not particularly gentle in its delivery, just completely and utterly meant.

"You're going to make dinner," you say.

"Yes."

"You made dinner twice last week."

"I'm aware of that."

"Jack—"

"Y/N." He holds your gaze. "Sit down after your five o'clock. Let me make dinner. That's all I'm asking."

A beat.

"You're asking in a very non-asking way," you say.

"I know. I'm your boyfriend, but need I remind you, I'm also your doctor."

You look at him for a moment longer, this stubborn, careful, completely impossible man sitting in your salon basin chair with conditioner in his curls and your cape around his shoulders, who came straight from a shift where he lost a nineteen year old and still showed up twelve minutes late instead of not at all, and whose idea of tenderness is telling you to sit down in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

"Fine," you say.

Something in his face settles.

"Good," he says.

"You're insufferable."

"You've mentioned that."

"I'm mentioning it again."

"Noted," he says, and closes his eyes again, and you reach for the shower attachment to rinse the conditioner out, and the salon is warm around you both and the plants hang from the ceiling like they always have and the light is doing its golden late afternoon thing through the front windows, and you think, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that this, exactly this, is the thing.

You cut his hair the way you always do — with the focused, proprietary attention of someone who knows exactly what they're doing and knows exactly whose hair they're doing it to.

He's back at your main station now, your best chair, the one in front of the mirror with the warm lighting on either side. The rest of the salon has quieted — Maya's last client left twenty minutes ago, and it's just the two of you and the music and the particular easy intimacy of this, which never feels like nothing.

"Don't take too much off," he says.

"I never take too much off."

"Last time—"

"Last time you came in two months overdue and needed significantly more taken off than you thought. That's not me taking too much. That's physics." You comb through a section, assess it, reach for your scissors. "Hold still."

"I am holding still."

"You keep watching my hands in the mirror."

"I'm allowed to watch."

"It makes you tense."

"I'm not tense."

"Jack." You meet his eyes in the mirror. "Look at the plant."

He looks at the large fiddle-leaf fig in the corner, your favourite, the one that took three years to get to its current size, with an expression of profound reluctance.

"It's very big," he says.

"She's thriving," you agree, and make the first cut.

You work in comfortable silence after that, the scissors moving in the rhythm you've had for years, your hands knowing what they're doing without requiring your full conscious attention, which frees the rest of you to simply be here. To notice the way the tension has come back into his shoulders slightly in the chair, not as bad as before, but there, the residue of the day sitting in him the way it always does. To notice the way he watches you in the mirror when he thinks you're focused on his hair. To notice, and this is the one that always gets you, without fail, every single time, the way he looks in this chair, in your space, with your hands in his hair.

Like he belongs here.

Like this is just - where he is. Where he's supposed to be.

You've loved him for most of the year you've been together and you were in trouble long before that, and it still catches you sometimes, the simple fact of him.

"You're staring," he says.

"I'm assessing my work."

"You're staring at me in the mirror."

"Occupational necessity."

His mouth does the thing, the not-so-smile, kind of smirk that's so incredibly frustrating but so hot at the same time. "Sure."

You work the scissors through the last section, check the line, make two small adjustments that he will never notice but that you will, and step back.

"There," you say.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

He does this every time, this careful, slightly suspicious assessment, like he's checking for damage. His eyes move over the cut, the shape of it, the way the curls have fallen now that they've been properly washed and cut clean. You watch him do it in the reflection, this man who trusts very few things easily and is always, always checking.

He is quiet for a moment.

"Well?" you say.

"It's fine," he says.

You fold your arms. "It's fine."

"It looks good."

"I know it looks good. I did it."

"You're very confident."

"I'm very skilled. There's a difference."

He almost smiles. Almost.

You reach forward and adjust one curl at his temple, just slightly, just because you can, the way you always do at the end, that one small finishing touch that isn't strictly necessary but that you do anyway, for yourself as much as anything. You feel him go very still under your hand.

Neither of you says anything for a moment.

The salon is quiet around you. Maya has gone out for some late lunch. The music has drifted down to something low and barely there. The evening light is coming through the front windows at its best angle, warm and unhurried, and the plants are doing what plants do in good light, which is simply to be very present and very alive. You kind of forget that your 5 o'clock is late and probably not coming at this stage.

Jack is looking at you in the mirror.

Not at his hair. At you.

"This place," he says, after a moment.

"What about it?"

"You built it." He says it simply, like a fact being stated, like something being acknowledged. "From nothing."

You meet his eyes in the glass. "I had savings."

"You had savings and a plan and four years of work." He holds your gaze in the mirror, steady and direct. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make it smaller than it is."

You look at him. At the particular quality of his expression right now — open in the way it gets in private, in the way it gets when he's decided to say the real thing rather than the managed version of it.

"Jack—"

"Eight clients today," he says. "On your feet since eight. A waiting list six weeks out." He glances around the salon, at the plants, the warm cream walls, the brass lettering visible through the front window in reverse. "Three stylists who work for you. Who you trained." He looks back at you. "You did that."

Your chest does something inconvenient.

"I had help," you say, quietly.

"You had yourself," he says. "Mostly."

You hold his gaze in the mirror for a long moment, this odd doubled version of looking at each other, both of you reflected back in the warm light of a Tuesday evening in a salon that smells like good shampoo and growing things.

"You never say stuff like that," you say.

"I'm saying it now."

"You're going to make me emotional in my own salon."

"You're allowed to be emotional in your own salon."

"Jack—"

"I'm proud of you," he says, and it comes out the way his most true things always do, plain and undecorated and completely without performance, just the thing itself, set down in the room like it was always going to land there eventually. "I don't say it enough. I know I don't." His jaw shifts slightly. "I'm not — I'm not always good at the saying part."

"You're getting better," you say, softly.

"That's a low bar."

"It's a bar you clear." You turn then, properly, away from the mirror and toward him, because this conversation deserves more than a reflection. He is right there, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him properly, and his face is doing the fully open thing, the rare thing, the thing that belongs only to you and to rooms like this one. "You came here today. Straight from a shift that was — I know it was hard. And you still came."

"I had an appointment."

"Jack."

He looks at you.

"You still came," you say, again, gently. "You always come."

Something moves in his expression. That deep, quiet shift that happens in him sometimes when something has landed somewhere real.

His hands find your face — warm and certain and exactly where they always end up — and he tilts you toward him and looks at you for a moment in that way he has, the checking, grounding, finding-the-still-point way, and then he says, low and even:

"I love you."

He doesn't say it the way people say it when they're filling silence, or reaching for the expected thing, or performing the correct response to a tender moment. He says it the way Jack Abbott does everything that matters — like he has thought about it completely, decided on it fully, and intends to stand behind it without qualification.

"I love you," he says again, quieter. "And I'm proud of you. And I think you should sit down more."

You laugh, properly, suddenly, the kind that comes from somewhere warm, and he watches it happen with that almost-smile, the small tucked-away one that you have decided over the course of this year is one of your very favourite things in the world.

"Okay," you say, when the laugh has settled. "I love you too. And I'll try to sit down more."

"You won't."

"I'll try."

"You'll try for three days and then there'll be a busy Tuesday and you'll forget entirely."

"Then you can remind me."

"I will," he says, with the absolute certainty of someone making a commitment rather than a comment. "I'll be very annoying about it."

"I know you will."

"Good."

You reach up and straighten the collar of his t-shirt, just because it's there, just because your hands always find something to do when they're near him. He lets you, the way he lets you do the small things — the adjusting, the fixing, the tending — that he wouldn't accept from anyone else.

"Go see Maya," you say, eventually. "Sixweeks."

"Eight."

"Six. We've been through this."

"I'm a paying client."

"You have never once paid me."

"I pay in—"

"In what, Jack?"

He considers this. "Dinner."

"Dinner," you repeat.

"And emotional support."

You stare at him.

"You just admitted to paying me in emotional support."

"I'm very supportive."

"You told me to sit down and looked disapproving about my plant collection."

"The plant collection is excessive."

"The plant collection is thriving."

"They're everywhere."

"They're perfect." You point toward reception. "Six weeks. Go."

He goes, but slowly, the way he does when he's not quite ready to be done with the room yet, and you watch him cross the salon, past the hanging pothos and the trailing ivy and the enormous fiddle-leaf fig in the corner that has taken three years to reach its current magnificence and feel the thing in your chest that has lived there for the better part of a year and that you have stopped trying to find a sufficient word for.

You hear him reach the reception desk.

Hear the low exchange of voices. His, even and unhurried, and Maya's, which even from here carries the particular brightness of someone enormously entertained.

Then, clearly, because Maya has never once in her life modulated her volume appropriately: "She said six weeks and I'm not authorised to negotiate."

A pause.

"Fine," Jack says. "Six."

You press your lips together and look at the fiddle-leaf fig and say nothing.

The salon smells like good shampoo and coffee and something green and living.

[sun-snatcher]

( gif from this lovely set by the amazing @wesandresons ! )

☤ ─ GENTLEMAN'S INSTINCT

summ.  Sometimes you're reminded how merciless Abbot can be. You indulge in it. pairing. jack abbot / f!reader w.count.  5k ! a/n.  NSFW +18 , porn-with-prose , no y/n , petnames galore , oral m-receiving , aftercare , literally just jack abbot in that civvies-camo combo ‘cause yeah , also jack abbot being a hot badass while in uniform ( you'll see what I mean I hope )

IT’S THE DEMEANOUR, you notice. The glacial calm he carries in the face of any crises or catastrophes. That seeing him experiencing anything other than level-headedness is a rarity.

It comes along with the commanding presence he brings with his title— lieutenant; doctor; officer ( Combat Vet; Senior Attending; SWAT Medic )— that instinctively draws people in, or has them making way for him, has them deferring to him out of well-earned respect.

Physicality adds to it too, ofcourse. 

Biceps taut on his scrubs sleeves whenever he crosses his freckled arms to think, doing that pensive gaze he does where his chin tucks and he looks up past his lashes; shark-like in the tenebrous weight of his narrow stare, lips pursed and dimpling at his stubbled cheeks. 

Nor do the fatigues offer any help, either; they make him look meaner than he already does, you find. Tough. Militant. Imposing. Just a little more rugged, a little more rough-around-the-edges handsome, a little more grittier to the average eye in that classic, old-fashioned way. 

(The perfect archetype of a natural protector: both the shepherd who tends faithfully to his sheep and the dog that mercilessly defends them.) 

And then there’s that damn roughstone voice of his—

“Look at me,” he’d said, after the damage had been done. 

Ordered, it felt more like, though he was pleading. You’re surprised at how swift you’d paid automatic heed to the gravel-deep tone of his voice, riding that razor edge of unraveling concern and blistering anger. 

Well within reason, ofcourse: Abbot’s SWAT unit had been deployed on a gang-violence case. When the storm of a shootout had passed, and they’d ended up having to wheel in one of their own officers to PTMC’s Emergency Department alongside one of said criminal thugs in tow, you’d been the closest medical staff to get caught in the crossfire.

A tattooed blur reaching up from the gurney. A yelp as your hair is yanked down in a fit of blind rage. 

And then—

And then.

A pistol materialises, barrel pressed right between his eyes. 

“Go ahead,” Abbot snarls, an inch from pulling the trigger. “Give me a fucking reason.”

(He doesn’t open fire, of course. That would’ve been ridiculous. Not to mention a mountain of paperwork.)

And so the jarring chiaroscuro that was Jack Abbot appeared in South-22: Nonchalant then, in the way he’d cradled your face to assess you, in the way his fingers tucked a strand behind your ear as if they hadn’t been the same ones carrying a lethal weapon.

You okay? he’d murmured, voice that gravelly undertone that always makes you shudder. 

M’fine, you’d nodded, unable to stop openly admiring him in that dizzying uniform: all camo and tactical and trim, the muted colours working in his favour to bring out the bright of his eyes.

What is it, sweetheart? he’d frowned, shrewd as always. 

You swallowed. Shook your head. If he’d caught your there-and-away glance to his lips, he didn’t seem to comment. 

I’m gonna get back to work, you’d dismissed. It’s nothing, Jack.  

But—

“It’s not nothing,” he brings up, later that night. “This is very much not nothing, sweetheart.”

Straddled at the living room couch under the warm weight of you, Abbot has to physically slide his hands up from your hips and shackle your wrists away from his face. Done, ofcourse, with an alarmingly easy grip. (You file that thought away for later.)

Abbot looks handsome when frazzled like this, you think privately to yourself. A flush that's blossoming up from his chest, climbing his neck and rosing across the bridge of his nose. Even the tips of his ears have gone a distinct pink from your incessant kisses and constant grinding against his lap.

He hisses; lungs expanding, eyes screwing shut when you deliberately attempt to adjust your hips.

“Baby,” he breathes, pupils blown wide half in yen and in pleasant confusion. “What is up with you tonight?”

You ignore him. Waylay him into another bruising kiss instead. Drive your hips down coyly into his camo pants again, enough it makes him groan gutturally into your mouth at the friction of it all— 

Although it doesn’t appear to work: Abbot’s a disciplined man; he wouldn’t have made a good and dutiful soldier if he wasn’t. 

Instead he dodges the next kiss you give him, where it lands on the corner of his lips, much to your chagrin and his childish amusement, and he levels you with that discerning look.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. (Orders, it still feels like. Gruff and demanding. It makes you giddy. He can order you around to do whatever he wishes and you’d gladly—)

“Nothing,” you finally relent. Thumb at his cheek. Trace the slope of his lips down to his stubbled chin. “It’s just…”

Your hands drop to his chest, then further to the hem of his black shirt, where it’s come untucked at the waistline of his cargo pants.

Not once does he break eye-contact with you, and it’s then he reckons something in them.

“Is it my— Is the uniform doing it for you?” he pieces, laughter threading into his words. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why you were looking at me weird earlier. Why you practically jumped my bones when I walked through our front door—”

Heat floods to your face. You wrinkle your nose at him. “Don’t act like you didn’t know,” you scowl, letting him off the hook with that last statement: You had, in fact, practically gravitated and clung to him like a magnet when he’d come home wearing those lethal half-camo-half-civvies combination that hug him in all the right places. 

“I really didn’t,” he swears, unable to stop dimpling at you. And then: “Wow. You’re so easy.”

You scoff out an affronted Excuse me? Let out a stunned laugh as you swat him on the bicep at the boyish sense of pride blooming across his face. 

“I should’ve realised,” he sing-songs, catching your next smack with ease and pretending to nip at your fingertips in defense. “You like me in fatigues. I can’t believe it. You like a military man, huh?”

“I like you,” you correct, pulling your hands back to lay it on his sternum, feel the humdrum of his heartbeat under the broad of his muscles. “…But me pouncing you isn’t just because of that.”

“Oh?” he says, and like an intrigued bird, preens once again. You groan. Bow your head at the obvious delight in his face.

All he does is laugh and tuck the tresses of hair that’s slid along with your downturned gaze. Try to chase your eyes like he always does. You pick at the seam on his collar, a non-existent piece of lint— Just something to buy yourself time while you string your thoughts into something coherent. 

There’s that palpable sense in the space between— the tension you’d get when you feel somebody about to confess something; show you the chink in their proverbial armour, or offer you a plate of their beating heart. 

You’re… nervous, he realises. Sheepish about— 

His brows shoot to his hairline.

“Oh,” he says. Recognises it now: A yelp. A pistol. A threat. 

He lets out a wheeze. Doesn’t even try to hold it this time.

“Alright. I’m ordering dinner,” you deadpan, already climbing off him, where he instantly chimes in with a grasp on your wrist and a half-hearted series of No, no, no! I’m not laughing at you, honey, I promise. C’mere, baby, please—?

Abbot pulls you back in for a fervent kiss. Deep and meaningful as he breathes the scent of you in. Sorry, it translates, playful. I’m sorry. 

“I just…” His eyes squint after, head doing that endearing, fidgety turn and tilt it always does when he talks. “What is it exactly about what I did that turns you on?”

“Oh, now you’re just fishing for compliments,” you snort, twirling a rowdy curl at his nape when he lets out another weak laugh.

“The safety wasn’t even flipped, honey,” he explains, forming an imaginary pistol with his fingers to demonstrate the mechanism. “Hammer never dropped. The gun wouldn’t’ve went off.”

But you shrug anyway, run your nails down his scalp just the way he likes, carving through the salt-and-pepper of his hair as he hums. 

“It’s the thought that counts?” you offer, inadequate. “I… genuinely don’t know what exactly it was, if I’m being honest. Maybe it’s ’cause you were a total badass,” you muse, ignoring yet another laugh from him. “Maybe it’s the way you spoke to him.”

He breaks into a knowing smile. Voice tinged with amusement and something wry. “Oh, you like me a little mean, hm?” 

You laugh, caught. Pinch at his skin in comic retaliation. He doesn’t budge at all, like the tough-as-nails man he is; just stares at you with that hazy, affectionate gaze.

A slow beat passes as you reckon with your thoughts.

“I guess it’s just nice to be protected,” you say at last, the gentlest he’s ever heard. “Nice to feel invincible, y’know?”

Abbot falls quiet at that, blindsided.

Safe, he realises. He makes you feel safe.

Something abrupt tides over him. An impossible urge. An overwhelming desire to kiss and embrace and surround you. To tuck and fold you past his ribcage and into his weathered heart, forever sheltered in the home that is his arms—

“I love you, you know that?” he says, and he finds his voice is mellowed down now. Low, soft. An ocean-in-a-shell whisper when he says your name.

“Jack,” you exhale, a butterfly-wing breath. Abbot etches the divine sight of your smile into his mind. Thinks he could drown in the affection of your voice alone— Would gladly allow it. “I love you too.”

When you dip down to kiss him it's like lighting a wick aflame. The quickfire spark of a flintwheel. Then he’s nosing down and down, mouthing from the seam of your lips to your jaw, your pulsepoint, your collar, your bare shoulder. He’ll mark you up later, he thinks, right now he just wants to feel every inch of you.

Abbot caresses up your arms, pulls your left hand from his cheek to turn it over. And then he’s pressing his lips upon your palm up to your fingertips— a reverent kiss. Like you’re his holy artifact; a Saint’s relic to worship.

“Chivalrous,” you muse mindlessly, tracing down the dent of his cheek, the stippled line across his jaw. You can feel your heart swell. Feel his hands snaking up your skin beneath your shirt— his shirt, actually— that swallows you whole, loose and already slipping one shoulder.

“I threatened to kill a man,” he points out incredulously, voice dropped in that whispery octave again; smoky, dark.

Exactly, you don’t reply, feeling that excitable buzz through your spine once more at the vivid memory: bright blood and gleaming gunmetal; the predatorial growl in his voice and the dangerous expression on his face. Go ahead. Give me a fucking reason.

“For me,” you add, purring against his lips, breath damp and curling with his. You give him a kiss chaste enough that it has him craning closer for more. “You did it for me.”

Then your hands wander, up neath the cotton of his shirt and down his smoldering skin, slow and steady, until they settle at the flesh of his navel; until your manicured nails catch on the buttons of his camo pants. “So let me do something for you.”

