Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.
CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT
Genre: Dark Fantasy
AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!
WC: 26K
He should be dead.
The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.
Vermax.
The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.
Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.
What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
—
He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.
Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.
“You shouldn’t move.”
The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.
You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.
“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”
Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.
You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”
The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.
“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”
You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”
He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.
“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”
Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.
He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.
“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.
“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”
Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.
“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”
You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”
He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.
“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”
Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.
“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.
—
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.
You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.
He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.
“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”
You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”
He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.
He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.
He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.
His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.
“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.
“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.
“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”
Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.
“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”
He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.
“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”
“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”
There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”
“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”
Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.
His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.
“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”
“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”
“But you did it.”
He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”
—
The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.
And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.
In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.
He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.
You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”
“I was very proud of myself.”
“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”
“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”
You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.
You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.
He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.
He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.
So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
—
The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.
It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.
“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”
Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”
“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”
“I knew how to walk.”
“Then today you will remember.”
It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.
“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”
He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.
And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”
The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.
The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.
“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.
You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”
“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.
“I had time.”
That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.
The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.
Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.
It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.
The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.
But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.
The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.
Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.
“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”
He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.
And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.
Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.
And you.
—
He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.
And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.
He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.
And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.
You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.
“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”
“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”
He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.
“Where are the other people?” he asked.
Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.
“What other people?”
“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”
He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.
“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.
He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”
“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”
The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”
“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”
“That is impossible.”
“It is simply true.”
Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”
“I did not say I chose it.”
The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.
“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”
Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”
“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”
“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.
“I have been here ever since.”
“How long?”
You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”
Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.
“Who is your brother?” he asked.
Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”
“A lord of what? Where? What house?”
“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”
Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.
Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.
“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”
“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”
“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.
And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.
You were lonely.
Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.
He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.
—
In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.
"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.
"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."
The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.
"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."
Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."
"I've done labor."
"Name one example."
He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."
"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."
"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.
You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."
The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.
But you were always there, always nearby.
He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.
"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.
"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."
"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"
He stopped.
The war.
What war?
The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—
Vermax.
His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.
But what was the war about?
"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."
You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."
"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."
He picked up the axe and got back to work.
—
One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."
He stopped, the name wouldn't come.
"Viserys," you said quietly.
"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."
You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.
"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."
Dead.
The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.
"He's what?" you asked.
Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."
You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."
"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."
Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.
But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.
—
The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.
The waterfall, for one thing.
It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.
You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.
"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I was... appreciating the scenery."
You opened one eye. "The scenery."
"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."
You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.
Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—
You looked beautiful.
He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.
"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.
Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.
Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.
"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.
—
"I was betrothed," he said one evening.
You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.
"Was?" you asked.
"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."
"Before the battle."
"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."
"What is her name?"
Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.
"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."
He trailed off.
You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"
"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."
"That is not the same as love."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
—
He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.
—
The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.
What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.
But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.
He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.
The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.
The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.
The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.
The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.
He loved you.
He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.
He loved you.
And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.
—
The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.
The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.
He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.
He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.
He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."
Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.
"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."
"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."
"Swimming is work. It builds character."
You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"
"Come in and find out."
You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.
Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.
The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.
You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.
You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.
You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.
"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.
"Very refreshing."
"I had not noticed."
"No?"
"No."
His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.
"Jace," you whispered.
That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.
He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.
You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.
"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."
"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.
He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.
"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."
"Then do not wait any longer."
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.
In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."
Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."
He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."
Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."
He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.
"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."
"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."
He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.
He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.
"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."
He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."
Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.
"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.
Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."
He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.
They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.
He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.
He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.
After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.
You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.
After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.
He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.
You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.
You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.
You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.
He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.
"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."
He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.
He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.
Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.
He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.
And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.
In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.
And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.
—
The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.
Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.
Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.
"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"
"A ship."
The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.
He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.
A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.
Velaryon.
The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.
The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.
"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"
The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.
"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."
Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"
"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."
The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.
Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."
He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.
"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."
The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."
You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.
Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.
"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."
Your eyes widened. "Jace..."
"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."
For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.
"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."
Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."
That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.
Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.
"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.
You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."
The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.
You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.
"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"
"To the Prince!" the others roared.
Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home
—
He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.
The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—
He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.
The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.
There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.
"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.
The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.
"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"
He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.
"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"
You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.
"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."
Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.
"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."
"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"
He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.
"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."
Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."
"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"
The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."
You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.
"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."
Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.
But the beach was empty.
"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."
You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."
He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.
That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.
Perhaps.
He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.
The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.
The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.
Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.
—
Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.
A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.
He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.
Armor.
Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.
And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.
Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.
His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.
He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.
The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.
He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.
"What are you doing here?"
He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"
"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"
Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.
"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.
"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"
You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"
"Because I need to know the truth."
"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."
"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."
You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"
Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.
"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"
Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.
"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?
"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"
The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?
"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"
"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."
"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."
"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."
He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.
"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."
For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.
"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."
You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.
"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."
Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?
"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"
You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.
"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?
"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."
"The pigs," Jace said.
"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"
Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"
"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."
The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.
"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"
"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"
"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"
"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."
"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."
You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.
"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."
"How do I break it?"
You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.
"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."
"Then I will break it."
"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."
"I am not them," he said.
"You are. You are exactly like them."
"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."
You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."
"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."
You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.
He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.
—
The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.
You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.
"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.
"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."
Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.
"I will come back," he said.
You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."
"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."
"I am not everyone."
He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.
He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.
The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.
But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness.
—
The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.
The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.
And in the center of the chamber was the statue.
It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.
And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.
No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.
They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.
Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.
He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.
He took a step toward the pedestal.
"Are you quite certain about this?"
Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.
"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.
No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.
"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."
Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.
"I said who is there?"
"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."
Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."
"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."
"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."
"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."
Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.
"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."
"You do not know anything about her."
"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"
Jace did not answer.
"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.
"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"
"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."
"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."
Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.
"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"
"She saved my life."
"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."
He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"
"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."
"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."
Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."
"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"
He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.
"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."
"You are lying."
"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."
"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.
"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."
"Stop."
"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."
Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.
What if the voice was right?
What if none of it was real?
What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?
What if he was just the next fool in line?
"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."
—
You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.
Anything. Please, anything.
Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?
"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."
You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"
"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."
A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.
"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."
He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.
You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.
A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.
Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.
But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.
"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"
Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.
He raised his own arm.
The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.
"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."
"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"
"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."
"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"
"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"
"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."
"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."
You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.
"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.
"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."
The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.
"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"
"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."
"You trapped me."
He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"
"You bound me to you!"
"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."
"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"
"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?
"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."
"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"
"You have made me your prisoner."
"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."
"The voice. He told you to do this?"
"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."
You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.
"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."
"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.
"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"
"You are insane," you breathed.
"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."
He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.
"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."
You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.
About You/Reader -> [mutant or not - left up to you, but Kurt falling inlove with you clearly shows that you must be someone awesome <3]
Tags? CW? ⤵︎
established Relationship - you two've been together for years, insight into your day-to-day lives!!
CW -> mention of Sex, few prompts have suggestive Answers,
but doesn't cross anything that needs to be warned + the answers are kept SFW overall.
♡
Enjoy and have a cute + fun time reading!!
(A)nniversaryˎˊ˗
How do they celebrate anniversaries with their partner?
At the very start of the Relationship - to let alone even celebrate it had completely slipped your guyses minds.
To keep a long and detailed Story very simple: too many apparent world endangering events - yes, plural - while despite Kurt's protest of its danger, you had still helped out on many rescues for mutant civilian captures.
Not to forget the long periods of times he had been needed in completely different Dimensions.
Having kept yourself busy in the meantime as to keep your anxious thoughts over his safety at bay, helping out in any Areas where people had fallen too short for whatever Task's were needed to get done.
Even now do you try not to think too deeply over the Dimension? Timeline?! whatever-have-you Adventures of your Lover. Apparently having done him a favour by not asking to explain it any further, he had once joked.
So, it was only and after eeeverything of this weird Mess you could call that Year, when having finally found a momentary peace in this complicated Madness when Kurt had asked:
"You know.. i think we deserve a little celebration, you and I."
Softly breaking the long-held silence, gently whispering as his speech matched his action after he'd kissed the top of your Head.