Baby, he chokes back, half-desperate already. You press a bruising, saccharine kiss to lean him back as you work him free, revelling in the shudder of his battleworn body when the zipper sings through the air, and you take your time to reach into his waistband to wrap your fingers around the thick of him. 

It’s hot and heavy when you tug his cock out.

“S’for you,” you murmur, sinking to your knees now, between the gaps of his legs. 

He watches you rapt with attention when you lean a cheek into the camo, goosebumps lining his skin at the sight of you— doe-eyed and looking like you’re right where you want to be as a flash of your wet tongue makes itself known.

The breach of his swollen, leaky head into your mouth is divine. 

It doesn’t take very long before his hand is fisting your hair with barely concealed restraint. It’s messy, this time. Forgoing his usual reflex to bunch it into a ponytail for your own ease. (Oh, you hear his dry, biting sarcasm ring in your head, you like me a little mean, hm?) The other sits splayed on the gap between your shoulder blades, running the pads of his fingers up your nape.

“Ja— mh,” you choke, feeling the tip of him reach the back of your throat already. His hips are shifting up from the sofa to meet your insistent pace. Be a little harsher, you want to say, but you’re intoxicated with the scent and taste of him. Nose buried at his happy trail every time you bottom out and scrape your nails against his tense thighs.

You’re practically salivating over his cock and dampening the fly of his pants. He tastes like skin and something masculine. Smells like heady sweat and gunpowder. 

You’re dizzy with delight everytime he curses; everytime he croons. Watching each ripple of his forearms, sinews of muscles flexing under freckled skin as he braces himself from going too far—

“Eyes on me, honey,” Abbot rasps. Orders. There are jittering phosphenes in your peripherals when you meet his gaze, his eyes shadowed into something dark from the angle of the dim light above him. It sends a buzz through you. Forces a wanton, strangled sound from your throat that has him twitching excitedly in your mouth. “God, yeah. That’s it, baby.” 

It’s a touch condescending. Dangerous. That same, clinical way he gets as a senior mentoring his juniors, or in his gaze whenever he’s observing something in a patient; diagnosing. 

“You wanted mean,” he repeats, carefully. Making sure you’re registering each word. “Sweetheart. Want me to use you?”

(Courteous, still. Ensuring. May I? he seems to ask. A gentleman’s instinct.)

He’s pulling you apart from his cock the next second. Abrupt enough you’re gasping for air with a sickening pop of your lips, reflexively swallowing around the invisible shape he’s molded into your throat. A string of saliva connects; sloppy. It makes a frisson run through Abbot at the lewd sight. Answer me. 

“Yes,” you whisper to his question. Then, before the synapses in your brain could fire upon realisation: “Yes, Sir.”

Abbot slams his eyes shut. “Fuck.” Lets out a strained breath of a laugh. “Jesus, woman,” he exhales, flickering back to where your lithe fingers are mindlessly rolling and flexing over the hard length of him: slow strokes, a squeeze, a shy kitten-lick. 

He’d heard the title before, ofcourse. Sir. In his military days and tactical briefings during his moonlighting with SWAT teams, where rank and hierarchy is commonplace and acknowledged without question. A routine structure that never leaves those walls— 

Until now, at least. And even then formalities have never been a thing between you both, neither in the ED. It’s a collaborative affair when someone’s life is on the line— So hearing it now in the walls of home, so eager and so absentmindedly said, hits him square in the chest more than he’d like to admit. 

(On your knees, you look smaller like this: docile. Submissive; easier to handle, to bend into will or obedience. 

It makes him feel— powerful.)

“Go ahead, then,” he says, with newfound clarity and lust-filled amusement. He rakes his nails down your scalp, sets a demanding palm. “Be good for me.”

In no time, he’s forcing his cock past the seal of your lips. It’s wet and messy as you struggle to take the stiff length of him down in one go once more, muffled tiny sounds escaping you in lewd little hums and Mh, mh, mh— when he bobs you further down; makes you take him just that inch more.

Each rise and fall of your head is controlled by his clutch. He doesn’t let you pull back at times now— a new game— testing how long you can hold it before you’re tapping at his thighs, heart skittering in alarm— and even then he dares to tarry a second or two longer just for his own pleasure.

“Deeper, baby. You can do it,” he’d soothe, thumbing away the drool leaking from your lips. “Yeah? Fuck. You feel so good.”

The praises shoot liquid pleasure down your spine; makes you rub your thighs as you whine. Every grunt he makes is a compliment; every twitch and buck of his hips a trophy; every sharp hiss and muttering curse a jewel to your crown.

“Maybe I’ll fuck you in uniform,” he pants, when he eventually yanks you from his cock for a moment’s reprieve. His hand slides down from your scalp to press at both your cheeks, watching the slick dribble to your chin when he taps his thumb expectantly on your wet lips. “S’that what you want, honey?”

Unbidden, the image of Abbot half-feral as he fucks you brutally from behind flashes in your head. He’d command you strip naked for him, you imagine, and perhaps he’d use you for his own personal pleasure, still decked in that olive quarter-zip and taking, claiming, imposing himself onto you by burying his cock in you.

You imagine the sound of his belt— carrying his sidearms— divested and landing on the floor, his camo pants hurriedly unzipped just enough to pull his cock out while he climbs right into you with no prep; the full weight of his chest pressing down onto you from behind so you couldn’t squirm; couldn’t break free from the bicep he’d curl flush around your neck while he bit marks down the hollow of your throat, groaning into your ear as he c—

You whimper. It’s a pathetic sound; begging to be used. Humiliation burns your cheeks. “Yes.”

Abbot’s brows climb. Grip tightens in rumbling disapproval.

“—Sir,” you tag at the last second, gut seizing in half-fear and half-thrill at how quickly he’s already taken to this powerplay. “Yes, Sir.”

“There we go,” he coos, throbbing at how ready you are to heed. He bites his lip, curled at the edges with something akin to a daze and pure enamourment. He’d never have expected this from you— let alone himself. 

The gunpoint confrontation he’d had today with that patient had barely registered as anything remarkable to him. The dizzying cocktail of power and command over anyone, in fact, has never been something he’d given thought to. Sure, it’s satisfying to be feared, and above all out of respect— but it’d been nothing but a job to him. An instinct to move; to make sure no one in the Pitt is hurt.

But today, with the quiet surge of authority that comes with donning his fatigues— an unconscious, private sense of gratification and pride has him intoxicated at how you seem to defer to his competence, to his demands. Especially now, with how quickly you’d dropped to your knees for him in pure admiration, so eager to deign to his unspoken wishes and serve him just because he threatened a man while in uniform—

“You’ve got a job to do first, sweetheart,” he murmurs, meeting the excited glint in your teary eyes. “Finish what you started.”

He brackets your face with the palms of his hands and puts you back to work. Prespend drips down your chin as he feeds himself back down your throat, feels the slip and curl of your tongue as it slides over the veins of his cock. “Hah, f—uck,” he bites out, “Yeah. Attagirl. Attagirl.”

His pace is self-indulgent and cruel. Demanding; just how you’d pleaded it. Sinful approval tumbles from his mouth at how You take me so well, baby, you can do it. You can take it, can’t you? You wanted this, so I’ll give it. Just be a good girl and fuck, take it— a jumbled concoction of praises and condescending quips that has your mind spinning with both embarrassment and appetite.

His grasp turns into a vice as the minutes pass. Coiling around the sides of your face as he anchors you. He smothers and sinks you lower at each hard pump of your mouth around him, thumbing at a stray tear with a huff of a laugh. Spoiling himself with this fantasy of yours; with every gagging whine you make.

“C’mon now,” he husks, sounding breathless. “Almost there, pretty girl. Doing so good.”

You’re carving crescents into his thighs. Lungs searing at the mild hypoxia. An aching heat pooling south beneath you. His brows are pinched into an irritated divot when he allows you up for an obligated sliver of a breath, before fitting himself back into your mouth to fuck your throat into completion. 

Greedy, you think, completely delirious and candidly blissed out from the flattery and the sight of Abbot this way: eyes struggling not to roll as his head lulls from the utter euphoria coursing through his veins. You like him greedy and selfish and mean. 

That innate soldier that he can never shake from the doctor in him, appearing sporadically in flashes over days with combative patients or browbeating visitors. That effortlessly commands a room by sheer militant presence, that doesn’t take no for an answer, that can still be as deadly weaponless and with his own bare hands.

“Baby,” he warns coarsely, memorising the delicious glide of your tongue around his cock. He bites his lip and fights the urge to throw his head back onto the couch. “M’close. So close, sweetheart.”

It’s flattering to hear; to feel. Seeing Abbot looming above you like an eclipse, in complete control over your breathing, yet visibly struggling with effort as you slide your hands up from his thighs to his navel and to his hips; using it as grip to sink yourself deeper and deeper— Fuck, baby, he slurs. You’re so good to me. So fucking good—

“I’m gonna come,” he pants, breath hitching. It’s a primal sound, and for a moment you think he’ll finish in your mouth, paint you thick with him. “Yeah, fuck. M’gonna come—”

But he loosens his grip instead, lets you gasp for air as he pulls out and rests his cock on the tip of your tongue. It’s swollen; An angry, aching red. Fit to burst.

What was it you’d called this earlier? A gentleman’s instinct. Your own Prince Charming. That despite the ironclad hold avarice has over his self, he still courteously thinks of and puts you first; Still can rein in his wild desire and dial in the discipline, prioritise graciousness: 

“Where d’you want me, honey?” he whispers.

Abbot, before he is a deadly man, is a good man.

“I wanna, I—” you fluster, throat raw from overuse as your tunnel vision attempts to re-widen with the burst of oxygen. “Inside. Wanna swallow you. Please.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he doesn’t say, but it’s written in his face. “Yeah?” he assents, twitching in anticipation as he pets at the crown of your head. “Yeah. Don’t have to beg, baby. I’ll give it.”

“I’ll take it,” you nod feverishly, canting your head back into his grip again. His hands ease to your nape, and you let out a moan at the slow tightening curl of his fingers. “I’ll take all of it, Sir.”

His gaze is treacherous as he guides your mouth to his cock again. “Damn right you will.”

The approval makes your head swim. A decree. No room for mistakes or failure. You’ll take what he gives and ten more should he demand it. 

The strangled noises you make in your attempt to appeal to him— gags, mewls, coughs— makes him throb. Stifled moans that vibrate down his cock and knots in his groin. Deriving a depraved pleasure from your troubles to take him to the hilt. (Too big, you’d complained to him once, when he’d stuffed your cunt full of him. You’re so fucking big, Jack—)

The head of his cock grinds the back of your throat. He’s pulsing like a heartbeat. Ready to pump you to the brim. It’s driving Abbot mad how close he is, yet how much longer he wants to prolong this perpetual ecstasy.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses, rutting harder into you. Your name sounds like gospel as he chants it. Borderline a snarl. “I’m gonna come, honey,” he warns. “Y’gonna take it all, hm? Be a good— hah, fuck— be a good girl.”

Please, you keen. Letting him use your mouth recklessly to chase his high, hand at the back of your skull as he shoves you down to meet his thrusts: In. Out. In. Out. It’s delicious. It’s delicious, and you’re just as starved for his cum as he is for the wet, hot seal of your mouth to milk him clean.

“Yeah, I’m—” he stumbles, senseless. Too occupied with keeping you firmly suffocated around him. With the echoing squeak of the couch and the sickly-sweet sounds he’s pulling from your taut lips. “Fuck, sweetheart— Ah—”

It’s white-hot when he comes. Hips flexing. A flood of pure, unadulterated bliss. Suckling him down to the root, cheeks hollowed and nose nestled to the bed of curls led by his happy trail. 

Ropes of his thick cum streak your tongue and throat in rapid bursts, sudden enough it makes you lurch from your gag reflex, makes your back jump and arch instinctively under his domineering grip. Stay still, he means to say, coming out as a grunt. Quit fussing.

Abbot can imagine it as well as you can taste the molten spill of him. Feels the muscles in your throat twitching violently as you work him through it. Picturing the pearlescent mixture dripping down, down, down your pharynx like sin; a mark that brands you as his from the inside out. 

Your chokes are precious. Has him growling out incoherently as he continues to drain all of himself into you in spurts. “Ohh, good girl,” he sighs, looking down at the heavenly sight:

Fanned lashes fluttering. Maintaining that erotic eye-contact the way he likes. Dazed with halcyon and eros at the way he’s filled your mouth impossibly to the brim. He ought to burn this image of you into his brain forever.

Mmph, you hum, jaw aching from the sheer size of him; from the absolute work out he’d just dragged you through. When you pull away with a lingering kiss on his cock, he watches you, captivated; Unhinging just enough to show him the pool of white cum in your mouth, and then, as if coveting it— 

You swallow. Sticky. Tangy. Clicks as it goes down your throat.

“Attagirl,” Abbot drawls, brushing his knuckles at your cheek with tender affection. Collecting the tears rolling down them as a slow minute passes. “Did as I asked. So good. You’re so good, you know that?”

The blatant adoration sits fuzzy in your heart. Warmth settling in your ribcage and comfortably making a home there. You’re suddenly longing to be held— to feel what you felt when he’d propped that gun to the man’s forehead. Safe, you recall. You’ve done the job, after all, haven’t you?

Abbot reads your mind just as intuitively. Knows you better than anyone. 

“C’mon, pretty girl. Up,” he orders, without the bite now; without the rough tone and the manhandling. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

It’s soft. The fantastical image of him being some beastly, unforgiving thing— slows to a crawl and fades away at his behest. He slides his palms to your shoulders and gently helps you up onto his lap, folds you into his arms where he devours you into a doting, winsome kiss, before he lays your head to rest on his collar.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head. Let’s you square your breathing back into reality as his own tachy heart begins to slow in tandem with yours.

“Alright?” he soothes, when the moment passes. He’s tucked you into a cradle-like embrace— shelter, you feel, surrounded by nothing but him and only him— his one hand still busy with smoothing out the uneven tangles he’s made in your hair. 

“Mhm,” is all you muster for now. Unduly spent and satisfied to speak. Basking in the aftermath of sex; melting in his delicate aftercare.

“Too rough?” Abbot asks, the concern he’d tamped down earlier now beginning to surface. He cranes to meet your sleepy gaze; the only way he’d truly be able to discern whether you’re telling him the truth. “You listening, honey?”

That’s impossible, you could never hurt me, you want to say, but settle on a less-taxing: “No, I enjoyed it,” and shake your head, giving him a content smile as you nudge your forehead at his chin. “Just give me a minute before the next round.”

He lets out an exasperated laugh. Bumps his nose to yours. “You’re crazy,” he teases, meeting your lips in another fond kiss: chaste but deep, meaningful. Sits in his marrows like candied honey. “Can we at least have dinner first, sweetheart?”

“Old man needs his sustenance?” you jest, letting out a yelp when he pokes at your waist and burrows his face into your neck to nip playfully. “Okay! Okay. Dinner first, Jack.”

“Then you can have me any way you want,” he agrees, thumbing a stray strand from your face. Painfully domestic, he muses, for what’s just occurred between you two.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you narrow. But he lets out an amused snort in reply.

“You like when I threaten people, baby. You just proved that about five minutes ago with the most intense blowjob I’ve ev—”

“Dinner!” you override, face aflame once more as you smack a hand over his mouth. “Hungry. Let’s?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he smiles.

[this-actually-is-my-first-rodeo]

FOUND IT 🥹🙏

Beautiful work, this is canon Abbot to me

[this-actually-is-my-first-rodeo]

I was reading this Jack Abbot x reader piece and I couldn’t like or reblog so I closed the app, but now I can’t remember the name or author!!!

BASICALLY:

Abbot is wearing half civvies and half fatigues, this patient grabs reader so Abbot threatens him with his gun!! Then, Abbott and reader get home they talk about (and then some) reader’s thoughts on Jack in uniform/protecting her/being her safe space. And of course there’s smut. It was a single chapter work!! Help please ;-;

[robinavich]

godlight masterlist

jack abbot x f!attorney!reader

summary: working as in house counsel means you've become very acquainted with jack abbot and his little scrawl of a signature. god help him.

content: sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, medical inaccuracy obviously--sue me I'm in law not medicine, blood and wound mentions but this is a medical show so

total wc: 42,468

status: ongoing

godlight (wc: 16.7k) | the first friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass robby with, and you leave through the stairs with jack abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh.

hey, siri (wc: 3k) | you become privy to some abbot-sponsored healthcare fraud.

ornithological jurisprudence (wc: 3k) | bothering jack abbot is your specialty, fuck whatever your actual job is.

goldilocks (wc: 5k) | jack has trouble sleeping. you don’t make it any easier.

saint jack (wc: 14.3k) | abbot decides it's your turn to fix what's broken and, lucky for you, he's there to talk you through it.

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to the lovely @abbotstudy for this fantastic gifset ! )

☤ ─ 1/? | IN LIEU OF FLOWERS ; jack abbot

summ.  Fate, it seems, has a new plan for Jack Abbot. or:  Two warforged souls fall in love. w.count.  6k, baby! tags.  Set pre-S2 (PittFest) , no y/n , descriptions of panic/anxiety attacks , combat & PTSD mentions , probable medical inaccuracies , slow-burn? , reluctant friends-to-lovers , tags tbd fic tag: #ILF; a/n.  A potential series! Here’s to hoping I have the inspiration to keep it. Tell me what you think!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ IT'S MUCH, MUCH later that Jack Abbot realises something: 

It was neither the eulogies, the last salutes of fellow servicemen, nor the echoing pop of the Honor Guard’s rifle volleys that had sent him over the edge. No; it was the flowers— white lilies, with something blue— surrounding them when he bore witness to the all-too-familiar sight of an American Flag being folded and handed delicately over to yet another grieving wife.

Mrs. Foster is a strong woman because she has to be a strong mother.

She’s not strong today.

Abbot figures he can try, at the very least, to be that for her. There’s very little he can do about grief and even less he can do about death, so he lets her embrace him after the procession for however long she needs it, then goes through the motions of offering his condolences; of saying what needs to be said despite how useless it feels to say them. 

“He was a good man,” is what he concludes with. And she smiles that performative smile, the weary kind that never reaches the eyes, shows the weight in her marrows. He sees a reflection of himself in her like clear water.

Then they’re all off. It’s the peak of July; it wouldn’t do to endure the summer humidity. By and by, friends and family and comrades slowly scatter to return home; silence takes up the vast space of Allegheny Cemetery and the dusty corners of his soul. Silence, and standing arrangements of flowers.

White lilies, with something blue.

Clustered. Soft. He doesn’t know their names. He knows it’s definitely not the same kind he bought, the day h—

“Better the shakes come after than during,” comes a voice.

He blinks. Looks over his shoulder from where he’s parked himself onto a lone bench to try and will himself from giving into this sudden tide of anxiety. 

It’s you. 

From the funeral. He can’t recall your name, but you’d served alongside Lt. Foster’s unit in Afghanistan, from what he gathered from your eulogy— but he almost certainly remembers you from the VA. Two tours, you’d shared, on one of Abbot’s earliest memories of that therapy programme. On the shittier days, I sometimes still mistake shadows cast by ceiling fans for helo rotors.

You’d been a fellow combat medic just like him. Abbot had watched you, poised in the way all jaded soldiers carry themselves after surviving the dogs of war, pounding what must’ve been either your CMB or Unit pin into the Lieutenant’s casket as tribute. He’d figured you would have already left the funeral with the others.

“Better no shakes at all,” he answers, curt to the point of being rude. It’s unfair of him to do so, but he isn’t in the mood, at this very moment, for niceties.

But he can feel you watching him even after he turns away. Examining. Assessing. It makes him feel like an exposed nerve. Makes him clench his fists tighter to stop the jitter. He wants to crawl out his skin. He wants to disappear into himself and not be perceived.

“Were you close?” you ask. Your voice is frustratingly gentle, the type of demonstrable cadence bordering on either compassion or pity. He can’t tell if he hates it. Hell, he can’t get his thoughts straightened out at all. Everything in him is unraveling.

White lilies, with something blue.

“Close enough,” he answers.

“How d—”

“I’d rather be alone,” Abbot overrides, sharp. And he knows he is being an asshole this time, he figures, because he finds himself uselessly adding, “Please,” out of guilt at his own discourtesy.

If you’d been offended, though, it doesn’t show. 

He’s not quite sure what you think at all— and frankly doesn’t care— really, because eventually your nebulous presence departed his side, and he finally felt free to cave in on himself; to grieve all that he’d done and failed to do in this wretched life. 

He wrings his hands and squeezes his wedding ring— his proverbial heart— until that rotten, seizing dread between his ribcage gradually unfolds itself; until the tunnel-vision recedes along with the rush of blood in his head; until the deafening tinnitus ebbs away into nothingness.

It’s only when the phantom ache in his amputated leg comes that he remembers the dreary forecast for that afternoon. The pain always appears like a tocsin for dismal weather.

“Shit,” he says to no one in particular, looking skyward. The clouds drifting over earlier have finally swallowed the sun and brought along with it a silvery shower, already inching its way down the cemetery lot. Abbot hadn’t had the presence of mind to bring along—

An umbrella. 

Black and nondescript. It’s set beside him on the bench like a portable, metaphorical olive branch.

That was the beginning.

The Universe, he notices, slowly begins paving inroads between his life and yours.

Abbot is a pragmatist, not one to believe in angel numbers or the world shifting itself around him (though he does glare at Dr. Shen in regards to the forbidden Q-word, and can probably be convinced of the ER Full-Moon phenomena if you really try hard enough), so he knows exactly why he keeps getting reminders of you everywhere he looks—

Frequency illusion; the Baader-Meinhof Effect: The more you think about something, the more they start to stand out and appear around you. Cognitive bias, if you will.

The umbrella you’d lent him was still yet to be returned, after all, and because of it, you’ve been dog-eared like a wrinkled page into his brain.

That, and the fact that August has been wrack with uncharacteristically rainy weather. He’s found himself using your umbrella more than once, has kept it in his locker for when cloudbursts decide to ruin his commutes. 

“And last but not least, drumroll please: another hydroplaning accident,” Robby says, finishing his handover with a decisive click of his tablet back into its charging dock at the Nurses station. 

“Guy’s lucky. Bruised sternum and a rib contusion from his seatbelt. Minor pneumothorax, but nothing that can’t be resolved spontaneously. We’re eyeballing him at South-16 for now before a bed opens upstairs.”

“‘Course we are,” Abbot sighs. “That’s, what, the fifth weather-related MVC we’ve got this week?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Dana, looking sympathetic as she muffles the landline handset on her shoulder, had leaned over the counter to interrupt them with news. “Robby, ETA 5 on the transport team for our donor.”

It’s for their firefighter. Nina Wyndham, 26-year-old female, Robby had briefed him, got caught in an apartment fire earlier this afternoon trying to save a kid, wheeled in unresponsive. We did what we could. CT came back with diffuse anoxic brain injury. 

Abbot can picture the dark grey scan in his mind’s eye; complete deprivation of oxygen. She’d met the criteria for brain-death, her family gracious enough to permit organ donation.

“We’re doing the honor walk in here,” Abbot says, less of a question than it is a statement. 

“ICU’s still backed up from the pile-up two days ago, remember?” Dana laments, walking with Robby as they all found their place alongside the other staff lining up. That had been another nasty case of aquaplaning which sent seven MVC trauma victims in a row to the ED. “We had no choice but to keep her down here, instead.”

From the hub, it's clear to see Nina Wyndham is well-loved. Her family and fellow colleagues are filed in numbers along the walls of the Pitt now, looking grave, most with faces red and wet with tears. It takes Abbot a while to notice— 

You’re here, too.

He catches your downcast gaze, keeps you in his periphery as the honor walk took place, up until the hall had loosened and Wyndham’s family was eventually shepherded along with her transport from the ambulance bay. You’d stood close to the doors, watching the convoy turn out the hospital grounds, gloomy clouds already dimming the sky overhead. 

Abbot couldn’t find the right words to say, for some reason— he was battling with an intense sensation of déjà-vu.

Frequency illusion; Baader-Meinhof.

The Universe must have a dark sense of humor to put Abbot in a situation as ironic as this. Had he not been on the receiving end, and bitten the hand that fed— or, to be more precise, extended an olive branch to— him, just a month ago? 

He entertains the idea of bringing it up. Of asking you to wait while he fetches it from his locker. Abbot would have to steel himself for the caustic remark, the anger that comes with grief, the tongue-lashing. 

I owe you your umbrella, he finally moves to say into the silence, but the words are snatched away from him. Lena is paging him: A patient had coded, demanding his immediate attention. 

It’s the last he’d seen of you until much later.

Nina Wyndham’s name is a hot topic by the end of August. A week following her death, a candlelight vigil had been set to take place at the VA to celebrate and honor the firefighter who gave the better half of her life in service to the city. It turns out the Wyndham’s are volunteers within the hospital, active with their therapy programme: The men in their family served; a family trade. 

Abbot couldn’t attend. 

Instead he’d stood and watched it being streamed out the TV of the PTMC’s waiting room instead, rapt, listening to the stories shared and outpour of gratitude from the community. Then your face appeared, glimpsed alongside Nina Wyndham’s father and other veterans, standing like a beacon at the forefront of shuttering cameras as the man tearfully addressed the public, voice echoing down flagstones.

He turned away when the camera cut and zoomed in onto a display of flowers.

White lilies, with something blue.

It’d made his hair stand on end— And suddenly there was that crawl under his skin again.

Abbot ought to bring it up to his therapist.

For now, he buries himself into his work, and tries to ignore every angel number and shift of weather and reference to you from whatever divine providence is apparently trying to bring to his attention. He does so, unfailingly, until the Universe had thrown at him another veteran— Raymond Orser— and let him run a code for two hours straight to no avail.

Had a guy come in. Hit by a drunk driver in a crosswalk. 39-year old vet. Survived three tours without a scratch.

Then he needles at Mel King, irrational and disproportionate of a reaction as it is, simply because she was excited; for being from the VA, for unintentionally reminding him of you and that umbrella and that damn way he shook like a leaf over a bunch of flowers.

Frequency illusion; Baader-Meinhof. 

White lilies wi—

His temper hasn’t been far from the surface these days. Only Dana and Lena have been able to withstand his cold demeanour.

At half-past nine in the morning, his phone buzzes on his living room coffee table. It’s Robby. Raymond Orser’s sister dropped by, the notification reads. She said to tell you she’s grateful for your letter.

Abbot doesn’t bother replying. Instead he just buoys himself with take-out he’d bought on the way back home after a blistering shower, lets the television drone on to fill in the silence of his house as he catches up on his cleaning and tidying. 

Most of all he just thinks of Foster, of Wyndham, of you and the VA— of the two long, hopeless hours he'd spent coding a decorated veteran. The Universe has recently felt unbearably small. Had you known him, perhaps? Would you attend yet another funeral of a friend?

Maybe he should bring you up to his therapist too.

Abbot draws the curtains shut to keep the sunlight out, props his prosthetic by the foot of his bed, then tosses and turns enough to force himself to switch on the police scanner as a way to drown out the din in his head.

It stays on and on; long enough for the static to fade away into white-noise, until his alertness subsides and he drifts between consciousness, margining the thin line of both waking and dreaming, lulled by inane radio chatter and transmissions from dispatch over low-level crimes. 

…And then Jack’s freezing his nose off in his fatigues, hoping he doesn’t get an earful from Sgt. Graves for swiping his crappy zippo lighter from right under his nose just so he could bum a cigarette from Keller and smoke in peace by the parked humvees during night patrol.

It takes a dozen tries before the flintwheel sparks. By then, somebody leans against the humvee beside him and crosses their wrists at rest on the butt of their rifle, moonlit face somehow veiled by the muslin-thin wisps of smoke Jack is exhaling. The stranger politely declines a puff.

Those things kill, Doc, says the soldier.

I gotta stay warm somehow, Jack humors. Besides, I’ll take my chances. Pretty sure a bullet will take me out before I collect enough cancer in my lungs.

Y’oughta go, continues the soldier. His face is still shadowed. Whad’ya mean ‘why?’ You’ve got places to be, Doc.

Where? he asks, perplexed. We’re still on night patro—         

The radio on Jack’s plate carrier crackles to life. 

He loses his cigarette from the sheer force of him jumping out his skin. It’s strings of patterned numbers and communicative jargon. A series of brevity codes, he realises. The officer’s voice is curdled thick with panic as they detail the situation live to a dispatch operator: 

Send all units… been a mass sh… I repeat! Th…s an active shooter at Pitt…

Below him, his boots come off disgustingly sticky from a growing puddle where his cigarette has landed and flickered out. It’s blood red. It’s coming from another new soldier, limp on the dusty floor. It’s—

You.

The smoke clears from the nightsky, and Jack freezes at the face of the stranger looming beside him.

Dr. Abbot, drawls Lt. Raymond Orser. It’s time to wake up.

He doesn’t. Not fully, that is. The nightmare had sown a discordance in his soul, however levelheaded he believes he is for having jolted awake and gathered himself quick enough to walk out the front door.

Abbot shoots a text he doubts will be read, puts his bad leg through the wringer by making the trip to PTMC in half the time it usually takes, returns the grateful embrace of Robby with his camo-bag hanging off one shoulder. And it’s not until then— instructing their motley crew of medical staff on triage colours; how to play God by picking and choosing who could and couldn’t be saved— that the clarity of purpose had sobered him up, had awakened him. 

The PA overhead booms. Trauma bays are gutted free of unnecessary equipment and loaded disaster bins thunder down the hallways. Gurneys are queued up neatly by the ambulance bay like a harrowing omen; Doctors and nurses and techs of every department soar past each other looking like guardian angels in their paper-white gowns and PPE, armed to the teeth against the divine call of Death.

In a blink they’re descending into madness: triaging a carload of patients, and then the next crisis, and then the next. Everyone drowns out the riot of blaring sirens echoing from the outside; ignores the howling, screaming, crying. 

Dr. Jack Abbot is calm. Here is a combat medic home at last; in his terrifying element: Blood and death and chaos. 

But ofcourse, comes a trick of fate.

He’s snapping on his tenth set of nitrile gloves when his ears perk up at someone’s voice— and his heart seizes.

Abbot nearly gets whiplash.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You cock your head. “Not my name.”

Then: “Not my blood, either,” you add, exasperated.

Straddling an obvious Red tag patient— unconscious male, young, early-teens— You’re half-dressed and elbows up in smatters of blood and cruor, denim shorts streaked a grisly red all the way down to your shoes. You had forgone your top in favor of turning it into a makeshift pressure dressing, packed tightly over a gory pelvis wound you’ve managed to dedicate your entire bodyweight onto for the past six minutes. 

Robby and Abbot are already wheeling you both into Trauma-2 as you rattle off vitals in rapid-fire succession. 

Ruptured femoral. Bullet went through and through. Couldn’t get a junction tourniquet. Lost his pulse en route but came back with CPR and an epi. Thready radial. Unresponsive since. 

“Prep for REBOA,” you exact. “Somebody drill in an IO. Hang up a unit of whatever blood we’ve got for however many we can spare.”

“What she said,” Robby assents, into the split-second hesitation from the nurses. “2 unit’s O-Neg, Jesse. Let’s move, Dr. Mohan!”

The room leaps into action. Someone takes over pressure for you. The swap off is as smooth as it can get. Robby barely manages to look up from the fray to tell Abbot he’ll handle the trauma and to Go check on her, and eventually you find yourself being tailed out the bay, bristling in search of the closest restroom in sight as Abbot calls out your name.

“I need you to point me to where I can change out of this disaster of an outfit before we—”

“Woah-ho-ho, stand down, soldier,” Abbot orders, looping a hand at your upper arm to pivot you swiftly back to his side. He minds not to jostle you, gives you a critical once-over. “There is no we. You are a patient.”

You stare at him with as much affront one can muster after barking out medical orders half-naked in a bra and blood-stained shorts.

Abbot meets your stare just as evenly.

“EMS cleared me at the scene,” you recount, as measured as you can. “I’m an EM Attending from the VA, and I’ve got hospital privileges to practice medicine here at PTMC.”

(Something in his head clicks in place. He vaguely remembers you in the therapy programme mentioning that after having been discharged from the military you’d pursued a career in civilian medicine.)

“You can still easily be revoked treating patients while walking around like—” he waves a vague hand and wears an even vaguer, awkward expression, “—roadkill.”

“What a charmer,” you mutter, trying not to squirm under his scrutinising gaze. He’s tugged you into a corner away from the thoroughfare and begun poking and examining you. It’s clinical: assessing all your exposed extremities from head to toe, narrowing his eyes at what appear to be scrapes or blooming bruises. None of the glaring blood is yours, but it’s impossible to tell at first glance. 

“I’m surprised you even remembered my name,” you ask.

He clicks his pen-light, tracks your pupillary reactions; instructs you to follow his finger. “Dr. Mohan,” he explains.

Samira had lit up at the sight of you whisked into the bay, practically cheering your name out faster than she can realise that this was probably the worst state to see a beloved ex-colleague of hers in. 

“Right,” you snort. “So, tell me, are you always this rude to people trying to help you out, Dr. Abbot?” 

It’s a loaded question. Abbot privately flinches.

“Believe it or not, this is actually me being nice,” he says wryly, reflexively defensive. “Y’know what day it is?”

“Oh, come on—”

“Humor me,” he says, in a tone that implies he isn’t being humorous at all, before his pen-light clicks shut. He drops his hand and catches your wrist just as you move again. Fingers settle over your radial pulse. It’s strong and steady.

“September 5th; Friday. You’re being a pain in my ass,” you relent. “The blood isn’t mine. Hell, I barely stepped foot into PittFest before the shooting started. I got bumped against some barriers—” his eyes flick at your ribs upon hearing that, not quite convinced, “—but that’s all there is. I’ve been declared A-and-O. I’m operational.”

He stops you short again when you attempt to sidestep him towards an isolation cart. 

“You’re upright. That’s not the same thing. You can still compensate right up until you don’t,” he says incredulously. “Internal hemorrhaging, delayed pneumothorax— pick your fancy. Either way, none of your symptoms might present until your adrenaline crashes. I’m not taking that chance on you this time.”

You can hardly wrap your head around that last sentence before he turns away.

“Head to Family Medicine with the Green tags,” he goes on, ignoring your protests, “we don’t have time to argue about this.”

“Exactly!” you hiss. It seems to have startled him into actually listening to you now. “Look around you. You’re going to need all the help you can get and I am not compromised.”

“For now. But who knows if—?”

“We both know ‘for now’ is all these people have left,” you insist. It’s the harshest tone you’ve taken with him yet.

As if on cue, someone frantically calls out for help with an airway. 

( Something in him twitches out of instinct. Go help them. It’s Dr. McKay and her Pink MCI-12— male, twenties, unstable chest wound— probably circling the drain and destabilising to Red, by now. ) 

The world unnarrows itself from you, and the clamour of the Pitt makes itself known to him again.

Abbot grits his teeth. Tamps down that instinctive flare of frustration he gets whenever a situation gets away from him. He thinks of Foster, of Wyndham. He thinks of Orser; Imagines you— another combat veteran coding under his watch, just like that omen of a nightmare.

“You’re killing me here,” he says, with a sudden candor. You have been for quite awhile now.

But he lets out an exasperated sound, instead, something akin to a sigh and a growl.

“Goddamnit. Alright, somebody get our hero a scrub top!” he orders, already making his way down towards Central-6 with a final, pointed look at you. “Hey, stay within my sightline, you copy? I will not hesitate to bench you if I see you so much as wobble on your feet.” 

A nurse— Perlah, you later learn— badges the dispenser and tosses you a spare top as she speeds by. 

“Copy. But not if you catch me first.” You flash a disaffectionate smile at Abbot. “Before I hit the ground, that is,” you joke.

I’m being serious! you hear him yell, but his threat is lost between the tumult by then, and you’re far too busy outfitting into scrubs and gear to bite back.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ THE REST OF the hours comes in a frenzied blur. Familiar, though, in the way all old haunts return to you like muscle memory; how your feet might carry you down a route back to a childhood home, or how your lips recite lyrics of a forgotten song before the brain catches up. 

Chaos of this MCI isn’t as different as it would be back in your military days darting around Front Aid stations with frantic litter teams. Its modus operandi is still identical: treating a myriad of GSW’s, lac’s of exposed tissue and penetrating wounds, all while coupled with dwindling resources and nothing but an 11-blade and a prayer keeping everybody sewn together long enough for a proper Medevac to a field hospital. 

The only thing missing is shitty lighting and the stench of gunpowder from live rounds firing distantly overhead as you weave through each patient like water, triaging and treating methodically from tag to tag. 

Sorry, who lost a pulse? We can’t, Black tag now— Any more dislocations on your kid? Alright, head to Green, then— Hey, I’ll reduce the compound fracture then you can assess those boot prints for blunt trauma at Yellow— No, no, Red here has got skull fracture indicators, we’re not risking any nasal airway on him; If we can’t get it orally we’ll cric him, go get Neurocrit on the case ASAP. 

In the beginning 30 minutes you’d checked more than a dozen radial, femoral, and carotid pulses; helped with multiple fussy airways; shot quick orders to nurses and staff. But now as another hour passes, chest tubes turn to ET tubes turn to NG tubes turn to— 

Damn cowboy medicine, you hear someone from Surgical complain.

Gurneys keep rattling in; calls of vitals overlap. HIPAA is thrown into the wind. Someone’s demanding for more hemostatic gauze, someone else shouting for another set of hands. The piercing smell of antiseptic no longer keeps up with the metal tang in the air from all the bloody streaks of footprints tracked across the hospital floor. 

Exhaustion makes itself known, slowly but surely. Gloving up between each trauma becomes your only brief respite, a moment to catch your breath before—

Someone yanks you aside as a gurney barrels past, nearly clipping your hip. 

“Watch your six,” Abbot says, unimpressed. He’s in the middle of switching out into a fresh set of PPE’s. Your eyes flicker to his arm, braced solid, before he releases you. “Been awhile. Ribs okay? How’re you feeling?”