Half dozed off and leaning on him as you two were sitting on the Patio outside. Having quietly enjoyed the Sun settling after a seemingly unending, long Day while watching over some of the younger Students playing. Taking in the serene Beauty that was the gorgeous Evening at the Time.
"...yeah?," you mumbled, slightly horse.
"Mhm."
The tone of his response clearly hinting him to be in his well-known playful mood, the reason as to why? exactly he was feeling that way, was lost on you then.
Yet, you didn't ask him further about what he could've meant as he didn't wish to continue disturbing your small rest. Lovingly circling his thumb over the back of your Hand.
Which, was perfectly fine by him, and even the fact it was him to remember it out of the two of you? even better. The gears in Kurt's mind were already turning on what grand surprise he'd want to amaze you by.
From then on and the years since, despite the both of you not remembering the exact Date on when you had asked him to be yours; concluding together it to be very fitting of your Love getting to freely decide the Season and the preferred Month together.
Your beautiful tradition to annually celebrate your two of becoming an item, by switching each Year on who gets to decide on how to surprise the other.
Infact! you still remember a couple Winters ago - with your consent when Kurt had asked to postpone your Anniversary for his Idea - how much fun that Alpine getaway was.
Still reflecting back foundly.
(B)athroomˎˊ˗
Is their shared bathroom messy or organized? Do they enjoy showering/bathing with their partner?
If you happen to live together and therefore fit the Context of this Question: Would your Bathroom be messy? not exactly, but in other words might be hard to navigate for a third party.
Sure, you guys tryyy to keep things organized enough. Have bought these cute and seemingly practical faux wooden Organizers to store your things. Which just ends up overflowing most of the time.
Besides your very own hygiene Products, sanitary napkins and everything that could fit under it's umbrella term along with miscellaneous Tools, happen to easily distinguish your Stuff from Kurts.
Various cremes, tiger balm and bandages for any ailments athletes would need for soar or tight muscles, spilled contents of that huge medi-kit you guys have stored along with tools you forgot their Name and purpose of.
Surprisingly, his fur-care routine is relatively simple for what you would've imagined? With how velvety his fur is and the beautifully styled locks, you really wouldn't expect anything less than some crazy level-tier Routine.
But no - his secret to his charmingly beauty is being already born good looking and regularly clarifying and conditioning his Body.
Maybe he's born with it - maybe it's maybelline haha (though, dont think he can use makeup all to well now)
(C)elebrationˎˊ˗
What holidays do they and their partner celebrate? What are birthdays like? Do they like hosting parties and meals?
Incase u didnt know: Kurt's B-Day is on Nov. 11th!!
For Birthdays specifically, keep it pretty simple when celebrating with close Friends. As you guys happen to look forward to celebrating each other's Birthdays alone and quite romantically in the comfort of your Privacy.
Birthday Sex with Kurt is the beheeest!! Along with the genuine and heart-felt Gift he always manages to top from last year, of course.
With each passing year, you just can't help the tears forming in your Eyes with how close you've gotten with everyone, how organic it felt to call them your Family as they would happily call you theirs.
Also, the happy coincidence it was when having discovered there to be five other Students attending the Mansion sharing your same Birthday!!! Each of you having been quite surprised when having looked at the Birthday Calendar.*
Despite your significant age gap, have definitely formed a cute friendship with one-another. Lightheartedly theorizing there to be maybeee some possibility of being related?? You often can't help with how red your Eyes get, the tears almost daring to tickle down your Eyes, by how moved you are over.
For Holidays and all, besides any major and minor Christian Holidays from Kurt's part, anything else you'd want to celebrate would highly depend on your own Believes and Culture - which!! Kurt would be all-the-more excited to learn from you.
I mean, Hello? any and everything else he'd get to learn about you is a definite win in his Books, especially learning about the beautiful reasoning behind the tradition of where you're from.
Extra!!* -> It was an agreed upon Idea by the many Students to have started keeping one hugeee Birthday Calendar in the most used Common Room. Of course, including the rest of the X-Men, a fake date Logan had made one of the Kids guess 'correctly', alongside yours and Kurt's!
It was playfully colourful and the slight incoherence to some of the handwriting made it carry its own very charm. Besides the sarcastic and joking Blessings the few Dutch mutants had given the Rest of the Mansion, everyone was always more than welcome to write their own Date down.
Most Holiday's, notable Celebrations and manymany Birthdays of the Students and your Friends alike are quite frequently honored and given their deserved accommodation, depending on what certain Religions would need.
Though with the quite large Student Body, its impossible to celebrate each and everyone's Birthday. Most Students celebrate it quietly within their own friend groups or sometimes get to visit Home for a couple of Days.
Specific Religious practices however are often more organized and a beautiful way for students to find their own small piece of Home at the School - often having their Friends join to see and learn something new too!!
(D)innerˎˊ˗
Do they eat dinner with their partner every night? Do they do most of the cooking, or at least help with it? Do they like to talk about their day or enjoy a comfortable silence?
Kurt isn't exactly someone who you'd consider a Cook.
I mean, yeah, he manages the most basic recipes well and obviously can look after nourishing himself like the grown Man he is. But he's not exactly someone who you'd ask to help out in the Kitchen during thanksgiving - though!! still helpful in his own way.
Also, unless you two had scheduled in advance and maybe have a tiny bit of luck on your side for nothing to go in-between, otherwise sadly don't get many opportunities to eat together.
On the Occasion you happen to find a snack you both like or those Coffee candies Kurt loves to snack on, leave a note somewhere for him to see on where you'd stored them!
(Note that kurt would love coffee flavoured candy is my own little hc, its not canon!!)
When you do happen to eat together: cutely talk about your Day, planned things on your To-Do's and in general anything interesting that's been on either one of your Minds lately.
(E)ntranceˎˊ˗
How do they greet their partner when they arrive home?
The usual welcoming Kiss, that depending on the time of day and how much time you guys have to spare.. often leads to something more.
But otherwise, it's your typically sweet greeting one would expect of Couples. Despite Kurt being super chill about PDA, it highly depends on you with how you greet him back depending on whether or not you share company.
Also, because the Author of this Alphabet (halli hallo!!) is super extra, have this lovely gif on what to imagine also!!:
(F)amilyˎˊ˗
Do they want to start a family with their partner? Any pets or children? How do they get along with their partner's relatives?
[Meta: I know this can be totally touchy subject, but i promise i answered this lighthearted and fun. You can still skip this if you want]
Would Kurt want to start a Family? The most loving Person you've ever come to meet and have the honor to share your life with, would he be into the idea of starting one? - Absolutely.
Kurt would make the most-likely scenario of being the!! most amazing Father any child could wish on having.
However: the thought alone of starting a Family, only, and highly, depends on your Thoughts and opinion about this.
If you happen to be against wanting Children: Kurt would totally be okay and onboard with your Choice. All that matters for him is to be with you. Through the thin, thick and mess of it all you two share your exciting Life together.
It's not something he'd ever hold against you or bring up again depending on how you feel about the Subject. He's in your Corner all the way.
-
If you happen to want Children: would be all the more happy to start a beautiful Family with you - your love for another, physical incarnate - no matter how small or big you two would discuss it to become.
Also, depending on choosing to adopt or try getting pregnant, would have craaaazy celebratory Sex either way. Luck you!
-
And, of course,if you happen to have Family to speak of: if he hadn't already met them, would've won them over with his loving charm and honorable Personality when getting to finally meet them.
Even your most grumpy relatives would soften their Hearts and occasionally smile along with him aswell.
(G)roceriesˎˊ˗
Do they like to go shopping with their partner? Are they trying to sneak treats into the cart when no one is looking?
Shopping actually happens to be one of those few things you two don't do together.
No particular reason as to why besides the coincidence having never occurred on needing to go at the same time. Occasionally do happen to get things for each other when it crosses your Minds, of course.
Your favourite Brand he noticed you almost running out of before having walked out the Door, or for Him; buying anything german-esque or branded to be from Germany to try out together.
Getting and having groceries in-general is significantly easier when living at the Mansion. Otherwise if you two had decided on getting your own Place, would most likely fall into the routine of jotting needed things down on the Fridge's whiteboard as whoever has the time happens to do the shopping.
(H)ouseˎˊ˗
How quick do they ask to live together? Where do they and their partner move in together? Do they get a new place entirely, or does one just start living with the other?
Living together with Kurt is something you've never thought of extensively before. Let alone remembering your life before having met him, having met the X-Men and the wonderful Mansion along with it's Students.
It's as-if you two have been together for eternity already anyway. Should the Question happen to pop up, even Kurt would need a short moment to register it as he too would've responded with your own conclusion as well. If you happen to live in the Mansion and have shared a Room with him since there and then, getting your very own Place would be a matter of convenience.
Sure, the privacy would be great. However apart from that, why would you guys choose to move - and depending on the distance also - when already having the convenience of living near your beloved Family and! right at your Work places.
Alternatively -> if you did happen to have your own Apartment, and Kurt would enthusiastically pop the Question to move in together; would most likely go Apartment hunting. Most likely having gotten your own Place with the sheer goal to house you and you alone, would suddenly become too tight given when planning on starting to live with your athletic ball of Energy that happens to be your Lover.
But then again, already having a place you two call home in each others Arms, couldn't care less depending on your living circumstances anyway.
(I)ndoorsˎˊ˗
What's their favorite way to spend a lazy/rainy day in with their partner?
Besides the most obvious thing here that this man would looove to start such a godsend Day with cozy, morning Sex. Soft breaths and gentle touches, relaxing at the thought to be momentarily free, yet tense your muscles to the exciting thoughts of other things.
He'd still and especially since! he would have the free time, would sadly use it wisely as to go after trying to finish his mental To-Do-list.
Despite constantly preaching of Rest and relaxation, doesn't follow his own Words. Ever-the busy Man he is.
You would meekly frown as all your strength would be gathering to keep him in your hold with having wrapped your Arms around his Neck. Though unfortunately for you - didn't stop Kurt from leaving your Bed.
Smiling down at you, making you think he's giving in as he slowly moved with your hold, making you both descend back into your Pillow: "I'll make sure to join you once I'm done, okay?" he spoke softly, staring lovingly into your Eyes. "Forgive my cruelty.. but there're things i can't lose the opportunity on getting done Today."
With his last Kiss to your Cheek, wishing you his dramatic promise and goodbye: "I'll be sure to make it up to you for leaving so soon again, Mein Herz. Versprochen" Translation -> " My Heart, I promise"
Already having pulled the Blanket over you before disappearing through the Door.
(J)obsˎˊ˗
Do they work with their partner? If not, do they ever visit their place of work?
This would highly depend on the kind of work you've been assigned with. What kind of responsibilities you're entrusted with.
Either way -> with Kurt being quite frequently added to the roster of a Team/Job/Mission being the Jack-of-all-trades, it would really have to be an "all hands on deck" kind of ordeal if it happens you two to be finally working together.
Even if you also happen to be a Team-Medic or strategist and what-have-you else, would still rarely get the chance to work with Kurt on anything much.
Though, if you happen to have volunteered to be a teacher or look after the Students, he'd definitely try to make time to come by every so often to playfully help out with self defense lessons or be another helping hand.
(many of the students either adore your relationship or find it unbelievably kitschy- depending on their age. sorry not sorry haha)
(K)eepsakeˎˊ˗
Have they decorated with/displayed any mementos from their relationship?
Besides the few couple Photographs kept to commemorate the fun Holidays spent with close Friends alongside the ones you've received from the couple Restaurants having offered to take them, don't really have many mementos to speak of.
Of course, there are the beautifully thought-out gifts you two have exchanged with each other over the years and have meticulously taken good care of since then.
He never leaves the Rosary you made him off of his Person.
But! Despite not having considered to go out of your way to collect specific memorabilia of the sorts, who's to say it's too late to start? For one, Kurt would definitely be on board with the cute Idea.
(L)aundryˎˊ˗
Do they help with their partner's laundry, or do they only focus on their own clothes? Do they share a closet or dresser with their partner?
You both do your own separate laundry.
However, have quite frequently and will continue to do so without question, help each other out with your own laundry when either of you happens to be too busy.
It was never something agreed upon, yet happen to naturally taken its course as you two already look out for each other in various other sorts anyway. Washing your Loads together is really not much to thread about.
Though, Kurt can't help smirking at the sudden realization that when you had helped him out with his laundry, having soooo stolen a Blouse or shirt.
Your own playful way of hinting at him to meet you and to take it back... perhaps even take it off of you given what route you'd want to take.
(M)orningsˎˊ˗
What's it like waking up with them? Are they a morning person, or does their partner have to drag them out of bed?
Kurt is a Morning person, through-and-through.
And as much as he'd love to if not sleep-in, then at least get to hold you just a bit longer, keep you safely against his Chest just as soundly as you've been sleeping by his side throughout the Night - he can't.
He has responsibilities to go after, things to prepare, people to take care of.
He'd never thought to or let alone could begin to imagine complaining about his Duties. To be of-help and especially do good for those that have sought out for aid in the first place, is his reason in Life to stride forward.
The Light he follows to be there for others the way you and him had needed someone once upon a time.
It's for you, one of his many admirable quirks which had made you fall in-love with him in the first Place.
Despite your curiosity about the more grander details to some of the things he does; let alone the fact how the both of you don't keep secrets from one-another had made you stop from prying any further when he had gently refuted your question the first time.
Extra: Logan often accompanies Kurt no matter how early it seems to be in the Morning, wordless and loyal to their very own special Bond.
Knowing he'd still refuse his offer like he had the many times before, the Canadian continues to insist, like the many times he's been refused before, over not needing Kurt to be present and to get back to you.
And of course, would your Lover humbly decline the offer and instead turn it into this grand thing to show his Friend all the thanks and appreciation to care so much about him. Just how you and the grouchy Man know Kurt to be.
Though, you're the only one between you and Logan to swoon all the more harder for your blue-furred Prince.
on a lighter note!! -> The rare Occasion it was for Kurt not being needed for the Day, you'll most likely end up being gently stirred awake by him, one way or another.
Soft kisses - so many kisses - to your temple and the surrounding Area of your Head, your Cheeks, your Lips. Even your knuckles or the back of your Hands if he wasn't already playing with them by interlocking his own with yours.
Genuinely unintentional or perhaps deviously planned to get your Day started sooner, guess you'll never figure it out. The ever charming facade his strong Poker face seemed to be.
Though, how could anyone begin feeling annoyed at being woken up by such a handsome guy. One, who couldn't wait to already shower you in his affection so soon in the early Morning.
(N)ightsˎˊ˗
What's their nightly routine with their partner? Do they go to bed earlier, later, or at the same time? How do they sneak into bed when they've come home late?
There isn't much of a Routine to speak of? I mean, how many Adults genuinely have one anyway.
Besides the usual Yoga stretches Kurt does before Bed and as for yourself, typing away at your Laptop after already having brushed your teeth. You two have too differently working internal Clocks when it comes to falling asleep.
Even after with the years gone by of Kurt encouraging you and getting to cutely try together every - and, i mean every - possible insomnia/sleep remedies that there is to know, have together come to the agreement that this is just who you are.
An Insomniac. A cute one, in Kurt's book, but someone stubborn over getting to adapt to a healthier lifestyle nonetheless.
You do join him with his stretching most nights! Having needed to take awhile for them to stop making you feel soar, do end up feeling lighter during some Mornings.
Also, those little Yoga sessions have a high success rate on turning into an ever-so 'accidental' make out sesh. It becoming something more? With knowing Kurt usually does.
(O)rbitˎˊ˗
Are they constantly at their partner's side, or do they keep to themself more?
Not constantly, but when you two aren't busy, naturally happen to stay together. Conversing, sitting or in general hanging out - with people or alone.
Though, of course and most definitely, check in when either one of you wants to have their own time alone. Never needing to explain the Reason as to why.
(P)resentˎˊ˗
Do they often bring home gifts for their partner? What do they usually buy?
Unless for the matter of a Holiday or Celebration coming up, don't get each other Gifts all too often (and hear me out, as cruel as this may sound).
Sure, occasionally bring back those luxury Chocolates in the case you happen to receive them and enjoy them together.
Yes, bring back souvenirs or specifically asked things which either of you may have asked, back to the other.
But with already seeing each other, like, everyday and being together as frequently as you guys are, save Gifts to be something more beautiful and with meaning only you and Kurt could understand for special Moments.