“Better than most of the people in here,” you reply, choosing to ignore the burn of his clinical gaze again as you move from Behavioral Health towards the latest grimacing patient.

He’s been checking in on you. You’re acutely aware of the occasional glance from him as you worked together, and more often than not you feel your skin prickling instinctively whenever he’s afar, sparing a second to lift his head over the rows of traumas just to see if you’re still stable on your feet.

It doesn’t take long before Abbot reunites with you again. 

He can’t seem to stop planting himself into your orbit. ( Or perhaps it’s the Universe, again, doing it for him. )

“Arterial?” he asks, stepping in. 

You’re zeroed in on cric-ing MCI-88; Intra-abdominal GSW from an alleged ricochet. Nipples to navel is no man’s land. “Yep.” You yank the bougie and make way for the nurse. “Occluded with a 30cc foley catheter, stable for ICU. End-tidal?”

“Yellow,” Princess declares. 

You spare yourself a long, slow sigh. The weight of the day, it seems, has finally settled and taken root in you. Abbot’s about to comment on it but gets cut to the quick.

“Hey, uh.” Princess’ eyes flicker inquisitively between the two of you. “Did you two serve together?”

( She’d meant to ask an hour earlier after watching you and Abbot practically flitting through the trauma bays like a two-man field unit in a hot zone, speaking in rapid medical and military shorthand while in perfect sync.

Anyone who’d been wheeled into your guys’ path has so far come out the other side with a fighting chance, no matter how ugly. 

Princess— unsure if she’d just witnessed you two perform the most efficient emergency temporary vascular-shunt known to mankind on an artery using nothing but whatever improvised material was available within reach— had turned to Robby instead to ask, stunned:

“…How long have they known each other, exactly?”

“Uhhh…” He followed her gaze, cocked his head. “When did the first few MCI patients start rolling in?” 

“Twenty minutes ago,” she said, and he’d laughed, just as impressed.

“Then about twenty minutes ago.” )

You shake your head as you snap your gloves off. 

“Oh, no, I was too busy being shot out of a helicopter all the way in Afghanistan.”

Princess looks aghast. She turns to Abbot out of morbid curiosity anyway. “Oh,” he deadpans, then parrots: “Yeah, no, I was too busy getting my foot blown off by an IED in—”

“Alright, Mav and Goose, quit dick-measuring,” Walsh interrupts as she drifts by, walkie chattering between department primaries. “Got three OR’s turning over. Room for one Red. Perlah, send this one up to cardiothoracic ICU. Hey, Antonio, 1500 CC’s out buys yours a golden ticket upstairs unle…”

Robby hollers in alarm for help with a patient. 

MCI-72, trample victim. Was yellow for rib fracture, started seizing his way into Red. 4mg of Lorazepam and an EFast courtesy of Whitaker for bilateral hemopneumo and cardiac tamponade. 

“Dibs on the heart,” you humor, already making do with a central line kit. Prepping a pericardiocentesis tray would’ve risked precious time it’d take in search for it, assuming the kits haven’t already been stripped clean for other jury-rigged procedures by now. “Surprised he’s still kicking at all.”

You bump wordlessly past Abbot. Robby doesn’t bother arguing against it. Together the pair of you have been moving like a well-oiled machine despite the occasional smart-mouth remarks at each other that he earwigs— but Abbot trusts you, at least professionally, as far as Robby can tell, which means he can do the same. 

“Going in blind?” Abbot says, more a gesture at banter than an actual retort. He had seen you palpating landmarks, too preoccupied with picturing a mental anatomical map to answer him; 5th intercostal space, subxiphoid approach, unless you can grab me a bedside ultrasound in the span of two seconds for guidance.

Robby and Abbot are quick to decompress the chest traumas after they both assume a side. It appears to be more air than it is blood that's causing the collapse, which is— for what it’s worth amid an MCI where all hell has broken loose— a hopeful sign; the lesser evil. 

“Careful,” you hear, breath tickling over your shoulder where Abbot now hovers in observation. His voice is distracting.

You blink. Re-focus. Perform the effusion as clean as it can get. The CVC attached will help with drainage all the way up to the OR. Still, it’d be a miracle if the patient pulls through, even with how quick they’d managed to intervene.

“Solid work.” He radios Walsh in, signals her in the distance with a bloody thumbs-up. “…Guess you can say that was a whiskey move,” he puns. 

You snort in spite of yourself. 

“Risky?” Robby corrects, unsure. 

“Sixty-eight Whiskey,” Abbot says, dismayed at having to explain his very perfectly-executed joke. “68W. Whiskey is military slang for Combat Medic.”

“I was deployed to Kandahar,” you allow, which makes them snap towards you— Abbot moreso. In the late 2000’s it had become one of the main combat flashpoints during the Afghanistan war. But you’re already discarding your slicked gloves to get a move on, blindly quipping: 

“It’s why he and I make a decent team so far, I think.”

Robby raises his brows at that. “Only decent? You two were your own field team.”

“Well, I mean,” you shrug, rounding the gurney and having to sidle awfully close past Abbot; close enough he can see you deliberately wrinkle your nose up at him in mock contemplation as you pass. 

“…Dr. Abbot still has plenty of room for improvement.”

Abbot scoffs in reply. 

Mutters something along the lines of “You’re a damn piece of work, Whiskey,” as he stares down your retreating figure already holding the shaky hand of a new patient rolling in—

…et’s do 3.375 Zosyn for now. Can you tell me anything about yourself, ma’am? Florist! One of my favourite flowers are lilie… 

—And Robby’s not sure if it’s the waning adrenaline, the exhaustion, or a strange, delirious concoction of both, that has him wondering if he might’ve just caught sight of Jack Abbot looking almost fond of all things.

Donnie ties off the end of the day with cold beer and laughter. 

Your adrenaline had crashed by the last hour, and you could feel yourself fraying, feel the slow crawl of fatigue and aches beginning to settle in your joints. You’d been on your way to take your leave until Samira had somehow managed to inveigle you, and now here you are in the afterparty: communally inducted into their dynamic via trauma-bonding, it seems.

“…aziness, right? To the Pitt Crew,” cheers Donnie, raising his can with a finger pointed right at you. “Oh, and that includes you too now, whether you like it or not. Survived a shooting just to jump right into our chaos— you’re a legend in my books.”

You lift your beer by way of agreement: I’ll drink to that.

“But seriously. We owe you for stepping in to help out today,” Samira nudges, eyes tired but grateful. “I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.”

A lazy wave. “Ah. No sweat. Hell, the only thing I’m owed is a full refund of my damn Pittfest ticket, a few hours of sleep,” you list, between a sip, “and an umbrella.”

Javadi looks puzzled. “D’you lose it in the festival or something?”

“Something,” Abbot replies, glancing up from his seat to meet your cheeky look. He’d forgotten to get it out of his locker earlier. 

“Well,” Robby continues, glancing curiously between you two again, “we could use another field medic in our ED. I’m sure Jack will enjoy the company.”

An amused, punched out sound escapes you. Last time I offered him company he iced me out, you think to say. “Ah, I’ll pass. Don’t wanna steal his thunder.”

With his prosthesis set aside, Abbot lets out a snort behind his drink. “My thunder? I’ve got a missing leg. I’m basically a certified badass to these kids wherever I go.”

Kids?! someone cries in mock outrage, just as you nod towards it. “I can steal your leg instead. What’ll you do then, chase me down?”

There’s a split second pause— a collective glance between the others, as if measuring their potential overstep and awaiting permission to react to what’s clearly military humor entitled only to both of you combat veterans; An intimacy.

“Crawl,” Abbot answers, deadpan. 

And with that the uncertainty in the air dispels under everybody’s bright laughter; alongside the tension between you two. 

Whatever half-hearted, reluctant-alliance that’s been threading you two together the past hours of chaos has finally seem to have knotted into the beginnings of a friendship.

Okay, that’s it for me, Robby taps out, after the conversation eventually had slowed into a sleepy lull. It takes another ten minutes before everyone else begins their exit, space unwinding itself until you find yourself sitting beside Abbot on the bench at last, still resting his bad leg, while Matteo and Donnie are buttoned into their own undertone chatter across from you.

“Getting déjà-vu,” Abbot says, crumpling his empty can. He’d meant for it to be a joke, but it comes off distinctively sincere.

“I barely made it this far into the bench the last time, Abbot,” you tease, nails catching against the tab of your beer in a mindless fidget. 

“Jack,” he allows.

An acknowledged beat passes. 

“Y’know, Jack,” you relent, softly, “it seems like whenever we cross paths, there’s always somebody dead or dying.” 

Foster. Wyndham. PittFest. He fails to hide his wince. “Isn’t it?” he agrees, and looks at his stained shoes— recalls his boots from when he’d stood upon your blood in his nightmare, too. Has to bite back a shudder and let out an exhale.

“I wanna change that,” he murmurs, suddenly.

You turn towards him in surprise, find he’s already staring at you. 

Beyond the distant streetlights, a pale moon-glow is limning across your face, softens the bite of the exhaustion in your eyes. Abbot lingers openly for a moment— finally takes the downtime to memorise the slope of your brow down to the curve of your lips, the blink of your lashes from where your hair has come loose from the haphazard style you’d pulled it up to amid the chaos. 

He’s sure both he and you look war-torn; battle-weary. If it isn’t for the scrubs, he might’ve mistaken himself back in the cold, dry streets of Afghanistan with a comrade.

“We should grab a drink,” he offers. “Share war stories.” His voice has dropped to that low timbre again. Mellowed out and soft, but earnest. His eyes, still holding your gaze, are the warmest you’ve seen yet.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure I owe it to you, Whiskey.”

You find yourself smiling at the nickname before you realise it. 

“Yeah,” you hum. “I’d like that, Jack.”

footnotes.

[relaxdiva]

In The Stars

Jack Abbot x f!reader

Synopsis: Years after the war, Jack Abbot rarely talks about what happened overseas. But when a med student ask about his time in the military, the story he tells isn’t about battles or medals—it’s about you. It’s about the long nights at the edge of camp, the promises you made, the quiet moments that made the war feel far away, and the future you both believed you would have when it was all over. But war doesn’t always keep its promises.

word count: 11.4k (guys what the frick... idk what happened)

Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, Military setting, military inaccuracies, mentions of blood and injury, medical setting, kissing, sexual content, mentions of war, angst, grief, mentions of survivors guilt, bittersweet ending

“What was it like when you were in Afghanistan?” The question came from James Ogilvie, a fourth-year med student, during a brief quiet moment before shift change.

Jack Abbott barely looked up from the computer screen he was charting on.

“Don’t ask him that,” Trinity Santos said quickly, swatting Ogilvie on the shoulder.

Ogilvie frowned. “What? I was just curious.”

“It’s fine,” Jack said calmly, finally glancing up from the screen. “He can ask whatever questions he wants.”

Years ago, Jack wouldn’t have said that. His time in the military had once been a hypersensitive subject — something that could unravel him without warning. A single question could send him spiraling into memories he couldn’t escape. Memories that came with shaking hands, cold sweats, and the kind of panic that made it hard to breathe. But that had been years ago.

Years — and countless therapy sessions — later, things were different. He had healed. Or at least, as much as someone like him ever really could.

He would never forget what he saw out there. What he heard. What he did.

But he had learned to live with it.

His therapist used to tell him the same thing every week: “The only way through trauma is to stop running from it.”

So now, when someone asked what it had been like, Jack didn’t shut down anymore. He talked.

Ogilvie leaned against the counter, waiting expectantly.

“So… what was it like?” he asked again.

Jack leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose as his eyes drifted away from the computer screen. 

“It was…” he paused, searching for the right word. “Bittersweet.”

Suddenly Dennis Whitaker had started listening. He, Ogilvie, and Trinity frowned.

“Bittersweet?” Trinity repeated.

Jack nodded slowly.

“There were good moments,” he said. “Good people.” His mind flickered through memories like frames of an old film reel. “And there were bad moments,” he continued quietly. “Bad people.”

“I don’t want to pry,” Whitaker said carefully, “but… what do you mean?”

Jack rested his forearms on the desk, staring at nothing for a moment.

“There was a lot of bad out there,” he admitted. “A lot of things that still show up in my nightmares.” The room stayed quiet. “But,” he continued, his voice softening slightly, “there were people I met…”

His mind caught on a single memory.

A face.

Your face.

“Or… a person I met,” he corrected. “That made me forget about all the bad.”

They all straightened a little, clearly invested now.

“Well now you can’t just say that and stop there,” Ogilvie said. “Who was it?”

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the hospital walls.

Back across the ocean.

Back across the years.

Back to the desert.

Back to you.

——————

It had been four months.

Four months of dust that never seemed to leave your skin no matter how many showers you took. Four months of the constant hum of generators, helicopters cutting through the sky, and radios crackling with voices that always sounded just a little too urgent. Four months of blood on your hands that never quite felt like it washed away.

Four months in Afghanistan.

And for nearly all of it, Jack had been there too.

Not that the two of you had meant to get close. At the start, he had just been another medic across the small medical tent—another pair of hands helping stitch soldiers back together before sending them back out again.

But war had a strange way of shrinking the world.

Soon enough, it was just the two of you working side by side more often than not.

“You’re pulling that stitch too tight,” Jack had muttered one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder while you worked.

You didn’t even look up. “It’s called doing it right.”

“It’s called strangling the poor guy’s skin.”

“He’ll live.”

“He’ll have a scar.”

“Adds character.”

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh behind you. “You’re ruthless.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

The soldier laying on the table groaned weakly. “Can you two flirt later?”

You and Jack had looked at each other before bursting out laughing.

It had started like that.

Little moments between the chaos.

Four months of passing each other tools before the other even asked.

“Scissors.”

Jack was already placing them in your hand.

“Gauze.”

You slid it across the table toward him without looking.

Four months of sarcastic comments over the groans of wounded soldiers.

“You know,” Jack said once while scrubbing his hands in the sink beside you, “most people take a girl out to dinner before they make her spend this much time with them.”

You glanced over, unimpressed. “Most people aren’t elbow-deep in someone’s leg wound when they meet.”

He grinned. “Romantic, though.”

“Oh extremely.”

Four months of late nights when the tent finally quieted down.

You’d sit across from each other at the metal table, both too tired to speak, sharing a stale granola bar like it was the best meal you’d ever had.

Jack would lean back in his chair.

“Remind me again why we did this?”

“To help people,” you’d say.

“Right,” he’d sigh. “That.”

But sometimes it was quieter than that.

Sometimes it was just the two of you cleaning instruments in comfortable silence.

Sometimes it was Jack nudging your shoulder when you looked like you were about to fall asleep standing up.

“Hey,” he’d murmur.

“What?”

“Try not to pass out. I don’t want to do your job too.”

“You couldn’t do my job.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “I’d be amazing.”

“You fainted during training.”

“That was once.”

“It was twice.”

Four months of meaningless flirting.

Or at least that’s what you insisted on calling it. Because putting a different name to it would mean acknowledging something neither of you had dared to say out loud.

War had a way of blurring lines.

Of making people cling to whatever light they could find in the darkness.

And somewhere along the way, Jack had become yours.

——————

The day had been relentless.

The reminiscence of blood stuck under your nails. Grains of sand in your mouth. The metallic smell of it all still clinging to the back of your throat no matter how much water you drank.

So you walked.

Walked past the hum of generators. Past the low murmur of exhausted soldiers. Past the sharp scent of diesel and sweat and too many bodies packed into too little of a space.

You didn’t stop walking until the base sounds dulled into a distant blur.

There, at the edge of camp, the land opened toward dark silhouettes of the mountains carved against a sky drenched in stars. 

The scenery was endless; the land unbothered by war.

You lowered yourself onto the cool sand and lay flat on your back, staring up at the sky. The wind moved softly over your skin, a quiet whisper replacing the day’s chaos. For a moment, there were no radios crackling. No shouted coordinates. No screams.

It was just silence and the sky.

You were so focused on slowing your breathing that you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“You okay?” A low voice cut gently through the quiet. You opened your eyes to find none other than Jack Abbot standing over you, his shadow haloed by starlight. 

“I’m fine.”

His brows furrowed. “You don’t look fine.”

A tired huff escaped you. “Wow. Thanks.” You shut your eyes again. “Do you insult every woman you talk to, Abbot?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly.

You opened one eye, narrowing it at him.

“I just meant you look stressed.”

“I’ll be fine,” you murmured. “I just needed some silence.”

You hoped your answer would be enough to send him away.

But of course it wasn’t.

You could feel him still standing there — awkward, lingering, unsure what to do with himself.

You sighed. “Are you just going to stand there watching me, or are you going to join me?”

He blinked. “I—I can go—”

“Shut up and sit.”

You pushed yourself up just enough to grab his wrist and tug. He stumbled slightly before dropping into the sand beside you, stiff as a board.

For a second, he just sat there — knees bent, back straight, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them.

You laughed softly. “Lay down and relax. You look like you’re waiting for inspection.”

After a hesitant pause, he laid back beside you — slowly, like the ground might swallow him whole.

Eventually, his hands settled in his lap,  his shoulders dropped by degrees, and his breathing evened out. He hadn’t felt like this in months—like there wasn’t immediate danger coming straight for him. You could feel it too, that subtle shift in the air around you.

“You do this a lot?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Your eyes stayed on the sky. “It gets loud on base. In here,” You tapped your temple lightly. “The stars help.”

“Why?”

You swallowed. “My sister loved them.”

“Are you two close?” he asked.

“We were,” you said, voice thinning like fragile glass. “She passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, going still beside you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.”

The wind moved through the trees, filling the space neither of you did. Your hand curled loosely into the sand.

You cleared your throat gently, trying to ease the tension. “Do you want to know something cool?”

There was the faintest line of a smile on his face when he replied, “Tell me something cool.”

“We’re looking at the past right now. The light from those stars? It takes thousands of years to reach Earth. So technically… we’re seeing them as they were thousands of years ago.”

He was quiet for a moment, processing the information.

“So we’re time travelers,” he murmured.

A soft laugh slipped out of you. “Yeah. I guess we are.” You pointed upward. “Some of the stars we’re looking at are already dead. Their light just hasn’t stopped traveling yet.”

He studied the sky differently after that. 

“I see grief the same way,” you said softly. “They’re gone… but they’re light is still here. Still reaching you.”

His breath caught — almost imperceptible.

“That’s… a good way to see it,” he said. “Not everyone can.”

You turned your head. He was staring at the sky, profile sharp in the silver light. There was something softer about him out here; less guarded.

He must have felt you looking, because he turned too.

And suddenly, you were close. 

Very close.

Your shoulders were brushing, your breath mixing. His dark eyes staring directly into yours. 

“Is that why you joined?” he asked quietly. “Because of her?”

“No.” You held his gaze. “After she was gone, I didn’t have anything left. Both of my parents died when I was twelve, and she’d been taking care of me ever since. When she died, I had nothing—no money, no house, barely enough to afford food.”

“Shit,” Jack whispered under his breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said. “The military gives me a paycheck, a bed, and three meals a day.”