Though, while at the topic of Gifts: the little surprise you've spent weeks learning and making for Kurt is definitely one of his most prized possessions. It's so charming! - matching the Owner of the gift, of course. Displayed with the upheld respect Kurt thinks it deserved. proudly sits on his Nightstand.
And as for you and your very own special gift Kurt had given you, keep the Locket from your Anniversary dating back two years ago inside an gorgeous Antique jewelry Box - which he'd gotten you on your Birthday.
Fun fact! Its the very-same locket the old Lady had dropped back into the Ocean in the End. "psst, yeah, yes it is," he'd whispered back. Because Baby, you should've never doubted him for he had went down and got it for ya.
Aww, he really shouldn't have! and yet he did.
You still swoon at the thought of his chivalrous Actions.
Alternativly, if you happen to be someone who loves Flowers -> Kurt would so get you a beautiful Bouquet to display wherever of your choosing, weekly and with timely manner.
(Q)uarrelˎˊ˗
Do they get into fights with their partner often? Do they let it escalate or try to calm it down?
You two don't Fight. Don't do, never have and wont start.
Even of what you would've assumed arguments and their meaning to be, between you and Kurt would be the quite literal definition - you both share your arguments.
Calmly, not matter with any stressors present. Hearing each other out.
Of course, it's naive and wishful thinking to say 'it always works out well in the End' on the rare occasion your disagreements or arguments do happen.
Though, when giving each other respectable distance and time to come back and try again. Thankfully always manage to work it out in the end, one way or another.
It's a comforting thing, truly, to reflect back on being a Team rather against each other no matter how hard times can get, how to handle the fear together of any danger lurking behind the corner.
(R)esponsibilityˎˊ˗
Do they take on very many chores? Do they complain about it? How helpful are they when it comes to housework?
These question don't even need to get answered with how obvious their given answers are.
You two are the total A-Team when it comes to working together. Including when tackling Chores as if it were like any other training regiment.
He is such a gentleman and ever-the thoughtful delight when it comes to House chores. Often times arguing against you even needing to help out, affectionately teasing when Kurt would mention getting things done faster solo anyway.
But, you protest. You're not cruel enough and would feel way to icked out by yourself to even think letting him do all the Chores alone.
So, together it is. Which also gets you two to talk about the most random topics while sorting through Cabinets, washing the Dishes with someone being the designated washer as the other is the dryer. Like from some kind of comedy yelling loudly as the vacuum cleaner would have the advantage of being unbelievably louder than you both.
All-in-all, tackling House tasks and Chores with Kurt had made them less being something painstaking, but yet-another found cute bonding act.
(S)icknessˎˊ˗
How do they take care of their partner when they're ill? How do they like to be taken care of when the roles are reversed?
I would say dating the Team's medic definitely has its perks outside of the Openings to hint at innuendos here.
The rare Occasion of you getting Sick, he'd not only be able to tell the early stages and signs, but would've also already written you up to take Bed rest. And yes, even and despite you protesting against it because you had said to be feeling fine felt.
As for Kurt? minimally needs a couple hours of silence before being able to spring back up to his Feet like it was nothing. Besides his good immune System, is able to shrug off any sickness or Colds wayyy quicker than the average Person.
Though, he could never imagine turning down your offer as to nursing him back to help.
Kissing his forehead better, sitting so dotingly by his side, looking so attractive when reading the back of medicine labels with that slight stern face you unknowingly have and talking as softly as you do to him - there is nothing better imaginable for Kurt than having your full, close and personal attention directed at him
As an expert, he'd come to find his symptoms of his Heart racing and his tail restlessly clinging onto you as one and one thing only. Having oh so unfortunately caught some kind of pesky Love sickness.
The Cure for such thing? there's only one, and if your up for it, might need to clear off a couple Hours of your Schedule.
(T)elevisonˎˊ˗
Do they watch TV with their partner regularly? What do they watch? (Morning news? Sitcoms? Dramas?) Do they ever fight over the remote?
Besides with Kurt keeping up with his favourite pirate show, whatever aaanything related to pirates would air in general. Happen to otherwise count watching Television as one of his guilty pleasures, he had once called it.
Only allowing himself to catch up on the latest Media with when there really isn't anything needing his Attention or responsibilities to go after. However, being more lax and more agreeing if it's something you want to do as a cute home date type-of Deal.
Kurt would definitely use the latest pop culture stuff and gossip, or the latest Movies coming to theaters soon for future small talk.
(U)nwindˎˊ˗
What's their favorite way to be comforted when coming home from a stressful day? How would they comfort their stressed partner?
Serious answer: Kurt is used to facing high levels of stress on an unhealthy amount, on a daily basis. Comes with the honor of being an X-Men, you remember him having once gleefully mentioned.
Ever the Optimist, always the Voice of needed reason among uncertainty. He is possibly the only one you know who handles the Mess of it all as graceful as he does.
So for what he considers 'moderate amounts of Stress', and what could kill the average mutant or Person, he would already know himself well enough on how to de-stress and find his own peace first, before checking in with you and seeking your comfort.
Praying, Solo Training, sharpening his Swords. Definitely making the time to sit with himself alone as long as he thinks he needs, letting himself feel his emotions before deciding on how to act next.
It would really have to be something unnecessarily fucked up to really begin getting under Kurt's skin.
Either way, as well as he is at knowing how to soothe himself should times seem rough; still holds an uncharacteristically silent gratitude for knowing to have someone by his Side.
The Privilege he thanks God to have gifted you, an angel disguised in mortal form, to hold his Hand be his reason to fight for whats right.
Fun answer: Taking a nice, long bath. Hey! even better if you'd join him, and afterwards getting to eat some delicious food. Be it ordered or perhaps having somehow still had the energy to prepare something.
Yeah, these things do sound nice and all. But spoken with genuine honesty?
There's just nothing better than after a long and highly demanding Day then getting to finally be with you, and only with you letting him: To have you carnally.
Away from the eyes of the world and hot ears that could possibly be listening. With the kind of animalistic lust you've not only accepted him by, but alongside the kind that lets you speak of your Love for each other in a way not even words could begin to describe.
To freely love you, to hold you just as close as you'd hold onto him ever-so desperately. To finally rut into you as badly as you chase his rhythm without any care of holding decorum.
Having only one - and one quite so delicious - Goal in mind. Rewarding the praises you sing to him, so addictively moan for him, with his encouraging Kisses and shakingly soft spoken words.
If you guessed his Goal to be chasing his own release, guessed it to be wrong - it's for yours.
And when the two of you finally calm down from all the rush, sweat beads and damp fur entangled in a mess too blissfully exhausted to care of its weird texture, does Kurt finally then sigh in relief.
Your orgasms quite fittingly having washed away any stress, all the anxiety off his mind and eased his Muscles.
But legit the guy lives to enjoy you crumble so expressively to his skilled touch, fyi.
(V)acationˎˊ˗
How often do they take trips with their partner? What is their ideal vacation?
In the rare and lucky occasion that you two finally get to go on vacation, would totally hit up these spots!!:
Germany!!(kinda given)
Specifically depending as to whether or not you can speak german or even are European at all, Kurt would soooo love to introduce you to the Culture and what goes down in Germany!!!
Getting to visit his old Circus, feeling love in his heart all-over getting to introduce you to his first Family. If you guys happen to go in Oktorber: obviously would be your safety guide around there.
Teaching you german and totally hitting up certain souvenir shops providing tourist merchandise targeted at Couples. Maybeeee even get the whole "getting your name carved into a rice corn inside a necklace pendant" thing too, if that is you guys happen to catch a booth offering this.
Salzburg, Austria?
Kurt would so be into Musicales (bc, why wouldn't he be?). You both would have soooo much fun on the tour Bus and maybe jokingly take pictures referencing the sound of Music scenes.
Fun, dorky, hey! some other locals and couples joining-in on your silly Idea.
A cute time, overall.
The Swiss Alps!!
Which either during, or on your guyses flight there, would introduce you to the german Dub of Heidi.
Also as to depending how long you two will be there, definitely make sure to hike with a group - the majority of the other hikers being charmed by his outgoing personality - and getting to have you deserved romantic get-away should night fall after a long Day on enjoying the beauty of the Alps.
Touring America!!
like in the Movies!!! a fun road trip with getting to have all these little stops of "the worlds (apparently) biggest yarn ball", "a goat that looks like this or that celebrity" ordeal.
But for this Vacation, would've invited your Friends to tag along also, as Kurt wouldve said 'the more the merrier, mein Herz!'
and, of course!! -> Whever it would be that you'd want to go with Kurt with, too.
(W)eddingˎˊ˗
Are they and their partner married? Do they elope or have a more traditional wedding, if any?
[Meta ->] i think this question and the topic alone specifically - as beautiful as it - is something i don't think i can answer for you.
Everyone has their own preferences when it comes for Marriage and Weddings, you're free here to imagine whatever lovely or HC fitting for you!!! would be like for you and Kurt.
But know this, whatever you would've chosen, anything you guys would agree upon?
Doesn't matter for Kurt as the most important thing is to love you either way :>
(X)traˎˊ˗
additional HC!!
You and Kurt take Couples dancing classes together!!!
Depending on how shy you are about this, keep it between each other, but totally expect Kurt to tease your shyness at least juuust a little. Given with how cute you get.
Yes, you two have become amazing at it. Kurt is still trying to convince you to at least showcase it once! at a Wedding or Disco. To his avail, having yet to succeed in getting you out of your Shell.
(Y)earnˎˊ˗
How much do they miss their partner when they have to be away from home for a while? How do they react when they finally return home?
It's actually you who happens to have the worst time navigating missing him when he's away. More-so over the worry of something might happening to him, given the high levels of danger he most definitely would come to face.
However, given that you're a grown Adult, get yourself to hold your anxiety in an iron grip. Especially giving Kurt enough grace to know he can take care of himself.
But, you worry nonetheless.
Making yourself useful with the added bonus of occupying your mind by attacking huge amounts of work or any tasks. A gentler alternative that also helps you a lot would be when getting to help someone out, just talking about anything and simple topics of the sorts.
When he finally, and thankful, does return Home. Finally reunites with you in eachothers Arms again. Does he feel the same relief you do when quietly sobbing into the crook of his Neck. You both relieved finding the other to be well.
Angsty or make-up Sex for the time lost would also be super gentle and sweet. Fyi and apologies for coming across crude haha.
(Z)estˎˊ˗
Do they find domestic life boring or exciting? Do they regret choosing this kind of life?
With his daily Life being ever-the unpredictable Theater Act, to even have the fortune to say he has someone to always come back to, to call you 'Home'.. is his own Eye he guides himself in this mess of a Storm that is his World.
As exciting he finds the fighting and heroism of it all, does sometimes wish for a quieter and well known domestic life for you two.
Kurt definitely can't stand the draw-backs as much when having to depart from you for long periods of time because of certain CO-OP Missions.
Yet, he makes sure to rather continuously count his blessings rather than wish for something he can't see the consequences of.
As for Regret: not at all and would never share that sentiment.
Creds!!
the cute mini-Kurt is from this post!! by @/ggarbagee
Valentines dividers + lace divider + blue dividers
genre 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ fluff, crack, exes to lovers, college students, non!idol au, seob is cocky but ultra down bad for the reader 👀
playlist 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ Angeline- Chase Atlantic, Conspiracy- Paramore, Caraphernelia- Pierce the Veil, Digital Bath- Deftones, I Caught Myself- Paramore
warnings 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ none! BUT I made two message errors so pleaseplease ignore those(◞‸ ◟)
gigi notes𝄞 Hai angels!! This post is dedicated to my gorgeous friend (if ur seeing this u know who u are ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ). She gave me the idea for this so TECHNICALLY this is her work too₊˚⊹ᰔ Let me know if I should make a pt2...👀 Hope u enjoy!!
.ᐟ.ᐟGenre: Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Smut, Angst, Fluff
.ᐟ.ᐟWord Count: ~27.4k
.ᐟ.ᐟSummary: After a drunken bet leads to the best sex of your life, you and Jungwon agree to keep things casual. But when feelings get involved and a new guy enters the picture, everything gets complicated.
.ᐟ.ᐟContent warnings: explicit sexual content (MDNI), oral sex both giving and receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, use of a vibrator, 69 position, penetrative sex, multiple positions, dirty talk, praise kink, light possessiveness and jealousy kink, dominance and control play, overstimulation, semi-public sex, car sex, shower sex, hickeys, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, weed use, mutual jealousy, emotional avoidance, brief emotional breakdown, using someone as a rebound, kissing someone while emotionally involved with another, sneaking around, strong language, possessive language, mild angst, happy ending
.ᐟ.ᐟSong: I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys
.ᐟ.ᐟAuthors note: hey loves!!, this fic has been living in my head rent free for way too long so i finally just said we’re doing this. please check the content warnings before reading because there is a LOT going on here. two idiots with walls up, terrible at feelings, great at everything else — that’s the whole story honestly. the smut is meant to show emotional progression so if you read closely you’ll notice how they change with each other as feelings develop. daniel was never a villain, just bad timing, please be nice to him 😭 if you made it to the end thank you from the bottom of my heart 💓. comments, likes, feedback and reblogs keep me writing so don’t be a silent reader i am begging, ps. yes the title is intentional. enjoy lovelies 🥰 my masterlist
The apartment reeks of weed, cheap beer, and too many people crammed into too small a space. It’s Jake’s place tonight, which means Maya’s been here since noon helping him “clean” (read: shove everything into closets).
You’re sprawled on the couch between Liv and Reina, a half-empty White Claw sweating in your hand, already feeling the pleasant buzz of your third drink settling into your bones. “I’m just saying,” you announce, louder than necessary, “men are fucking useless.”
“No, I’m serious!” You gesture wildly, nearly sloshing your drink. “Like, is it really that fucking hard to find the clit? Is basic anatomy that complicated?”
“Here we go,” Jay groans again from the floor, leaning back against Sunghoon’s legs. They’re playing some racing game on mute while everyone else talks over them. Reina cackles. “Who are we talking about?”
“That guy from Delta Sig I went home with last weekend.” You take a long drink. “Forty-five minutes of the most mediocre dick of my life and he had the audacity to ask if I came.”
“Did you fake it?” Liv asks, already knowing the answer.
“Fuck no. I told him the truth and he got all butthurt about it.” You roll your eyes. “Like sorry bro, maybe develop some skills.”
“Brutal,” Sunoo says, grinning as he passes the joint to Niki.
“Honest,” you correct. “I don’t have time to protect egos. If you can’t make me cum, I’m not gonna lie about it.”
Across the room, Jungwon is watching you with this amused smirk, one eyebrow raised. He’s been quiet most of the night, nursing the same beer, legs spread wide in that infuriatingly confident way guys sit when they know they look good. And he does look good—black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, hair falling into his eyes just right. “What?” you challenge, catching his stare.
“Nothing.” But his smirk deepens. “Just sounds like you’ve been picking the wrong guys.”
“Oh please.” You lean forward. “Like you’d be any different.”
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken, and he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Want me to prove it?”
The room doesn’t exactly go quiet, but you feel like it does. Your stomach does this weird flip. “Prove what?” You keep your voice steady even though your heart is suddenly racing.
“That you’ve been fucking the wrong guys.” He says it so casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. But there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you.
Reina makes a choking sound beside you. Someone—maybe Heeseung—mutters “oh shit” under their breath. You should laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. But you’re drunk enough to be bold and curious enough to wonder if he’s all talk. “You’re that confident?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “I am.”
The challenge hangs in the air between you. You’re aware of everyone watching, waiting to see what you’ll do. Maya’s eyes are wide. Jay looks like he’s trying to figure out if he should intervene. “Okay.” You stand up, and Jungwon’s smirk falters for just a second—like he didn’t expect you to actually take him up on it. “Prove it.”
You start walking toward the hallway that leads to Jake’s bedroom, and after a beat, you hear Jungwon follow.
“Are they really—” someone starts.
“Yup,” Reina says, and she sounds absolutely delighted.
Jake’s bedroom is dark and quiet, muffled music and laughter filtering through the door. You flip on the lamp, suddenly aware that you’re alone with Jungwon and you just agreed to let him— “You don’t have to,” he says, and when you turn, he’s standing close but not crowding you. “If you were just calling my bluff.”