“It also gives you PTSD and a lifetime subscription to insomnia.”

You exhaled slowly. “That’s better than struggling to survive.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Can’t argue with that.”

His hands shifted from his lap, falling to his sides. His fingers brushed yours, neither of you pulling away from the contact.

There was a pause — fragile and electric.

Then his hand turned, tentative, like he was testing if you’re comfortable.

You lace your fingers with his.

And for a moment, the war and the danger felt miles away. It was as though you two were the only people on Earth, wrapped in silence and each other.

The sound of heavy footsteps pounded across the sand.

“Hey! Chef wants you both back. It’s lights out!”

The spell around you had shattered.

You pulled apart too quickly, sitting up as if you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you had acknowledged before.

But the warmth lingered in your palm.

——————

The mission wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

It had been briefed as a sweep-and-clear — low resistance expected, quick in and out. The kind of operation you could almost trick yourself into believing would end quietly.

But from the moment you stepped into the village, something felt wrong.

Too still.

No children running through the streets. No doors cracked open. No stray dogs picking through refuse.

Just heat. And silence.

The first explosion split the world open.

The blast knocked you sideways, ears ringing so violently you tasted copper. Dust swallowed the street in an instant, thick and blinding. Then came the gunfire — sharp, frantic, bouncing off stone walls and turning the narrow road into a cage.

Training took over.

You were moving before your thoughts caught up — dropping beside a private with a shredded forearm, tying off a tourniquet with hands that refused to shake.

Across the street, Jack had already gone down hard behind a crumbling wall.

“Jack!” someone shouted, strained and panicked.

You looked up just long enough to see Davis collapse. Corporal Davis had been Jack’s shadow since he’d started in the military. Same deployment. Same rotations. Same inside jokes murmured over bad coffee before dawn.

The shrapnel caught him high — too high.

Jack was at his side instantly, dragging him behind cover with a strength that looked almost feral. You reached them seconds later.

There’s a particular look people get when they know something is wrong in a way that can’t be undone. And Davis had that look. But Jack didn’t. Jack wore denial like armor, his focus rigid and unyielding.

“Entry wound here,” he said, voice clipped but steady. “Possible internal bleeding.”

You pressed down and felt warmth flood your gloves.

“Stay with me, Davis,” Jack commanded, like he could force him to obey.

Davis’s hand grabbed blindly — and found Jack’s vest.

“Don’t let me—” Davis choked, blood at the corner of his mouth. “I—I’m not ready to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Jack said. 

But when his eyes flicked to you for half a second, you saw it.

The crack.

The realization.

You worked in brutal tandem — gauze, clamps, pressure, reassess. Gunfire roared around you like a storm you were somehow kneeling calmly inside.

At one point, your hands stalled for half a heartbeat. The bleeding wouldn’t slow.

You looked at Jack and he was already looking at you.

“Clamp,” you said sharply.

He moved instantly.

Minutes blurred as you awaited a medevac. Smoke filled the street, making it harder to work and breathe. The helicopter’s roar swallowed everything.

When they lifted Davis onto the stretcher, he was unconscious — but breathing.

Jack stood there long after the helicopter disappeared into the horizon.

He didn’t speak the entire ride back to base. 

By the time you returned to base, the sky was painted in bruised oranges and deepening violet — too beautiful for the kind of day you’d had.

The troop dispersed quietly. No laughter. No retelling of the fight.

You scanned the line automatically. There was no sign of Jack. Knowing what he’d seen today, hiding was the only thing he’d know how to do

You tried the command tent first.

“Have you seen Abbot?” you asked, only to be met with the shake of heads.

You checked near the medical unit — maybe he’d lingered for news.

Nothing.

By the time you circled past the barracks, the sky had darkened to deep violet. The base lights flickered one by one.

You stopped walking.

Maybe he wanted to be alone.

Maybe you should let him.

You turned toward your bunk.

And then something in your chest pulled. A quiet instinct — a memory.

The edge of base. You didn’t think about it again — just walked.

Past the generators. Past the hum of low conversation. Past the perimeter lights.

And there he was. Sitting quietly in the sand, elbows on his knees. His head bowed slightly like the weight of it all had finally pressed down.

For a moment, you just watched him in the same place he’d once found you unraveling.

You stepped closer, boots soft in the sand.

“Hey.” 

He didn’t look up as he said, “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

There was a pause as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I’m fine.”

You moved around him and lowered yourself into the sand directly in front of him, close enough that your knees almost brushed.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His jaw flexed. “Drop it.”

“No.”

That made him look up — irritation flashing in his eyes.

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I know you’re not.”

Silence stretched tight between you. His gaze fell back to the ground.

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

“Don’t.” His voice was rough now, thinner than before. “I don’t need—”

“You were scared.”

His shoulders stiffened. “No.”

“Yes,” you said softly. “I saw the look in your eyes.”

His breath left him in a sharp exhale. “He called for me,” Jack said quietly. “Not for a medic. Not for anyone else. Me.” His hands curled into fists between his knees. “And for a second… I thought he was dying in front of me.”

You shifted closer. “Look at me.”

He shook his head.

“Jack.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked on the last word.

You reached forward gently and slid your fingers under his chin. He resisted — jaw tight, eyes fixed stubbornly on the sand. You applied just enough pressure to guide his face up.

“Look at me,” you repeated softly.

Slowly, reluctantly, his glassy eyes met yours.

“I hesitated,” he admitted, barely audible. “When I saw where he was hit. I knew what it meant. And I saw it — I saw myself writing to his mom. I saw telling his brother he didn’t make it.” His throat worked hard. “I’m supposed to be better than that.”

“You’re human.”

“I’m his medic.”

“And you saved him.”

“We don’t know that.”

“You gave him a fighting chance.”

His composure splintered then. His breathing faltered first. Then his face crumpled in a way that looked almost boyish — stripped of rank and responsibility.

Then the tears came silently.

You’d never seen him cry. You’ve been through worse battles, lost more people — and yet, this is the first time you’ve ever seen him break. 

He turned his face slightly, ashamed.

You didn’t let him pull away. You shifted forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into you.

For a second he stayed stiff.

Then he broke against you. His forehead pressed into your shoulder. His hands fisted into the fabric at your back like he was holding on to something solid in a world that kept shaking.

“It sticks,” he whispered hoarsely. “All of it sticks.”

“I know.” You held him tighter.

In the creeping darkness, you held him. You held him until the sun vanished and he had no tears left to cry and his breathing steadied. He pulled back slightly, but not far, his hands staying at your waist.

“Do you still believe that?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking upward. “About the stars?”

“Yes.”

“That even if they die… their light keeps traveling?”

“Yes.”

His gaze returned to you. “I don’t want to be the reason someone’s light goes out.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly. “You’re the reason it keeps reaching us.”

He searched your face like he was looking for permission to believe that. His hand slid slowly from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“If I do this,” he whispered, “it’s not just because today was hard.”

“Jack…”

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your breath caught.

He leaned in slowly. Your lips were barely a breath apart—

“Abbot!”

The voice carried across the sand.

Jack froze.

You both pulled back, reality crashing in too fast.

“Yeah!” he called, voice steadier than it had any right to be.

His forehead rested against yours for a brief, fragile moment before he stood. When he helped you up, his hand lingered, reluctant to let go. 

Above you, the stars burned quietly, still reaching through the endless dark.

——————

A month is a long time out here.

Long enough for bruises to fade. Long enough for routines to settle back in. Long enough for certain moments to be forgotten.

But there were some moments you could never forget. 

Davis was proof of that.

He’d been back on base for a week now. He’d been restricted to light movement. He grumbled and complained about it — but he was alive and annoyingly optimistic about the scar that curved along his abdomen.

Jack had hovered at first. You noticed when he double-checked Davis’s vitals even after you’d signed off on them. You noticed how he’d stand in the doorway of the recovery tent for half a second longer than necessary before walking away.

But somewhere between the days, he gradually stopped hovering. 

He relaxed. Not entirely — Jack Abbot didn’t really know how to be entirely relaxed — but enough that the tightness around his mouth softened and a quiet laugh slipped out of him, easy and unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before.

And for a moment, watching him like that, it was impossible not to think about how close the two of you had come that night.

Neither of you had ever mentioned it. Not how close you’d been, not the way his hand had lingered at your waist, not the charged silence that followed. Instead, the moment had simply woven itself into everything that came after — into longer glances, unnecessary proximity, and the way your hands seemed to find each other without either of you really looking. 

Days off didn’t really exist out here, but this was the closest thing to one. No missions, no sudden briefings — just routine maintenance and inventory.

By late afternoon, the medical tent was warm with filtered sunlight and the faint scent of antiseptic and canvas.

You were reorganizing supply shelves when you realized someone had moved the trauma dressings again.

“Why,” you called without turning, “do you keep putting these on the top shelf?”

From behind you, Jack’s voice drifted lazily. “Because that’s where they go.”

“They go where I can reach them.”

“You can reach them.”

You rose onto your toes again, stretching your arm up. “No. I can’t.”

Silence lingered for a moment before footsteps approached through the sand.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said mildly.

“No I’m not.”

“You’re standing on your toes.”

“That’s called determination.”

“That’s called being stubborn.” Jack shook his head, pushing himself upright. “Let me help you.”

His chest brushed your back as he reached up easily over your head, one arm braced beside yours against the wood. His body aligned with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned just as Jack reached up, grabbing the box you’d been struggling with for the past minute. He set it down on the counter beside you, but he didn’t move away afterward. Instead, he stayed right where he was, and suddenly the space around you felt tiny.

You could see the faint smudge of dust along his jaw, the loose strands of hair that had escaped whatever attempt he’d made to tame it earlier. His shirt sleeve brushed lightly against your arm when he shifted his weight.

“See?” he said quietly. “Dramatic.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “I had it handled.”

“Sure you did.” His voice was low, amused in that easy way he’d slipped into around you lately.

You crossed your arms, mostly so you wouldn’t do something stupid.

“You could’ve just asked,” he added.

“And miss the opportunity for you to feel useful?”

The corner of his mouth curved. “I’ll take it anyway.” He finally stepped back, moving towards the box on the table like nothing had happened.

You exhaled slowly, deciding to busy yourself with labeling a crate you absolutely did not need to label.

Jack watched for a moment. “You’ve been reorganizing things a lot,” he said.

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been moving them around.”

“Maybe I like watching you fix them.”

You glanced up at him.

“That’s a weird thing to admit.”

He shrugged. “Just being honest.”

By nightfall, someone had started a fire near the center of camp.

It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. A pile of scrap wood. A spark. Then soldiers drifted toward the warmth like it was instinct.

You found yourself sitting beside Jack on an overturned crate, sweatpants soft against your legs, the firelight flickering gold across his face.

The air felt different tonight.

Someone told a wildly exaggerated story about basic training. Someone else butchered a song on guitar. With each story and song, laughter echoed across camp — real and unfiltered.

You were still laughing at the story when you felt it — the unmistakable sensation of being watched. When you turned your head, Jack was already looking at you, his gaze steady in the flickering firelight.

“You’re staring again,” you replied.

“I know.”

You turned to look at him properly.

He didn’t look away.

The firelight flickered across his face, catching in his eyes as the laughter around the circle swelled at the end of someone’s story. For a moment he just watched you, quiet and steady, like the rest of the camp had faded somewhere into the background.

Jack leaned closer, the movement slow and deliberate. You felt the warmth of him at your side before his head dipped slightly toward you, his voice dropping low as his breath brushed the shell of your ear.

“Want to get out of here?”

The words were barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

As he pulled back just enough to look at you again, he tilted his head toward the darker edge of camp, where the firelight faded into shadow.

You hesitated just long enough for a flicker of uncertainty to cross his face.

Then you pushed yourself to your feet, stretching your arms over your head like you’d simply grown tired of sitting.

Jack followed a second later, brushing sand from his hands as he stood.

The story at the fire kept going, another round of laughter breaking out.

And no one noticed the two of you leave.

The quiet in the tent felt different from the quiet at the fire. The laughter from the bonfire drifted across camp in bursts, softened by distance, while the lantern inside the medical area cast a warm circle of light across the tables.

Jack leaned back against one of them, arms loosely folded.

“You dragged me all the way out here just to stand around?” you asked.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You came with me.”

“You asked.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining.”

You huffed softly under your breath, glancing away for a second before looking back at him. Jack's heavy gaze was still on you.

“You’re staring,” you said.

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head a little and shrugging his shoulders.

You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of you. Your gaze flickered down, needing a break from the intense eye contact.

When you looked back up, he’d moved a little closer — your stomach flipped at the proximity.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He shrugged slightly, but his eyes stayed on yours. The air between you shifted — subtle, but unmistakable. Jack glanced down for a second, then back up. “Are you ever going to mention it?” he asked.

Your brows pulled together. “Mention what?”

He watched you for a moment, like he was deciding if you were serious. 

“The night by the mountains.”

Your heart skipped. 

“Oh.” The word came out quieter than you meant it to.

You looked down briefly, tracing a small scratch in the table with your thumb before glancing back at him.

“It was a long day,” you said. “Davis almost died. We were both running on adrenaline.”

“Yeah,” Jack said.

“And sometimes things feel… bigger in moments like that.”

He didn’t answer right away. “You think that’s what it was?” he asked.

“I think it makes sense. Our actions were just something… temporary.”

He closed the distance fully now, stopping just in front of you. “It didn’t feel temporary to me,” he said quietly.

Your pulse hammered.

“It felt like something I’ve been wanting to do for weeks.”

Your breath caught. “Do what?”

“Kissing you.”

The words settled between you, heavy and deliberate.

You swallowed. “You sound very sure about that.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I am.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the air around you felt too charged.

“You’ve been standing too close for a month,” he continued. “You think I don’t notice?”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t mean what?” he asked softly.

You searched for logic. For distance.

Instead, you found yourself saying, “I didn’t want it to be something that just… disappears the next time things get hard.”

Jack was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It won’t.” His hand settled lightly at your waist. 

Your breath caught slightly. “And if I said it was just heightened emotion?” you asked.

His thumb brushed your side — barely. 

“I’d say you need to stop pretending.” 

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to step away.

You didn’t.

His lips met yours softly at first — testing, seeing if you’d pull away.

You don't. Instead, your hands make their way up his neck, tangling in his soft curls.

The kiss deepened slowly, unhurried, like you both had nowhere else to be. His mouth moved against yours with a gentle insistence, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that echoed the distant flicker of the bonfire outside. 

The med tent's canvas walls muffled the laughter and crackle of flames from the base, but every whisper inside felt dangerously loud—the soft hitch of your breath, the quiet rustle of your tight black undershirt against his hoodie as he pulled you closer. 

Jack's free hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you steady as the kiss turned hungrier, yet still restrained, like he was committing every moment to memory.

You pressed your body against his, feeling the solid warmth of his chest through the thin fabric of your undershirt and his hoodie. His hand at your waist tightened just enough to draw you flush, and a low hum escaped his throat, vibrating into your mouth. Breaking the kiss for a breath, his forehead rested against yours, eyes dark and searching in the dim light filtering through the tent flap.

"I've wanted this," he whispered, voice rough but barely audible over the faint voices outside. "You. For longer than I should admit in a place like this. Every time we patch up the wounded together, I think about pulling you aside like this."

Your heart pounded, a rush of vulnerability mixing with the heat building low in your belly. "Jack... what if someone hears? The bonfire's right there," you murmured, even as your fingers tugged at the zipper of his hoodie, peeling it open to reveal the tight shirt beneath clinging to his muscled frame.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm against your skin. "Then we'll have to be extra quiet. But I can't pretend anymore. Tell me you feel it too." His hands slid under your undershirt, palms rough from field work gliding up your sides, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts.

"I do," you breathed, nodding as you captured his lips again, this time with more urgency. Your fingers explored the hard planes of his abdomen under his shirt, tracing the faint scars from past missions. He shivered under your touch, his own hands pushing your undershirt higher, bunching it above your chest to expose your bra.

Jack's mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, nipping lightly at the skin there. You bit your lip to stifle a gasp, acutely aware of the soldiers' stories carrying faintly from the bonfire—oblivious to the heat unfolding just yards away. "God, you taste like everything I've been missing," he murmured against your collarbone, his teeth scraping as he tugged your bra down, freeing one breast.

"Shh," you whispered, a half-laugh escaping as you arched into him. "You're going to get us caught." Your hands fumbled with the drawstring of his sweatpants, loosening it quickly. The fabric whispered down his hips, and you palmed his hardening cock through his boxers, feeling it twitch under your touch.

He paused, glancing toward the tent entrance, then covered your hand with his, guiding you to shove the waistband lower. "Worth the risk," he said, voice husky. His cock sprang free, hard and thick against your thigh, the velvety heat making your core clench. "Touch me like you mean it."

You wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking slowly from base to tip, pre-cum slicking your palm. He bucked into your grip, a muffled groan buried in your neck. "Fuck, yes—just like that," he hissed, his hand dipping to the waistband of your tight black sweatpants, hooking his fingers in and yanking them down along with your panties in one swift motion. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them aside, the cool air hitting your bare skin.

Jack palmed your ass, lifting you slightly to perch on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under your weight. He spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he kissed a path upward. "You're so wet already," he whispered, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "For me?"

"Only for you," you replied, voice trembling with need as his fingers parted your folds, finding your soaked pussy. He circled your clit with feather-light strokes, making you grip his shoulders, nails digging in. "Jack, please—don't tease."

He slid one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made your vision blur. "Like this?" he asked, thrusting slowly, his thumb pressing your clit. You rocked against his hand, biting his shoulder to muffle the whimpers rising in your throat. The wet sounds of his fingers pumping were obscene in the hushed tent, but they drove you wild, your walls fluttering around him.

"So tight," he breathed, pulling back to watch your face, his gaze intense with emotion. "I need to fuck you. Right now. Tell me you want it."

"Yes—God, yes," you gasped, releasing his cock only long enough for him to line up. 

In the heat of the moment, protection was forgotten, raw need taking over. He positioned the broad head at your entrance, nudging your slick folds. Slowly, he pushed in, inch by inch, stretching your pussy deliciously. You both froze at the fullness, your inner walls gripping him like a vice.

"You feel incredible," he groaned softly, starting to move with shallow thrusts, building a rhythm of controlled power. His hips snapped forward, cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep with each plunge. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your heels digging into his back through his sweatpants. The table creaked faintly, and you both stilled, listening—nothing from outside but the ongoing chatter.

"Keep going," you urged in a whisper, meeting his eyes. "Don't stop."

Emboldened, he picked up pace, one hand bracing on the table, the other stroking your clit in time with his thrusts. 

Sweat beaded on his brow, his curls damp and disheveled from your fingers still tangled in them. "Come for me," he murmured, voice strained. "Quietly—let me feel you squeeze my cock."

Pleasure built like a wave, your body tensing as he fucked you harder, the slap of skin on skin hushed but insistent. 

You came first, orgasm crashing over you in silent intensity—your pussy clenching around his cock, milking him as waves of bliss ripped through you. You buried your face in his neck, a choked sob escaping, but no sound loud enough to betray you.