“Were you bluffing?”
“No.”
The word sends heat straight through you. You step closer, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “Then stop talking and do it.”
For a second he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You sure?”
“Jungwon.” You grab his shirt. “I swear to god, if you’re going to do it, then—” He kisses you. Not rough, not tentative—just sure. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and honestly? The confidence is already working for you. His lips are soft and he tastes like beer and something minty, and when his tongue slides against yours, you make a sound you’ll probably be embarrassed about later.
But he groans in response, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall onto it and he follows, hovering over you, one hand planted by your head while the other slides under your shirt. “This okay?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Yes, fuck—yes.”
His hand skims up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bralette, and you arch into the touch. He’s taking his time, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp. “Sensitive here?” he asks, sounding pleased.
“Shut up.”
He laughs, low and warm against your skin. “You’re mouthy.”
“You have no idea.”
“Guess I’ll find out.” He sits back and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, and—okay. Okay. You knew he was lean but you didn’t know he looked like that without clothes. He catches you staring and smirks. “See something you like?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” But his hands are gentle as he reaches for the hem of your shirt, waiting for you to nod before pulling it off. Your bralette follows, and then his mouth is on your breast and coherent thought gets significantly harder.
He’s good at this. The guy knows what he’s doing with his tongue, circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. His hand works your other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling and pinching until you’re panting. “Jungwon—”
“Hmm?” He switches sides, giving your other breast the same attention, and you thread your fingers through his hair and tug.
“Stop teasing.”
“I’m not teasing.” He looks up at you through his lashes, and the sight of him between your breasts does something to you. “I’m being thorough.” His hand trails down your stomach, fingers playing with the button of your jeans. “Can I?”
“Yes, god, yes.”
He unbuttons them slowly—too slowly—and slides them down your legs along with your underwear. You’re completely naked and he’s still half-dressed, and something about that makes you feel exposed in a way that’s not entirely uncomfortable. Jungwon sits back on his heels, just looking at you, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. “Stop staring.”
“Can’t help it.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart. “You’re so fucking pretty.” The praise makes your face heat. You’re not used to guys taking their time like this, looking at you like you’re something worth savoring.
“Let me know if anything doesn’t feel good,” he says, and then his mouth is on your inner thigh, kissing and biting a path upward until his breath is ghosting over where you need him most.
The first touch of his tongue is light—experimental. He licks a broad stripe up your center and you gasp, hips jerking. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he does it again, more pressure this time. “Fuck,” you breathe.
He hums against you, and the vibration makes your toes curl. Then he finds your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it slowly, and—oh. Oh.
You’ve had guys go down on you before. Most of them acted like it was a chore, something to rush through to get to the “main event.” But Jungwon is eating you out like he has all the time in the world, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He alternates between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, reading your body’s reactions—when you moan, when your hips buck, when your thighs start to tremble. And when he slides one finger inside you, crooking it just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”
He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.
When you can finally breathe again, you look down to find him watching you with the most self-satisfied expression you’ve ever seen. “You were saying?” he asks, and you want to be annoyed but you’re too blissed out to care.
“Okay,” you admit. “Point proven.”
He crawls up your body, kissing you deep, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His erection presses against your thigh through his sweatpants, and you reach down to palm him through the fabric. He groans into your mouth. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” You push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, and then you’re straddling him, grinding down against his clothed cock. “Unless you’re done proving yourself?”
His hands grip your hips, helping you rock against him. “Fuck no.” You lean down to kiss him while your hand slips into his sweatpants, wrapping around him. He’s hard and thick, and when you stroke him, his hips jerk up into your hand.
“Condom?” you murmur against his lips.
“Wallet. Back pocket.” You climb off long enough for him to shove his sweatpants and boxers down, and—yeah, okay, the confidence makes sense. You grab his wallet from his discarded pants, finding the condom and tearing it open while he strokes himself lazily, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Let me,” he says, taking it from you and rolling it on. Then his hands are on your waist, lifting you, positioning you over him. “Go slow. Take what you need.”
You sink down onto him inch by inch, and the stretch is perfect. He fills you completely, and when you’re fully seated, you both groan. “Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, hands flexing on your hips.
You start to move, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm. His hands guide you but he lets you control the pace, watching where you’re joined with an expression that’s almost reverent. “Touch yourself,” he says, voice rough. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”
The words send a fresh wave of arousal through you. You brace one hand on his chest and bring the other between your legs, fingers finding your clit. You’re still sensitive from before, and it doesn’t take much—just a few circles while he thrusts up into you, hitting that perfect spot inside. “That’s it,” he encourages, sitting up to mouth at your neck, one hand gripping your ass to help you move. “You’re so fucking hot like this. Taking what you need.”
You’re close again, impossibly, and when he bites down on your shoulder at the same moment his cock hits deep, you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you and you feel him follow seconds later, groaning your name against your skin as he pulses inside you. You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His hand comes up to stroke your back, gentle and grounding.
“So,” he says after a minute, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Still think I’m no different?”
You lift your head to glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “Okay, fine. You were right.”
“Say it louder, I don’t think they heard you outside.”
You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture is surprisingly tender for what just happened. “Holy shit,” you say, the reality of the situation finally catching up. “We just fucked in Jake’s bed.”
“Yeah, we should probably…” He gestures vaguely. You climb off him carefully, and he deals with the condom while you hunt for your clothes in the dim light. There’s something surreal about getting dressed in comfortable silence after what just happened. Like you’ve done this before, even though you haven’t.
When you’re both decent, you catch sight of yourself in Jake’s mirror. Your hair is a mess, lips swollen, and there’s a hickey blooming on your collarbone. “Shit.” You touch it gingerly.
Jungwon comes up behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
“It’s fine.” You try to fluff your hair into something less “I just got thoroughly fucked.” “Everyone’s gonna know, though.”
“They already know.” He grins. “We weren’t exactly quiet.”
Your face heats. He’s right—you definitely weren’t quiet. “Oh god.”
“Hey.” He turns you around, hands on your shoulders. “You good? This isn’t… weird?”
You consider it. By all accounts, it should be weird. You just fucked one of your friends on a drunken bet. But looking at him now, his hair messy from your hands, expression open and a little concerned, it doesn’t feel weird. “I’m good,” you say honestly. “You?”
“I’m great.” His smile is genuine. “That was—”
“Really good,” you finish.
“Yeah.” You stand there for a beat too long, and then you clear your throat. “We should probably get back before they send a search party.”
“Right. Yeah.” He opens the door and you walk out first, down the hallway back to the living room where the entire group is absolutely not pretending they weren’t waiting for you. The silence when you walk in is deafening.
“So,” Reina says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Reina!” Maya looks mortified.
You just laugh and drop back onto the couch. “Solid eleven.” The room erupts. Jay throws a pillow at you. Sunghoon looks like he wishes he could disappear. Heeseung and Jake are cackling. Liv just gives you a knowing look and passes you a fresh drink. Jungwon sits down across from you, and when your eyes meet, he smirks. You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling back.
Yeah, you think, taking a long drink. This is either the best or worst decision you’ve ever made.
It’s after three AM when the party finally winds down. People are crashed on various surfaces—Niki and Sunoo sharing the big armchair, Heeseung sprawled on the floor, Jay and Sunghoon having claimed the other couch. Maya and Jake disappeared into his room about an hour ago. You’re pretty sober now, sitting on the balcony with Liv and Reina, sharing a cigarette and watching the campus lights below.
“So,” Liv says, passing you the cigarette. “You gonna talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“You fucked Jungwon.” Reina isn’t one for subtlety. You nod.
“And?”
You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “And it was really good.”
“We gathered that from the sounds,” Reina says, grinning when you flip her off. “But like… are you gonna do it again?”
“I don’t know. Probably not?” Even as you say it, you’re not sure you believe it. “It was just a drunk thing.”
“A drunk thing where you came so hard we heard you through the door,” Liv points out. Your face heats. “Oh my god.”
“I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “That kind of chemistry doesn’t come around often. And you’re both single. Why not?”
“Because he’s part of the group,” you say, voicing the concern that’s been nagging at you since you got dressed. “If things got messy…”
“Things don’t have to get messy,” Reina says. “People have casual sex all the time.”
“Not with their friends.”
“Sure they do.” Liv stubs out the cigarette. “Look, I’m not saying marry the guy. But if you both enjoyed it and you’re both adults… I don’t see the problem.”
You don’t have a good argument for that, mainly because you’re still thinking about his hands on your body, his mouth between your legs, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally.
Your phone buzzes at 4:17 AM. You’re in your own bed now, having gotten an Uber home with Liv and Reina. You should be asleep but you keep replaying the night in your head.
jungwon: you up? i can’t sleep
You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: same
jungwon: kept thinking about earlier
Your heart rate picks up. you: yeah?
jungwon: that okay?
you: yeah. me too
There’s a long pause where you watch the three dots appear and disappear several times.
jungwon: look, if tonight was just a one time thing, that’s cool. but if you ever wanted to do it again with no strings. you said it yourself. good sex is hard to find
You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is probably a bad idea. You should say thanks but no thanks, keep things simple.
you: no strings?
jungwon: none. just two friends helping each other out
you: friends who fuck
jungwon: exactly
you: you’re sure this won’t make things weird with the group?
jungwon: only if we let it
You think about what Liv said. About chemistry and being adults and not overthinking things. you: okay
jungwon: yeah?
you: yeah. but we need rules
jungwon: rules work
you: we can talk about it tomorrow. when we’re sober
jungwon: sounds good. for the record though
you: ?
jungwon: you taste amazing
Your face goes hot and you let out an embarrassing sound even though you’re alone in your room. you: go to SLEEP jungwon
jungwon: sweet dreams 😏
You toss your phone aside and press your face into your pillow, smiling like an idiot. This is definitely a bad idea. But god, you kind of can’t wait to make it worse.
You meet Jungwon at a coffee shop off campus, neutral territory where you’re less likely to run into anyone from the group. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and you both have a gap between classes. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two iced americanos, and when he sees you, he slides one across the table. “Wasn’t sure how you take it,” he says.
“Black’s fine.” You sit down across from him, suddenly feeling weirdly nervous. Which is stupid—you’ve literally had his dick inside you. A coffee meetup shouldn’t be the awkward part. But he seems to sense it because he grins. “This is weird, right?”
“So weird,” you admit, and you both laugh, and just like that the tension breaks.
“Okay.” He leans back, fingers drumming on his cup. “Rules.”
“Rules,” you agree. “First one: no one can know.”
“Agreed. Jay and Sunghoon would lose their minds.”
“Jay would literally try to fight you.” You take a sip of coffee. “And Maya would never let me hear the end of it.”
“So we’re careful. No disappearing together at group things unless we have a good excuse.”
“And we stagger leaving,” you add. “Like, if you leave a party, I wait at least twenty minutes before I go.”
“Smart.” He nods. “What about texting?”
“Keep it normal in the group chat. If we’re gonna hook up, we text privately.”
“Works for me.” He studies you for a moment. “What about other people?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Other people?”
“Like, are we exclusive? Or can we still hook up with other people?”
It’s a fair question, even if something in your chest tightens at the thought of him with someone else. Which is stupid. This is purely physical. “We can do whatever we want,” you say carefully. “But if either of us starts hooking up with someone else regularly, we should probably end this. Easier that way.”
“Makes sense.” He seems to hesitate. “And if one of us catches feelings?”
“Then we stop immediately.” You meet his eyes. “That’s the most important rule. This only works if we’re both on the same page.”
“Agreed.” He holds out his hand across the table. “So we have a deal?”
You shake his hand, trying to ignore how warm his palm is against yours. “Deal.”
“Cool.” He doesn’t let go right away. “So… your place or mine?”
Heat pools in your stomach. “Eager?”
“You’re the one who wore that skirt.”
You glance down at your denim mini skirt, then back up at him with a smirk. “I have class in two hours.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
His apartment is closer, a small one-bedroom he shares with Heeseung who’s conveniently at class until five. The second the door closes behind you, his mouth is on yours, backing you against the wall. “Been thinking about this since Saturday,” he murmurs against your lips, hands sliding under your skirt to grip your ass.
“It’s only been three days.”
“Three days too long.” He picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to his room. It’s surprisingly clean—bed made, clothes put away, posters of various bands on the walls.
He lays you on the bed and steps back, pulling his shirt over his head. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch, admiring the view. “Like what you see?” he asks, echoing your words from the other night.
“You already know I do.”
He grins and climbs over you, settling between your legs. “Want to try something?”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. “Trust me?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, and you mean it.
He hooks his fingers in your underwear and drags them down slowly, and you’re already wet just from the anticipation. He spreads your legs wider, thumb brushing over your clit almost teasingly before he slides two fingers inside you. “Fuck,” you gasp, hips rolling against his hand.
“Still sensitive from last time?” He pumps his fingers slowly, curling them just right.
“A little.”
He leans down to kiss you, swallowing your moan as he works you open. When he adds a third finger, the stretch makes your toes curl. He finger-fucks you until you’re panting, right on the edge, and then he stops. You make a sound of protest and he laughs. “Patience.” He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a small vibrator.
Your eyes widen. “You just have that?”
“Ex left it here.” He turns it on, and the low buzz fills the room. “Never thought I’d use it, but…”
He presses it against your clit and you nearly jackknife off the bed. The sensation is intense, overwhelming, especially when he slides his fingers back inside you at the same time. “Oh fuck—Jungwon—”
“That good?” He sounds smug, but you can’t even be annoyed because he’s right. It’s so good you can barely breathe.
He works you with the vibrator and his fingers, watching your face intently, adjusting based on your reactions. When you’re close, thighs shaking, he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth through your shirt.
You come with a cry, back arching, and he doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his hand away from oversensitivity. “Holy shit,” you pant.
He turns off the vibrator and sets it aside, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?”
“You know it was.”
“Want to keep going?” Instead of answering, you sit up and push him onto his back, straddling him. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and you grind down against him, making him groan.
“Your turn,” you say, working his belt open. You take your time getting him naked, kissing down his chest and stomach, enjoying the way his muscles jump under your lips. When you finally get his jeans and boxers off, his cock springs free, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he hisses through his teeth.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you cut him off, and then you take him in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans, hand flying to your hair. Not pushing, just holding on as you work him with your tongue. You take him as deep as you can, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he makes are incredibly satisfying.
You pull off with a wet pop. “You gonna tell me what you like?”
“That,” he says breathlessly. “I like that.”
“Be specific.” You lick up the underside of his cock. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Fuck—okay, um, tighter grip, and—yeah, just like that.” His hips buck when you comply. “And twist your hand a little when you—oh god—“
You find a rhythm that has him falling apart, alternating between your mouth and your hand, and when you cup his balls gently, he swears. “I’m close,” he warns, tugging your hair. “If you don’t want to—”
You double down, taking him deeper, and he comes with a groan, spilling down your throat. You swallow and work him through it until he’s shaking. When you pull off and wipe your mouth, he’s staring at you like you’re some kind of miracle. “You’re really good at that,” he says, voice wrecked.
“Right back at you.” You climb up to lie beside him. “This is gonna be fun.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling you closer. “It really is.”
The first group hangout after your arrangement starts is at someone’s house party on Thursday. One of the senior volleyball guys is throwing it, and the place is packed by the time you arrive with Liv and Reina.
You spot the guys in the backyard—Jay and Sunghoon playing beer pong against Jake and Heeseung, Sunoo and Niki smoking by the fence. And Jungwon leaning against the porch railing, red cup in hand, talking to some girl you vaguely recognize from Psychology. Something ugly twists in your chest before you can stop it.
“Don’t,” Liv says quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.” She steers you toward the drinks table. “Remember the rules.” Right. The rules. You can both do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter that the girl is touching his arm, laughing at something he said. It doesn’t matter at all. You pour yourself a strong drink and down half of it.
“There you are!” Maya appears, already tipsy, Jake trailing behind her. “We’ve been here for like an hour, where were you?”
“Reina took forever getting ready,” Liv says, throwing her under the bus.
“Excuse me, this face is a work of art.” Reina gestures at her makeup. “It takes time.”