Jack followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, hot and thick. "Fuck—yes," he whispered hoarsely, shuddering against you, lips pressed to your temple, holding you through the aftershocks.

You clung to each other, breaths mingling in the dim tent, the world outside fading to irrelevance. As you both came down, he didn't pull away immediately, staying buried inside you, his arms wrapping around your back under your rumpled undershirt. 

"That..." he whispered, voice hoarse with wonder, "was everything. Promise me this isn't the last time."

You smiled against his skin, knowing this was more than just release—it was a promise, forged in the quiet intimacy of the night, unbreakable even in the chaos of war. 

"It won't be," you replied softly, sealing it with a gentle kiss.

——————

You’d been deployed long enough that time had started to lose its shape.

Days blurred together into something indistinct — missions, patrols, long nights, early mornings. The desert didn’t change much, and neither did the routine. Wake before the sun. Work until exhaustion sets in. Try to sleep through the heat or the noise or the quiet that came afterward.

Some days were heavy with loss. Others were strangely light — filled with laughter that felt almost out of place in a place like this. Over time it all mixed together until it became difficult to separate one memory from another.

Slowly, weeks turned into months. The war moved on around you, relentless and unyielding, but your mind struggled to keep track of the passing days. Everything started to feel like one long stretch of time.

Everything except Jack.

If the deployment had blurred everything else, Jack stood out in sharp, steady focus.

Every moment with him seemed to anchor itself clearly in your memory — late conversations after shifts ended, quiet walks along the perimeter when the camp finally settled down for the night, the warmth of his hand finding yours when no one else was looking.

Those moments stood apart from everything else.

You could remember them easily.

What had started as something fragile and uncertain had deepened quickly after that.

Neither of you had made a grand declaration. There had been no dramatic conversation about what the two of you were becoming. In a place like this, life rarely allowed for those kinds of moments. Instead, it had grown naturally.

Over the months that followed, the line between teasing and flirting had disappeared entirely. Conversations that once danced around the edges of something unspoken became easier, warmer.

You laughed together more than you ever had before.

You kissed whenever you could steal a moment alone.

Sometimes that meant slipping into the medical tent after the last patient had been treated, the lantern light low and the rest of the camp quiet.

Other nights it meant standing close beneath a sky full of stars, talking softly while the desert wind drifted across the sand.

Those quiet moments became something you both held onto.

Because the truth was, deployment had a way of wearing people down.

Some missions left everyone exhausted and silent for hours afterward.

Some days ended with grief that settled heavily over the entire camp.

And in those moments, Jack had become the one constant you could rely on.

After the hardest missions, when the adrenaline faded and the exhaustion finally caught up to everyone, you often found yourselves sitting together somewhere away from the noise of the others.

Sometimes you leaned against his shoulder.

Sometimes he rested his forehead against yours, both of you too tired to say much of anything.

You had become each other’s refuge in a place where comfort was often hard to find.

When the world felt too heavy, Jack was the one you leaned into.

And just as often, you found him doing the same with you.

It wasn’t something either of you talked about out loud.

You didn’t need to.

The understanding between you had grown strong enough that words rarely felt necessary.

Six months had passed since that quiet night in the medical tent.

Six months of stolen moments, whispered jokes, shared exhaustion, and quiet affection that deepened with every passing day.

Out here, where tomorrow was never guaranteed, it had become something real.

Something steady.

Something that belonged entirely to the two of you.

——————

Night settled slowly over the base. The noise never really stopped here. Engines hummed somewhere in the distance. Voices carried across the rows of tents. Metal clanged against metal as someone finished a late task.

Most nights you could tune it out.

Tonight you couldn’t.

Something restless had taken hold in your chest — an uneasy weight you couldn’t quite name. The noise felt too loud, too constant. Like the world refused to quiet long enough for you to think.

So you slipped away.

No one stopped you as you moved past the outer tents and toward the edge of camp, where the lights faded and the desert stretched wide and open beneath the sky. You followed a familiar path, reaching your spot.

You sank down cross-legged, resting your hands loosely in your lap as your gaze lifted toward the sky.

The desert at night had its own kind of silence. Not completely still — the wind whispered softly across the sand — but quiet enough that your thoughts could finally breathe.

You’d been so absorbed in your own mind that you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching. You only realized someone had come close when a familiar shoulder brushed lightly against yours as they sat down beside you.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Jack's low voice said, cutting gently through the distant noise of the base. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.” Your eyes were still on the sky, tracing the faint line of a constellation.

Beside you, Jack watched your face for a moment.

“About…” he prompted softly.

You exhaled slowly. “Everything.” Only then did you glance at him. Your eyes met his briefly before drifting back toward the stars. “You know we only have one more month here.”

Jack hummed quietly in acknowledgment.

“Mhm.”

“It’s just…” You reached up, tucking a few loose strands of hair back behind your ear where they’d slipped free from your ponytail. “I keep trying to imagine what life is going to look like after this.” Your voice softened. “And the truth is… I can’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it never was with him. That was one of the first things you’d noticed about Jack — the way silence around him felt steady, like something safe to sit inside. Comfortable.

After a moment he spoke. “What’re you hoping to do when you get home?” he asked.

You shrugged slightly. “Probably get a job on a base back in Pittsburgh—”

“No.”

You blinked, turning toward him. Jack shook his head faintly.

“If you could do anything,” he said, voice quieter now, “what would you want to do?”

You considered that for a second. “Sleep in a real bed,” you said with a short breath of a laugh.

Jack tilted his head. “I’m serious.”

You sighed softly, dragging your fingers through the sand beside your knee. “My biggest dream?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitated.

Then, almost reluctantly, you said it.

“I want to go back to school.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Jack’s attention sharpened immediately. “For what?”

You glanced at him again, the corner of your mouth lifting faintly. “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. Ever since I was a little girl,” you continued quietly, thinking back to that version of yourself — so young and carefree, not realizing just how cruel the world could be. “I used to imagine helping people. Fixing things that were broken.” You looked down at your hands. “I always figured this”—you gestured vaguely toward the base behind you—“was the closest I’d ever get to that.”

Jack didn’t hesitate.

“You’d be an incredible doctor.” Something in his voice made your chest tighten slightly. “You should apply to med school when we get home.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. You swallowed, forcing a small smile. “Maybe not. We’ll see where the wind takes me.” You let out a shallow, echo of a laugh. You tipped your head back toward the sky again, blinking slowly so the faint sting in your eyes wouldn’t spill over.

The stars blurred for a moment before sharpening again.

A few seconds passed before Jack spoke.

“I don’t want to overstep,” he began quietly, clearing his throat. “But… there’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

You turned toward him again. “What?”

He hesitated for the first time that night. “What happens when we get back?”

Your stomach tightened slightly.

“Between us.”

You’d thought about it before. Months ago, in this very spot, you’d told Jack you didn’t want to make anything official while you were still here. You hadn’t wanted anniversaries or memories tied forever to a place filled with loss.

He’d understood.

But that hadn’t stopped the two of you from becoming something real anyway.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted softly, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Then you met his eyes. “What do you want to happen?”

His answer came immediately. “I want us to be real.” The certainty in his voice made your heart stumble. “I want to take you on an actual date,” he continued. “Somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and diesel.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “I want to see you in normal clothes,” he added. “Not a uniform.” You laughed quietly. “And,” he continued, completely serious, “I’d like to have sex with you in a real bed, not an exam table.”

Your laughter broke free completely. “Oh my god, shut up.”

“It’s a valid goal,” Jack said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

You shook your head, still smiling.

But when you looked at him again, your expression softened. 

“I’d really like that too.” Your voice was quieter now. “All of it,” you added gently. “Not just the sex.”

Jack glanced down at you.

“You know,” he said quietly, “we’re going to figure it out.”

“Yeah?” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

His hand came up, brushing lightly against your cheek before he leaned in and kissed you. It was slow and unhurried, like neither of you had anywhere else to be.Somewhere behind you the base lights flickered against the dark horizon, distant voices carrying faintly through the night.

When he pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, closing your eyes.

For the first time all day, the restless feeling in your chest eased.

But you didn’t know then how quickly things could change.

——————

The mission had been labeled routine.

One last patrol outside the wire before you went home. A sweep through a small village that had already been cleared more than once. Command had described it as low-risk — the kind of assignment meant to fill the final days before units rotated home.

Easy.

You had learned quickly that the word easy rarely meant what people thought it meant out here.

Still, the mood in the truck that morning had been lighter than usual.

Only seven days left. Seven days and you’d be leaving Afghanistan behind — hopefully for good.

The armored vehicle rattled along the dusty road, every bump echoing through the metal frame. The desert sun had already begun its slow climb into the sky, heat pressing against the thick gear wrapped around your body.

You sat across from Jack on the bench seat, your rifle resting lazily across your lap. He tilted his head back against the wall behind him.

“One more week,” he said.

You huffed softly. “Seven days.”

“Seven days,” he repeated. “And then we’re done.”

The word done felt strange. You’d spent nearly twelve months in this place. Twelve months of chaos, blood, exhaustion, and long sleepless nights. And somehow it was almost over.

“Final lap,” you muttered.

Jack grinned. “Final hoorah.” Jack nudged your boot with his. “So,” he said casually, though you could hear the curiosity beneath it, “are you serious about med school?”

“Yeah,” you answered. “I think I am.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No kidding?”

“I'm going to start studying for the MCAT when we get home,” you said. “Apply in the fall and winter.”

Jack watched you for a moment like he was picturing it. “You’re going to make a damn good doctor.”

You snorted. “You’re biased.”

“Absolutely,” he admitted.

“You don’t even know if I’d get in.”

“You will.”

“And how do you know that?”

He shrugged slightly. “Because you’re the smartest medic out here.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No it’s not.”

“You just like me.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Well… yeah.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth that crept into your chest was impossible to ignore.

Outside, the convoy slowed as it approached the outskirts of the village. Engines rumbled to a stop. The back doors opened and the soldiers began filing out into the dusty road, boots crunching against gravel.

The village looked quiet. Too quiet. A few children watched from doorways. A dog barked somewhere behind one of the mudbrick houses.

Your patrol moved through the streets in practiced formation, scanning rooftops and alleyways. Just another patrol.

Then the first gunshot split the air. The crack echoed through the village like lightning.

For half a second, everything froze.

Then chaos erupted.

“CONTACT LEFT!”

Gunfire exploded from the rooftops. Bullets snapped through the air, striking the walls around you and sending bursts of dust flying.

“Taliban fighters!” someone shouted.

They appeared everywhere at once — figures emerging from windows, rooftops, and narrow alleyways, rifles flashing in the sunlight. Your patrol returned fire immediately.

The air filled with the deafening rhythm of gunshots. Dust and smoke churned through the street as soldiers scrambled for cover.

“MEDIC!” The sharp shout cut through the chaos.

You and Jack moved at the same time. Training took over before fear had a chance to settle in.

Two soldiers were down behind a crumbling wall. One clutched his arm tightly while the other struggled to keep pressure on a bleeding gash along his thigh. You slid to your knees beside the second soldier.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you said quickly, already pulling gauze from your kit. “You’re going to be fine.”

Across from you, Jack crouched beside the other wounded man.

“Let me see it,” he muttered, gently pulling the soldier’s arm away from his chest.

Blood soaked the sleeve of his uniform. Jack examined the wound quickly.

“Through-and-through,” he said. “You got lucky.”

Meanwhile your hands moved fast, wrapping pressure bandages around the soldier’s leg. Gunfire still cracked overhead, but it was beginning to thin out. Your patrol was pushing the enemy fighters back.

Within minutes the Taliban began retreating deeper into the village.

The chaos slowly faded. One by one, the wounded were lifted and carried toward the trucks.

You stood slowly, wiping blood from your hands onto your pants. Across the clearing, Jack finished helping lift his patient into the vehicle. 

He glanced up at you. “You good?” he called.

“Yeah,” you replied, stretching your back. “All patched up here.”

Relief began spreading through the patrol. The worst was over. Enemy fighters were disappearing down the distant alleyways. Everyone started to breathe again. Then—

Two gunshots rang out.

Sharp.

Close.

For a moment you didn’t understand what had happened. Then heat exploded through your abdomen. Your breath left your lungs in a sudden gasp and you looked down.

Two dark holes had torn through the fabric of your uniform just beneath the edge of your protective vest. Blood spread rapidly across the cloth.

Your hands dropped to your stomach instinctively. They came away soaked in warm blood.

Across the clearing, Jack looked up. His eyes locked onto you. For a moment he simply stared.

Your body swayed.

Your knees buckled.

“Hey—!”

Jack was already running before you collapsed.

“No, no, no—” He dropped beside you, sliding onto his knees in the dust. His hands pressed immediately against your abdomen. Blood soaked his gloves within seconds.

“It-it hurts, Jack,” you gasped, tears streaming down your face.

“I know,” he said quickly, his voice already shaking. “I know, I’ve got you.”

His hands moved fast, ripping open the fabric around the wounds.

Two entry holes close together. His stomach dropped at the sight. He rolled you slightly, checking your back, but saw nothing — no exit wounds.

The bullets were still inside you.

Jack’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Shit.” He slammed his hand back down over the wounds, applying brutal pressure. “WE NEED A MEDEVAC RIGHT NOW!” he roared, his voice cut through the entire patrol. “DOUBLE GSW TO THE ABDOMEN — NO EXIT WOUNDS!”

Someone grabbed the radio.

Jack barely heard them. All he could see was the blood soaking through the gauze faster than he could replace it.

Your breathing had turned shallow. Your fingers curled weakly into the front of his vest.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Just keep looking at me.”

Your vision had started to blur. Darkness crept in from the edges.

“Hey,” he said quickly, trying to keep you focused. “Remember our plan?”

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Our… Plan?”

“When we get back to Pittsburgh,” he said. “You remember?”

You nodded weakly. “You’re taking me on a date.”

Jack swallowed hard, pressing harder against the wound. “Yeah. You need to hold on so we can go on our date.”

Your trembling hand lifted slowly, grabbing his, your warm blood coated his fingers.

“Jack…”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Don’t start that.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “No matter what happens to me… I love you.”

Jack’s face broke. “No,” he whispered. Then louder. “No—NO.” Tears ran freely down his face now. “You don’t get to do this,” he choked. “You are not dying today.”

You reached up weakly, your hand brushing his jaw. 

“Remember the stars. If you miss me…” It took so much of your energy to speak. “Look at the stars.”

Jack leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “But you’re not joining the stars today.”

Then the thunder of helicopter blades roared overhead.

The MEDEVAC had arrived.

——————

The funeral took place beneath a pale gray sky.

The kind of sky that felt too quiet for a day like this.

Jack stood near the front of the small gathering, his hands folded tightly in front of him, shoulders stiff beneath the dark jacket he’d borrowed for the service. The wind stirred lightly through the rows of chairs set up in the cemetery, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the soft murmur of people speaking in low voices.

Nine days.

Nine days since he had watched the doors of the operating room close. Nine days since a surgeon had walked into the waiting room with that careful, rehearsed expression Jack had seen far too many times before. Nine days since the world he thought he was coming home to disappeared.

He had been back in the United States for a week now.

A week that had felt like drifting through someone else’s life.

Jack barely remembered the flight home. Barely remembered unpacking his bags. Barely remembered the long sleepless nights staring at the ceiling of his apartment.

Everything felt hollow. Like someone had carved out the center of his chest and left only the shell behind.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

He had imagined coming home with you a hundred different ways during those long nights in Afghanistan.

You both had.

Sleeping in real beds. Eating real food. You’d be studying for the MCAT while he complained about something inconsequential. Late night drives. Movies. Maybe, someday, a tiny house somewhere quiet.

All those plans had died on a battlefield thousands of miles away.

The small group gathered around the gravesite was quiet.

A few soldiers from your unit stood together in their dress uniforms, faces solemn, eyes fixed on the ground. A handful of civilians lingered nearby—friends who had known you long before the military ever entered your life.

Jack recognized none of them. But they recognized him. Because apparently, they’d been hearing about him long before anything happened between you two.

Jack stared at your name etched into the simple stone marker at the front of the gathering.

Seeing it there made his chest tighten.

You had always felt so alive — too alive to be reduced to a few carved words.

Jack’s eyes burned, but he didn’t try to stop the tears anymore. He had stopped trying days ago.

Someone stepped beside him. A woman with auburn hair and tired eyes.

“Jack?” she asked softly.

He turned slightly. “Yes?”

“I’m Amy,” she said gently. “She and I were friends back in Pittsburgh.”

Recognition flickered faintly: you had mentioned her once.

“She talked about you constantly,” Amy continued, a sad smile touching her lips. “In letters. Emails. Phone calls when she could get them.”

Jack swallowed hard. “She did?”

“Oh yeah,” Amy said quietly. “You were kind of a big deal.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

Amy reached into her purse and carefully pulled something out. “I wanted you to have this.”

She placed a small necklace in his palm. Jack stared down at it. A delicate gold chain with a small star-shaped pendant hanging from the center.

“She left it with me before she deployed,” she explained. “Said she was too afraid of losing it out there.”

Jack turned the pendant gently between his fingers, the metal felt cool against his skin.

“She wore it all the time before the military,” Amy said. “Said it reminded her of home.”

Jack closed his hand around the necklace, his chest tightening as another wave of grief rolled through him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Amy squeezed his arm gently before stepping away.

Other people approached him throughout the service. Some of which being your friends who told stories about you growing up. Others spoke quietly about the letters you had written while deployed. Several of them said the same thing: “She talked about you a lot.”

Every time Jack heard it, the words hit him like a punch to the ribs. Because he had no idea. He knew you loved him, but he hadn’t realized how deeply that love had woven itself into the rest of your life.

After the burial, the small crowd slowly began to disperse, Jack lingered a little longer. He wasn’t able to leave you yet. 

The cemetery had grown quiet now. Only the wind and distant traffic filled the air, stirring the fresh mound of earth where you now rested.

A few days prior, a lawyer had found him.

Jack hadn’t even known you had written a will. Apparently you had updated it two months before the mission. He found out when the lawyer had sat across from him with a folder in his hands.

“She named you as her primary beneficiary,” he had explained.

Jack blinked in confusion. “She… what?”

“She had no immediate family,” the lawyer continued gently. “According to her, you were the closest person to her.”

Before leaving, the lawyer had handed him a sealed envelope. “She asked that you receive this.”

Jack had stared at your handwriting on the front.

And when he opened it later that night, everything inside him had broken.

Jack, If you’re reading this, then something went wrong. I guess that’s the strange thing about writing a letter like this — you hope with every part of yourself that the person you’re writing to will never have to read it. But the military makes you think about things like this, about the what ifs, about the things you’d regret never saying. So here I am, trying to find the right words. First, I’m sorry. Because if this letter reached you, it means I didn’t make it home. And that means I left you behind. I wish I could tell you that I fought harder. That I held on longer. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I guess we’ll never really know. But what I do know is this: meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. Out of all the chaos, the fear, and the darkness that came with being out there, you were the one thing that made it all feel worth it. You made those long nights lighter. You made the bad days survivable. You made me laugh in places where laughter felt impossible. And those nights under the stars? Those will always be my favorite memories. Just sitting there beside you, listening to the generators humming behind us and the wind moving across the sand. Talking about everything and nothing at the same time. For a little while, it felt like the war disappeared and it was just us. I hope you still go out and look at the stars sometimes. Not because I want you to be sad when you see them — the opposite, actually. I hope when you look up, you remember those moments and smile. I hope you remember how alive we both felt sitting out there. I hope you remember that you were loved. Because you were, Jack. You still are. And there’s something else I need you to promise me. Just because I’m gone, don’t stop chasing your dreams. Don’t let my ending become the thing that stops your story. You deserve a full life. You deserve happiness. You deserve the future we used to talk about. Finish what you started. Help people. Make the world a little better than it was when you found it. And someday, when you’re older and life has taken you places we never imagined, I hope you look up at the night sky and think about that stupid little spot outside the base where we used to sit. Maybe you’ll even tell someone about it. About the stars. About the girl who loved you. Because I did, Jack. I loved you more than I ever managed to say out loud. Thank you for giving me something beautiful in the middle of a war. And wherever you go from here… I’ll be rooting for you. Always.

He had read the letter nearly forty times since then. And every single time, he cried.

Jack slipped the necklace carefully into his pocket now, his fingers lingering against it for a moment before he turned and began walking away from the gravesite.

The drive back to his apartment was quiet. The city moved around him like normal — people walked on sidewalks, cars passed at intersections. Life continued.

It felt wrong.

By the time he reached his apartment, the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon.

Jack stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Silence filled the small space. He moved slowly through the living room before kneeling beside the duffel bag he had brought home.

He hadn’t touched most of it yet. The zipper rasped softly as he opened it.

Inside were pieces of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else now. Uniforms. A dusty pair of boots. A folded scarf someone had traded him in a market. At the very bottom of the bag sat a small envelope.

Jack picked it up slowly. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it.

A Polaroid slid out into his palm.

It had been taken on one of your rare nights off. The two of you sat side by side on the edge of the base, mountains rising dark in the background while the sky above you stretched wide with stars.

You were smiling in the picture. Your head leaned lightly against his shoulder. Jack looked younger in it.

Happier.

He pressed the photograph against his chest. Then he pulled the necklace from his pocket, curling his fingers around it as well. The cool metal rested against his heart.

Jack sank slowly onto the floor beside the open bag. And for the first time since the funeral began that morning, the sobs came without restraint.

He clutched the photograph and the necklace tightly to his chest as tears streamed down his face.

——————

The room had gone quiet.

Jack sat back in his chair, hands loosely folded together, his eyes resting somewhere far beyond the hospital walls.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

The noise of Whitaker sniffling caused Jack to blink and look up.

Dennis Whitaker had both hands half covering his mouth, his eyes bloodshot as tears uncontrollably streamed down his face. Across the counter, Trinity Santos had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, but a few tears had slipped down her cheeks anyway. Even Ogilvie was staring down at the floor, jaw tight, blinking a little too much.

“Oh my god,” Trinity said quietly. “That’s… that’s so sad.”

Jack huffed softly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said.

Whitaker dragged the backs of his hands across his eyes, sniffling again. “She wanted to go to med school,” he murmured, half to himself. “She wanted to be a doctor.”

Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”

Whitaker stared down at the floor for a moment, his brain clearly still turning through the story Jack had just told.

Then his brow slowly furrowed. A realization began creeping across his face.

He looked back up at Jack. “Wait.”

Jack raised an eyebrow slightly.

Whitaker pointed weakly at him.

“You…” he said slowly, voice cracking a little, “you went to med school.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Whitaker’s eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. He sucked in a shaky breath that turned into a hiccup. “You did that for her.”

Jack looked down at his hands again. 

After a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Whitaker completely lost the battle against his tears at that point. He pressed his hands against his eyes again, shoulders shaking slightly.

“That somehow makes it worse,” he choked.

Ogilvie shook his head slowly beside him. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, though his voice was softer than usual.

Trinity wiped her eyes with a tissue. “That’s… really beautiful, Jack,” she said quietly.

Jack gave a small shrug. “She was supposed to be the doctor,” he said. “That was her dream, but she didn’t get the chance.” His eyes drifted toward the window beside them. “Figured I’d do it for her.”

No one had anything to say to that.

For years he hadn’t talked about this story. Not really. Pieces of it had slipped out here and there, but never the whole thing.

His therapist had encouraged him to share it more.

“You’re not reliving it,” she had said. “You’re honoring it. Honoring her.”

Jack wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but telling it didn’t hurt the way it used to. Now it just left a quiet ache behind.

He pushed himself up from the chair. “I’m gonna grab some air,” he said.

Whitaker nodded quickly, still wiping his eyes.

Jack stepped out into the hallway and walked toward the stairwell at the end.

A few minutes later he pushed open the heavy door to the hospital roof, cool night air greeting him immediately.

The city stretched out below in scattered lights and distant traffic, but Jack barely noticed any of it.

His gaze lifted automatically toward the sky.

It was clear tonight.

Hundreds of stars scattered across the darkness.

His therapist had once pointed something out to him: “You seem to find comfort in the dark,” she had said.

At first he didn't understand what she meant.

But later he realized she was right.

Because the darkness reminded him of the quiet nights in Afghanistan. The nights when the generators hummed softly behind them and the war seemed to pause for a little while. The nights when you both sat at the edge of the base staring up at the sky. That was when you talked the most. When the world felt far away.

When it was just the two of you beneath the stars.

Jack slipped a hand beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled the necklace free. The small star pendant caught the faint glow of the rooftop light.

He curled his fingers around it and lifted his gaze back toward the sky.

“You know,” he said quietly into the night, “Whitaker cried.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’d like him.”

He rubbed his thumb across the small star pendant before looking up at the stars again.

“I can still see your light.”

Jack stood there for a long time after that, staring up at the sky.

And somehow, in the quiet darkness, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

a/n: Sorry this was meant to be posted like a week ago, but I got carried away with writing, and I was also super busy with class. I also like didn't proofread this... Anyway, Hope you enjoy :)

Tag: @generation-zero 

[callienotcally]

Using You

pairing: jack abbot x reader

summary: you and jack are in bed and he discovers something about you

content: MDNI 18+ !!! thigh riding, dry humping, jack accidentally being a tease, established relationship, soft dom jack if u squint, kinda clingy/needy reader u just miss him after his shift, jack praising reader, implied smut, slight somnophilia

authors note: this is kinda short but i was thinking abt his thigh and could Not get this idea out of my head and also im writing this at 6 am

───────── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ─────────

You always loved mornings like this. It was one of Jacks rare days off which means you get to wake up wrapped in arms. Jack was on his back, one arm around you with the other lying on his stomach. You were practically clinging to him. You were pressed against his side, Your arm lazily resting across his chest with your hand on his shoulder, his thigh between your legs, and your face resting on his chest. The rhythm of his steady heart beat was almost enough to lull you back to sleep. Almost.

Right when you could feel your heavy eyelids closing to drift back to sleep, you felt it; Jack adjusted the leg that was snuggly tucked between your thighs, gently grinding against you. You freeze, the friction causing a jolt of pleasure to rupture throughout your whole body. Jack was still asleep and had no idea the effect he was having on you. His arm tightens around you, absentmindedly bringing you even closer than before causing you to shift against his thigh again. Your breath hitches at the movement, and you can’t help but want to chase that feeling. You slowly grind against Jacks thick and muscular thigh, hand balling his shirt in your fist as you start to find a gentle rhythm. You’re trying to be quiet as to not wake Jack, but that effort goes out the window as you quicken your pace and chase the release you were craving. Your panties and sleep short were ruined by your wetness and you could feel your core tightening.

“What’re you doing, hm?”

You immediately still when Jacks groggy voice cuts through your panting.

You quickly let loose of his shirt and untangle your legs from the man’s thigh, scrambling to get out of his hold.

“where you going, sweetheart?”

Jacks arm tightens around you once more, pulling you back to be pressed against his side.

You don’t dare look at him, embarrassment causing your face to heat up almost instantly. You feel Jacks calloused hand cup your cheek and tilt your face up to look at him. His face is inches away from yours when he speaks again.

“Tell me what you were doing, baby.”

You look at him with big eyes. You were ashamed to admit to the older man what you were doing, especially since it seemed so juvenile. You open your mouth to speak but no words come out, causing you to close your lips and stay silent.

“C’mon, baby. Need you to use your words for me.”

Jack then moves his damp thigh to its previous position between your thighs.

“Or would you rather show me?”

Jacks thigh pushes against your cunt and you can’t help but let out a quiet moan. Jack suddenly moves his arm to your side and lifts you to straddle his thigh. His hands are now on your thighs as he looks up at you. You brace yourself against him, hands on his strong chest as you sit atop his leg.

“You using me while I sleep?”

He lifts his thigh slightly causing you to inadvertently grind against him. You let out a shaky breath when you hear him speak.

“Talk to me baby. Couldn’t wait for me to wake up and take care of you?” As Jack questions you, his hands start slowly guiding your hips to bring against his thigh.

You can feel his toned muscles through the thin fabric of your shorts and panties and you already know that you’re soaking Jacks leg. You start to find a steady rhythm and you give your response through whimpers.

“Missed you. Jus’ wanted to feel you, Jack.”

You hear Jack groan at your response. His grip tightens on your waist and you feel him force your hips to quicken as you start to desperately chase your high again.

“Use me all you want, sweetheart. I’m yours to use, whenever you want.”

Jacks words make your hips move faster as you ride his thigh. Your hands are clutching Jacks shirt, balling the soft fabric into your palms as you listen to his uneven breathing and occasional groans. Your eyes are closed and eyebrows are knit together when you choke out a moan as you feel Jacks hand reach down and start to gently massage the bundle of nerves hiding behind your clothes. You’re a whimpering mess as your grinding becomes sloppy and your release creeps closer and closer.

Jacks fingers move faster as he studies your features, smirking to himself as he sees you desperately chase your high.

“Cmon, baby, want you to make a mess on my thigh. Want you completely ruined on top of me.”

Jacks desperate words are what finally send you over the edge. You’re coming undone on his thigh and you can feel your wetness drenching his leg. Jack reaches up pulls your face to his and kisses you desperately. You’re still seeing stars when you feel Jack swiftly roll you both over, never breaking the kiss, and him now on top of you.

He reaches his hand between you two and starts tugging down your soaked shorts and panties. Jack pulls away just enough to catch his breath. He leaves quick and sloppy kisses down you jaw and neck before trailing down you chest and stomach and finally making his way to between your thighs. He speaks again, looking up at you as you feel his breath fam across your glistening cunt.

“Think you can go again, baby?”

[sapiensecrets]

f*ck, marry, kill - dennis whitaker x f!reader

summary: you wind up in the emergency room on halloween with the hottest doctor you've ever seen treating you. dennis thanks god that he decided to pick up a shift today.

pairings: dennis whitaker x reader cw/tags: no use of y/n, pre-relationship, broken bones, pain meds (morphine), nausea and anti-emetics (zofran). swearing, everyone in the pitt being nosey as fuck, reader is described as having cleavage and wearing heels + a teeny tiny halloween costume and makeup. mentions of drinking. inappropriate workplace conduct (when is there not in my writing) including discussion of a patient (reader) being attractive. word count: 5.1k masterlist requested here and based off me breaking my own ankle on halloween this year lmao except my friends were unsuccessful in convincing me to go to the ER :)

You genuinely don’t think there’s anything more embarrassing than ending up in the emergency department after twisting your ankle in the platform heels you insisted you would be able to walk in. 

Except, what is more embarrassing, is the fact that you’re not just in heels—you’re in a full-blown, tight, revealing Halloween costume. And you hadn’t even started drinking yet. 

“Okay, I’m gonna’ try to find a wheelchair, just sit,” Your friend says, ducking out from under your arm, letting you rest your palm against a nearby column. Your other friend is still holding you up on the other side, one arm around your waist. 

“This is stupid,” You say. “It’s not broken.”

“It might be,” Your friend says. “How would you know?”

“Because I can walk,” You counter. “Do you really think I’d be able to walk on a broken ankle?”

“You can barely walk,” She corrects. “Hence the wheelchair.”

“I don’t need the wheelchair,” You grumble, setting your injured foot down on the ground, clenching your teeth as sharp pain radiates up your leg. Your friend rolls her eyes, acting as though she didn’t notice as you shuffle away from her. “See? Walking.”

“I’ve seen babies crawl faster than that,” She says. “Just see what they say, okay? If it’s not broken then all the better.”

Your other friend comes around a corner with someone in tow, pushing a wheelchair. She’s young, wearing grey scrubs, and her hair’s pulled back into two braids with a few curls framing her face. Your friend doesn’t need to point her in the right direction, because your outfits make it more than obvious that you came together. 

“This is Emma,” Your friend says. “She’s a nurse.”

“Hi, Emma,” You greet, introducing yourself to her after. She repeats your name, then gestures to the wheelchair. 

“Come on, we’ll get you taken back,” She says, helping you into the chair. She lifts one of the sides up, elevating your left leg so it’s level with your hips. 

“Isn’t it a really bad sign to be taken back right away in an ER?” You ask. 

“Oh, no, well…sometimes,” Emma says. “But your friend was telling me how you injured your ankle, and we just want to take a quick look. Can one of you grab a clipboard from registration, please?”

Your friends nod, and one of them steps over to the line, getting left behind as you’re wheeled through the double doors. 

“Who do we have here?” A blonde woman, also wearing grey, asks, coming around the desk towards you. 

Emma says your name and age before continuing. “Twisting injury on an uneven curb, unable to visualize the area, her friend wasn’t sure if she hit her head when she fell—she was walking behind them.”

“I did not hit my head,” You say. “I don’t…think.”

The blonde woman, whose name tag reads ‘Dana,’ chuckles. “Alright, that’s a one way ticket to a room, sweetheart.”

“What?” You ask. “No, there has to be other people that need to be seen before I do.”

“There are,” She agrees. “Emma’ll take a look first, see what we’re working with. Sound okay?”

You nod, not really in a place to argue. Plus, you’re pretty sure Dana isn’t exactly the type to lose a fight. 

“Take her to four,” Dana instructs. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Emma nods, pushing you towards the right place. It’s not exactly a room, just a bed surrounded by curtains. She helps you onto the bed, sitting the back up so you can lean against it. 

“Can you tell me your full name?” Emma asks, which you do. “What about the date?”

“October thirty-first, twenty-twenty five,” You answer. 

“Do you know where you are?”

“PTMC,” You say, rolling your eyes when your friend gives you a thumbs up. 

“Do you remember falling?” She continues, hands hovering over your boot, trying to figure out if she can get it off without hurting you further or using scissors. 

“Yeah, I mean, mostly,” You say. 

She nods, coming back over to you, pulling something out of her pocket. “I’m just gonna’ shine something in your eyes, okay? Look straight ahead.”

You listen, doing your best not to flinch when the light hits your eye. She tucks it away, setting two fingers in both of your hands. 

“Squeeze my fingers,” She instructs. “Does your head hurt? Any nausea?”

You shrug. “A little nausea.”

“How’s it going in here?” Dana asks, pulling the curtain aside as she comes in, closing it behind her. 

“Pupils equal and reactive, normal motor function, minor nausea,” Emma explains. “I was just about to try and take her boots off.”

Dana hums. “They’re tight, might have to cut the left one off.”

You gasp. “What? No, they were expensive. I can do it.”

“We don’t want anything making it worse, hon,” Dana says, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Give it a shot, see what we’re working with.”

Emma nods, fingers careful as she unzips the boot as far as she can, pulling the edges back. She frowns once she can actually see your ankle, which is already swollen and likely starting to bruise. 

“Let me know if it hurts, okay?” She says, and you nod, ready to brave through any pain just so they won’t cut it off. She braces the bottom of your foot, up by your toes, then starts to slide the back half off your heel. All plans to suck it up go out the window the second it starts to move. 

“Ow, fuck, sorry,” You say, face wrenched with pain, hands curled into the mattress. She stops immediately, glancing at Dana, who takes her place. Emma continues bracing, and Dana actually manages to move it a smidge more before the searing pain returns. 

“No, no, just cut it, please,” You say. “I should’ve listened in the first place.”

“I liked the optimism,” Dana says, carefully setting your foot back on the bed. Emma grabs a pair of scissors from a drawer, slicing across the material, each snip ringing out in the quiet room. They peel the remains off, then your sock, revealing the injury in it’s entirety. 

“Should’ve painted your toenails,” Your friend says. 

You laugh, then wince when your foot shifts. “Didn’t know they’d be on display.”

“I’m gonna’ touch a few spots, let me know if it hurts,” Emma says, raising a gloved finger to your ankle, pressing lightly. You groan, clutching the sheets. Every spot hurts, two of them more than the others, and then she grips slightly higher on your calf, squeezing. 

“Jesus christ,” You grunt, leaning forward, a wave of nausea hitting with the pain. Your face twists, and Emma lets go. 

“Sorry, sorry,” She says. “You okay?”

You give a thumbs up, slightly hunched, taking deep breaths. 

“Still confident it’s not broken?” Your friend asks. 

You manage to say the name of your other friend, followed by ‘go find her.’ She listens, leaving you alone with the two nurses. The pain subsides after a few moments, and you sit back up, exhaling. 

“Please tell me we won’t have to do that again,” You say. 

“Hopefully not,” Dana promises. “You definitely need an x-ray, and let someone know if your nausea gets worse, alright? Emma’s gonna’ set you up with some ice and an IV, and I’m gonna’ go find someone to sign off on pain meds.”

“Okay, sounds good,” You say. “Thank you.”

Princess is standing outside your room, hidden by the curtain, leaning against the wall. Dana raises an eyebrow as she comes out, gesturing for her to go ahead with whatever she wants to say. 

“She’s gorgeous,” Princess says, keeping her voice down. “Is she a model?”

“Not sure,” Dana says, scanning the department, trying to find a free doctor. “Could be.”

“What’s she here for?” 

“Broken ankle,” She says, finally seeing Dennis come out of a room, calling his name before he can take a seat at one of the computers. “Need you for a minute.”

She meets him halfway, grabbing a tablet from the stand, pulling up your chart and passing it to him. 

“Twisted her ankle, bimalleolar tenderness, positive squeeze test,” She explains. “She needs some pain meds, x-ray’s already been ordered.”

He nods, looking at your name in the top left corner. “I’ll take a look in a minute.”

“Thank you,” She says, patting his shoulder as she walks off. Princess steps in front of Dennis, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“What?” He asks, wearily. 

“She’s pretty,” She says. 

“Who?” 

“Your new patient,” Princess clarifies. “Thought you might want a heads up.”

Dennis huffs, nodding, stepping around her. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Emma stays with you after Dana leaves. “You want a blanket?”

You glance down at your outfit, then towards the now open curtain. “Yes, please.”

She grabs one, draping it over you, leaving your arm exposed. She sets up your vitals, then gets the IV first try, hanging a bag of fluids on the nearby hook. 

“How’s your nausea?” She asks. “Any worse?”

You think for a second. “A little worse, but still okay.”

The curtain is pulled back again, revealing a man in black scrubs with blonde curls and blue eyes. Emma gives him a small smile, stepping away from your bed so she doesn’t get in the way. You feel your heart start to race, hoping that he doesn’t notice on the screen displaying your pulse behind you. He says your name as he walks in, and then he pauses for a fraction of a second. 

‘Pretty’ is an understatement. You’re stunning. 

He has to make a conscious effort not to look at your chest, which is exposed in the tiny costume you’re wearing, but he recovers quickly, tapping his badge against the sensor at the computer. 

“I’m Dr. Whitaker,” He introduces. “I hear we’ve got quite the ankle injury.”

“You could say that,” You say, grimacing as you shift up on the bed, trying to get comfortable. He scans your triage note, then looks at Emma.

“Neuro exam okay?” He asks, and she nods. 

“Completely normal besides a little nausea,” She explains. 

“No headache or dizziness?” He confirms, the question now directed at you. You shake your head. “Have you had any alcohol today?”

“No,” You say. “Didn’t exactly get that far.”

There’s a pause before you speak again, only filled by the sound of him typing. 

“Why, are you offering?”

Emma averts her eyes, grabbing a new pair of gloves, trying to seem busy. Dennis pauses, keeping his head forward, hoping that his cheeks and ears haven’t gone as red as they feel. Langdon can’t help but glance in as he passes by, having overheard the comment. His eyes widen when he sees you, and he quickly moves on to his patient’s room. 

“They already made last call,” Dennis says, trying to joke a little. “Best I can do is some pain meds.”

“Damn, I was hoping not all my Halloween plans were ruined,” You say. “But I’ll definitely take pain meds.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” He says, offering you a quick, small smile. “Do you have any drug allergies or kidney problems?”

“Nope.”

He nods, stepping back from the computer, looking at Emma. “Two of morphine, twenty of ketorolac. Let’s keep her NPO for now.”

“Yeah, on it.”

She leaves the room. Dennis gestures to your leg, which is under the blanket. 

“Mind if I take a look?” He asks. 

You smirk, your eyebrows raising suggestively. “Please.”

He swallows, trying to get his heart to stop pounding. There’s no way you’re flirting with him, right?

He lifts the blanket up, folding it back and setting it on your thighs. He avoids touching the pressure points, knowing how painful it would’ve been the first time, instead holding just below your knee as he tilts your leg to either side. It doesn’t matter though—you still wince, inhaling sharply. 

“Sorry,” He says, softly, trying to move slower. The bruising is bad, but the swelling is worse now that your boot has been off for a bit. 

“Tripped on a curb, hey?” He asks, putting the blanket back over once he’s done. 

You groan, leaning back against the bed. “Yeah, like an idiot.”

“Happens to the best of us,” He says, pulling a stool over, sitting down. He points to where your boots are sitting on the floor. “Those the heels?”

“Sure are,” You say. “What’s left of them, anyway.”

He leans over, getting a closer look, seeing how the left one has been completely mangled. He also sees how tall they are, and he clenches his jaw, trying not to think about how good they must've looked when they were on. 

“At least you’re having a better day than they are,” He says. 

You laugh. “Yeah, just wish I could’ve actually gotten some use out of them. They really tied the whole costume together.”

“What was the costume?” He asks, looking you over, having a few guesses in mind, but not wanting to be wrong.

“It makes more sense when my friends are with me,” You say, looking up at him through your lashes, folding your arms over your chest, exposing more of your cleavage. “You know the game ‘fuck, marry, kill?’”

“Uh, yeah, yes,” He says, stuttering. 

“We’re that,” You say. “You wanna’ guess which one I am?”

He blinks. 

“I probably shouldn’t,” He says, but he knows the answer. Your costume is blood red, and you have lipstick marks trailing up your neck and on your cheeks. He doesn’t want to think about who put them on you. 

You hum. “Then I guess you’ll live in mystery.”

He looks back at you, crossing his arms, trying to move on without showing how flustered you've made him. “Emma should be back with those meds soon, and then we’ll reassess once you get some imaging done. Sound okay?”

“As long as you come back,” You say, not missing a beat. He laughs a little, bringing one hand up to the back of his neck. 

“I will,” He says, checking his watch. “Still got an hour left, and x-ray should be here any minute.”

“Looking forward to it, Dr. Whitaker.”

Dana overhears that, making her smirk, especially when Dennis comes out of your room a second later, redder than she’s ever seen him. He clears his throat as he walks over, stopping on the other side of the desk. 

“She’s all good for now,” He says. “Got her some pain meds, let me know when the films are up.”

“Will do,” She says. “You alright? You’re a little flushed, kid.”

He nods, clearing his throat again, already walking away to avoid further questions. She laughs to herself, shaking her head. Princess leans over from her spot. 

“I tried to warn him,” She says. 

“About what?” Dana asks. 

“That she was pretty,” Princess says. 

Dana scoffs, still smiling. “I don’t think that was the issue.”

“Oh?”

“She was flirting with him,” Dana says. “Said she was ‘looking forward’ to him coming back once her x-rays were done.”

“No!” Princess exclaims, making eye contact with Perlah, who’s now listening intently. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Dana confirms. “Can you grab repeat vitals for twelve?”

“Okay, pain meds are in, and x-ray is on their way,” Emma says, standing beside you, a new pair of gloves on now that she’s finished administering the medication. “You’ll have to change into a gown, do you want help?”

You don’t, but you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to do it on your own. 

“Please,” You say, an apologetic look on your face. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Emma asks, incredulous. “Trust me, you are, like, the easiest patient I’ve had all day.”

She closes the curtain before helping you, folding the tiny two-piece set that you were wearing and placing it in a large bag. She puts your boots in there too, despite the fact that one of them is in multiple pieces. 

The curtain opens again, making both of you look up. The person looks up from her tablet, stopping in her tracks, eyes widening. 

“You are not my patient,” She says, glancing at the tablet again, eyes narrowing. “Ah, they moved him to fifteen. Sorry for barging in.”

“No problem,” You say. “Hope you find your patient.”

“Thanks,” She says. “Everything good in here, Emma?”

“Yep, just waiting on x-ray,” She says. “Thanks, Dr. Santos.”

She nods, then turns around, speed-walking away from your room. Once she’s done with her real patient she practically tosses her tablet onto a desk as she walks by, coming up behind Victoria and grabbing her arm. 

“Have you seen the patient in four?” She asks. 

“Uhm, no, why?” She questions, still walking, despite the hold that Trinity has on her. 

“She might be the hottest person I’ve ever seen in my life,” Trinity says. Victoria laughs in disbelief, stopping at a computer, pressing her badge to the scanner.

“What?” She questions. “That’s…not professional.”

“I didn’t say it to her face,” Trinity counters. “Go look, tell me you don’t agree.”

“I’m busy!” Victoria exclaims, pulling up a chart. “What’s she here for?”

“I dunno’, she’s not my patient. Check.”

Victoria scrolls through the dashboard until she sees your bed number, scanning across to the chief complaint. “LEI.”

Trinity laughs a little. “Probably had a bit too much to drink.”

“Who are we talking about?” Dennis asks, logging on to a nearby computer. 

“Patient in four,” Trinity says. 

“Oh, she’s mine,” He says. “X-ray just came back, did you see her?”

“Did she ever,” Victoria mumbles. 

“Briefly,” Trinity says. “You talked to her already?”

“Uh, yeah,” He says, bringing your chart up. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Santos thinks she’s hot,” Victoria says, earning a glare from the resident. “Do you agree?”

Dennis frowns, pulling up your x-ray, not actually looking at it yet. “She’s a patient.”

“Oh, come on, she’ll never know,” Trinity says. 

He shrugs, fiddling with the mouse. “It doesn’t matter—she’s a patient.”

“Okay, I need to see for myself,” Victoria decides, walking away from them. She slows down once she’s outside of your room, looking through the gap between the curtain and the wall. She continues on after a moment, then loops around, coming back over. 

“Oh my god,” She says. 

“Right?” Trinity says. “She’s insane.”

“That’s…that’s ridiculous,” Victoria says. “Wow.”

Dennis shakes his head, returning his attention to your images. He sucks in through his teeth, almost wincing at the sight. Trinity looks over, grimacing. 

“Oh, ouch,” She says. “That’s rough.”

Robby stops as he walks by, eyes narrowing, automatically reaching up to put his glasses on. 

“Bimalleolar fracture,” He comments. “Who’s this for?”

“Four,” Dennis answers. “Tripped on a curb in heels.”

“Tell me someone’s given her some pain meds,” Robby says. 

“Yeah, I ordered two of morphine and twenty of ketorolac,” He says. “Almost an hour ago.”

“What’s your plan?” Robby asks, leaning back, putting his glasses in his pocket. 

“A splint, page ortho,” He answers. “More meds.”

Robby nods, giving him the permission he needs to log off and head towards your room. He can’t hear anything as he walks over, and he pulls the curtain back to reveal Emma standing at the computer, and you—

Well, you’re still stunning—despite the hospital gown and half-lidded eyes. You’re slightly curled onto your right side, both hands tucked beneath your head. Your makeup is still sharp, eyelashes coated in mascara and a wing of eyeliner flicking out towards your temple. Your eyelids are glittery, and, even though you’ve been laying in a hospital bed for an hour, your hair looks amazing. 

Dennis says your name, making you fully open your eyes, turning towards him. 

“Hey,” He says. “How’re you doing?”

You blink a few times, sitting up. Emma comes over to adjust your bed. 

“I’m okay,” You say, voice slightly rasped. He sees the way you wince when you move, and how your face is tight with discomfort. 

“How’s your pain, scale of one to ten?” He asks, sitting on the stool beside your bed. “One being barely noticeable, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt.”

You shrug. “Uhm, maybe a five? Six?”

He frowns. “Still hurts pretty bad, huh?”

You swallow, blinking a few times, nodding. “Yeah.”

“Any changes since I’ve been gone?” He asks. “Dizziness, more nausea, confusion?”

“Still a little nauseous, maybe?” You say, finding yourself not wanting to admit that to your unreasonably attractive physician. “But it’s better now that you’re back.”

“Oh, uh, well, that’s great,” He says, tripping over the words. Emma looks out of your room, noticing a few people congregating by the desk across the department, watching the interaction closely. Princess and Perlah are murmuring to each other, whereas Jesse and Frank are just staring as Dennis’ face starts to burn again. “I can give you an anti-nausea medication too.”

“Can’t you just stay?” You ask. “I really feel a lot better when you’re around, Dr. Whitaker.”

Emma bites her lips, looking down at the floor, mumbling something about another patient before walking away. Dennis opens his mouth, then closes it, trying to think of what he could possibly say right now. 

“I, uhm, I would if I could,” He finally says. “But you’re here on one of our busiest days of the year, so-”

“Right, everyone seems very busy,” You interrupt, gesturing to the group staring at the two of you. He turns around, watching them scatter like animals the second his eyes are on them, desperately searching for a task to do. Dennis hums, nodding. 

“They might not be, but I have other patients,” He says. 

You put on an exaggerated frown. “Consider me jealous.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Trust me, you have no reason to be jealous.”

You cock your head to the side, already starting to grin, eyebrows raising. He realizes how that sounds, and even though it’s true, that’s not exactly what he meant.

“Because some of them are a lot worse off than you,” He clarifies, and he hears someone laugh at the terrible excuse for his accidental flirting as they walk by. “I am gonna’ have Emma give you some more pain meds and some Zofran, which will help with the nausea, uh…until I get back.”

“Thank you,” You say, slightly more serious now. “See you soon?”

He nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Perlah grins when he gets back to the hub. “She’s laying it on pretty thick, huh?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” He counters. “She’s just nice.”

“That’s not what nice sounds like,” Frank adds. “She’s into you, man.”

Dennis logs on to one of the computers, inputting your new orders. “I mean, even if she was, she’s a patient, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Won’t be your patient forever,” Princess says. “And she’s been flirting since before you gave her any meds, so, not like she wasn’t in a sound state.”

“Who’s flirting?” Robby questions, and everyone goes silent, averting their eyes. 

“No one,” Dennis says, forcing a smile onto his face. 

“The patient in four is super into Huckleberry,” Trinity says, making Robby raise an eyebrow, taking his glasses off and tucking them into his pocket. 

“That so?” He asks, making Dennis shake his head. 

“No, it’s not,” He says. “She’s just friendly.”

“And very attractive,” Trinity adds. 

“Okay, alright,” Robby says. “Let’s stay professional.”

“Please,” Dennis mumbles. 

You lose track of how many people ‘walk’ past your room over the next ten minutes. Some of them are genuinely just moving by, not even glancing in your general direction, usually holding a tablet or medications of some kind. Others are obviously slowing down, looking at you for a second, a few even doing a double or triple take. Dana comes over and pulls your curtain closed, giving you a smile as she does. You hear her say something along the lines of ‘this isn’t a zoo’ as she walks away, which makes you laugh to yourself. 

“He’s still red,” Someone says from somewhere outside. “She’s killing him.”

“I’d be red too if she was talking to me like that,” Another one says. “How long before he comes up with an excuse to talk to her again, ‘you think?”

“Ten minutes, tops,” The original voice says. 

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” A third person adds. “But she seems sweet.”

“She’s so sweet,” Emma agrees, finally someone you recognize. “Keeps apologizing for everything, I wish all my patients were like her.”

“Those for her?” The second voice asks, and you assume Emma nods before walking towards your room. 

Her face pops up a moment later, a sweet smile on her face, which you return. “Hey, how’s it going in here?”

“Good, minus the pain,” You say. 

“This should help,” She says, holding up the vials in her hands before setting them down on a tray, pulling a pair of gloves on. “More morphine, and some Zofran for the nausea. Dr. Whitaker should be in to talk about your x-ray soon.”

“Is it bad?” You ask, already knowing the answer. 

She gives you another smile, inserting the first medication into your IV bag. “He’ll go over everything once he’s got a second.”

He comes back once his face is no longer obviously red.

“I took a look at your x-rays,” He says. “You did a number on your ankle.”

You sigh, nodding. “Yeah, figured as much when I got morphine within ten minutes of showing up.”

“That’s usually not a great sign, unfortunately,” He confirms. “You came in with some friends?”

“Oh, yeah, but I told them to go,” You explain. “We were on our way to meet up with some other people, figured there was no need for them to miss out.”

He hums. “Very generous.”

“What can I say?” You tease, leaning back, closing your eyes for a second. “Not as generous as you, I’m sure, but I do my best.”

“What makes you say that?” He asks, smiling.

You scoff, incredulous. “You’re working in an emergency room on Halloween, feels pretty generous to me.”

He sets his hands on the guardrail on the side of your bed, leaning over a bit. “Do I get extra points since I wasn’t actually scheduled today?”

“Maybe,” You say. “Then why are you here?”

“One of my colleagues asked to swap,” He explains. “Wanted to hangout with her sister tonight.”

“Very noble,” You say. “Definitely worthy of extra points—not that you needed them, though.”

He smiles a bit. “Good to know.”

He lets you know that you’ll probably need surgery, but that ortho will have to come down and check it out, which might be awhile. In the meantime, they’ll try and keep your pain managed and set you up with a splint. Emma comes back when your IV pump starts to beep, adjusting a few things to fix it. 

“Is there someone I can call?” Dennis asks. “To come keep you company?”

“No, uh, I’m good,” You say, checking your phone quickly. “Your shift’s over, right?”

He smiles, not believing that you actually remembered that. 

“Yeah, technically,” He says. “Do you need anything else?”

“I don’t wanna’ keep you,” You say, but you definitely don’t mean it. “I’m sure whoever’s here to take your place won’t let me die.”

He laughs a little. “I would hope not.”

“Probably won’t be as handsome, though,” You say. Dennis blinks, the comment cementing the fact that you have been flirting, and he stutters for a second. Luckily, Emma steps in for him, putting a hand on your shoulder. 

“Between us,” She says. “The night shift is a pretty attractive crew, he’s got some competition.”

That makes you smile, genuinely, and Dennis honestly feels like he might pass out with how fast his heart is beating. 

“Where’s Whitaker?” Jack asks, taking in the group by the desk, eager to go through handover and get home. Robby looks around, not seeing him. 

“He went to see a patient a few minutes ago,” He says. “He’s probably still in there.”

“Which room?” 

“Four, I think,” Robby says. Princess and Perlah turn to eachother, saying something in Tagalog. Trinity nudges Victoria, and Dana smiles. 

“I don’t know if you’d be able to pry that case from his cold, dead hands,” Dana says. 

“What?” Jack asks. “Why?”

“She’s been flirting with him since she got here,” Frank says. 

“That so?” Jack questions, turning towards the room, seeing the curtain completely drawn, blocking you and him from view. “You think he’s interested?”

“I think anyone would be interested,” Trinity says. Jack raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs. “See for yourself.”

He chuckles, grabbing a tablet and walking over to the curtain, adjusting his stethoscope around his neck. 

“Knock knock,” He says, seeing Whitaker still beside you, and Emma adjusting your IV. You look up, but your eyes are hazy from the morphine, a small smile on your face. Dennis sits up straighter, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m Dr. Abbot, you can call me Jack. I’ll be taking over for Dr. Whitaker here. Catch me up?”

Dennis says your full name and age. “Bimalleolar fractures to the left ankle from a twisting injury, waiting for ortho consult. Pain was a six out of ten about fifteen minutes ago, gave two more of morphine and four of Zofran for nausea.”

“Perfect,” Jack says. “How’s your pain now?”

“Better,” You say. “A three, maybe.”

“And the nausea?”

You raise a hand, tilting it from side to side, clearly a little out of it now that there’s more morphine in your system. “Not great.”

Jack smiles, understanding why anyone would be interested in you. 

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” He says. “Ready to finish up, Whitaker?”

“Uh, yeah, absolutely,” Dennis says. 

“Wait,” You say, eyes widening. “Does that mean it’s no longer…unethical for him to go on a date with me?”

Emma smiles, and Jack looks to Dennis, amused. He turns to you, patting the guardrail beside you. 

“You’re on a lot of meds right now,” He says, gently. “Probably not the best time to make a decision like that.”

You squint, his words sort of a rejection, but his tone suggesting that it wasn’t one. 

“Tell you what,” Jack says, gaining both your attention. “If you’re still interested by the time those meds ease up, and once you’re no longer a patient of ours…I’ll pass the message along.”

Dennis’ face is a combination of grateful and mortified. 

“I’ll be interested, don’t worry,” You say, leaning back into the mattress. “Hopefully I’ll see you again, Dr. Whitaker.”

“Dennis,” He corrects. 

You smile, nodding, watching as he goes to leave. You call his name after a moment, making him turn around again.

"There's no competition, by the way," You say, subtly glancing towards Jack. He raps his knuckles against the wall of your room, nodding before actually leaving.

Jack gives him your number two days later.

A/N - this is scheduled so if u see it right away im not actually here...i took an insane exam today, my ex texted me yesterday and now i’m going on a first date with someone in an hour help me. talk to u all later thank u for reading <3

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb  @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker  @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat  @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @groundzerospitfire @bubiblossom