You tune them out, eyes drifting back to Jungwon. The girl is still there, but now he’s looking at you. When your eyes meet, he says something to her and starts walking over. “Hey,” he says when he reaches your group, giving everyone a casual nod before his eyes land on you. “You just get here?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” His cup is empty. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Want to come?”
It’s a normal question. The kind of thing he might have asked before. But Maya and Reina exchange a look, and you want to die. “Sure.”
You follow him to the drinks table, hyperaware of the space between you. “That girl,” you say as he pours vodka into his cup. “From Psychology?”
“Mina. Yeah.” He adds red bull, not looking at you. “She was asking about the midterm.”
“Right.”
“You jealous?” He’s smirking now, voice low enough that only you can hear.
“No.”
“Liar.” He leans in slightly. “You look really good, by the way.”
You’re wearing low-waisted jeans and a cropped black tank top, simple but effective. “Thanks.”
“Having fun yet?”
“I just got here.”
“Want to have more fun later?” The suggestion in his voice is clear.
“Maybe.” You take a sip of your drink. “If you play your cards right.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Two hours later, you’re drunk and high and dancing in the crowded living room with Reina and some people from your Communications class. The music is too loud, bodies pressed too close, and you’re sweaty and happy and not thinking about anything.
Until hands settle on your waist from behind. You know it’s Jungwon before you even turn around—you’re getting familiar with his touch. He’s behind you, moving with you, and it takes everything in you not to lean back against him. “Thought you were playing beer pong,” you say over your shoulder.
“Got boring.” His breath is warm against your ear. “This is better.”
You shouldn’t be doing this. People will notice. But the room is dark and crowded, and everyone’s drunk, and his body feels so good against yours. You let yourself grind back against him, just a little, and his grip on your waist tightens.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
“You started it.”
One of his hands slides lower, fingers playing with the belt loop of your jeans, not quite dipping under but close enough to make you ache. “Your place or mine?” he asks.
“Mine. Liv’s staying at her girlfriend’s.”
“Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it fifteen.”
He shows up in twelve minutes. The second you open your apartment door, he’s on you, walking you backward until you hit the wall. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting like weed and whatever he was drinking, and you can’t get enough. “Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he groans, hands everywhere at once.
“You were talking to that girl for like twenty minutes.”
He pulls back to look at you, grinning. “You were jealous.”
“Shut up.”
“You were.” He kisses down your neck. “That’s cute.”
“I wasn’t—” You lose your train of thought when he bites down on your pulse point.
“Whatever you say.” His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes.”
Your shirt and bra hit the floor, and then his mouth is on your breast and you stop caring about anything else. He takes his time, sucking marks into your skin that you’ll have to cover tomorrow, and when he drops to his knees in front of you, your brain short-circuits. “These too?” He’s already unbuttoning your jeans.
“Please.” He gets you naked efficiently, and then he’s lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, face level with your pussy.
“Hold on to something,” he advises, and then his tongue is on you. You grip his hair with one hand, the other braced against the wall, as he devours you. He’s not gentle about it—licking and sucking and fucking you with his tongue until your leg is shaking and you’re barely staying upright.
“Jungwon—fuck—I’m gonna fall—”
He stands up, and before you can process it, he’s lifting you. You wrap your legs around his waist and he carries you to your bedroom, laying you out on the bed.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.”
He strips quickly and you admire the view—he’s fully hard, cock jutting up against his stomach. When he settles between your legs again, you expect him to reach for a condom, but instead he slides down your body. “Want to try something else,” he says, kissing your inner thigh.
“Yeah?”
“Can I go down on you while you suck me?”
Heat floods through you. “Like 69?”
“Yeah.” He looks almost nervous. “If you want.”
“Okay.” He repositions so he’s on his back, and you straddle his face, leaning forward to take his cock in your hand. The angle is different like this, and when his tongue finds your clit, you gasp.
“Fuck—sorry—” You’re distracted, and you force yourself to focus, wrapping your lips around him.
It’s intense, trying to concentrate on getting him off while he’s making you feel so good. Every time you take him deeper, he groans against your pussy, and the vibration makes you moan around him.
You’re dripping on his face, riding his tongue, and his hands grip your ass, pulling you down harder. The obscene wet sounds fill the room, and you’re so turned on you can barely see straight.
When he slides two fingers inside you while sucking your clit, you come with his cock still in your mouth, and he follows seconds later, groaning your name. You collapse beside him, both of you breathing hard. “Holy shit,” you say eventually.
“Good?”
“So good.” You turn your head to look at him. “You’re full of ideas.”
“I like making you come.” He says it so casually, like it’s a fact. “Want to see how many times I can do it.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“If you want it to be.”
You glance at the clock—it’s barely midnight. “How many orgasms are we talking?”
“How many can you handle?”
“More than you’d think.”
His smile is wicked. “Let’s find out.”
Forty minutes and two more orgasms later (one from his fingers, one from actually fucking), you’re a boneless mess in your sheets and Jungwon looks unreasonably smug. “I think I won,” he says.
“You didn’t—I made you come too—”
“Twice. You came four times.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.” But he’s smiling, tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “You okay? Not too much?”
“I’m great.” And you are—exhausted and satisfied and floating. “You’re really good at this.”
“So are you.” He kisses your shoulder. “We work well together.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “We do.” Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and find a string of messages in the group chat. maya: where did everyone gooooo
reina: i saw y/n leave and jungwon left like right after 👀
jay: oh god not this again
sunghoon: can we NOT
heeseung: let them live lmao
reina: i’m just SAYING
liv: leave them alone
You show Jungwon the messages and he laughs. “We’re not subtle,” he says.
“Not even a little bit.”
“Does it bother you?”
You think about it. The teasing is annoying, but it’s not like you’re ashamed. “No. Does it bother you?”
“Nah.” He stretches, all long limbs and satisfied energy. “Let them speculate. As long as we don’t confirm anything, we’re good.”
“Agreed.” You type out a response. you: i left because i was tired. stop being weird
reina: SURE
you: i hate you
reina: love you too babe 😘
You toss your phone aside and curl into Jungwon’s side. He wraps an arm around you automatically, and it feels dangerously comfortable. “Should you go?” you ask. “It’s late.”
“Do you want me to?”
You should say yes. Letting him stay feels too intimate, too couple-y. But you’re tired and warm and he’s already half-asleep. “You can stay if you want.”
“Okay.” He’s already drifting off.
You lie awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out, trying not to think about how right this feels. It’s just sex, you remind yourself. Really good sex with someone you trust. That’s all. You almost believe it.
Friday afternoon you have Intro to Film Studies, and you’re running late because you definitely overslept after Jungwon didn’t leave until 6 AM. You slide into your usual seat next to this guy Marcus from your dorm building just as the professor starts. “Rough night?” Marcus whispers, grinning.
“Something like that.” You’re trying to focus on the lecture about French New Wave cinema when your phone buzzes.
jungwon: you left your underwear in my car
You freeze. you: WHAT
jungwon: black lace ones. very nice btw
you: how did they end up in your car???
jungwon: you really don’t remember?
And then you do remember. Wednesday night, he picked you up after your late class, you made out in his car in the parking garage, things escalated, and apparently you forgot to put all your clothes back on.
you: oh my god
jungwon: don’t worry, heeseung didn’t see them
jungwon: i hid them before he got in
you: this is a nightmare
jungwon: or it’s funny
you: WHERE ARE THEY NOW
jungwon: my pocket
you: JUNGWON
jungwon: what? they’re safe
you: you’re insane
jungwon: you like it
You bite your lip to keep from smiling, hyperaware that you’re in the middle of class. you: i’m in class
jungwon: so am i. keeps things interesting
you: i hate you
jungwon: you definitely don’t. not after the sounds you were making wednesday night
Your face goes hot. you: STOP
jungwon: come over after class?
you: can’t. studying with maya
jungwon: tomorrow?
you: there’s that party at the phi delt house
jungwon: sunday then
you: sunday works
jungwon: it’s a date
you: it’s not a date
jungwon: right. forgot. just two friends fucking
you: exactly
jungwon: can’t wait 😉
You shove your phone in your bag and try to concentrate on the lecture, but it’s useless. You’re too busy thinking about Sunday, about his hands and his mouth and the way he says your name when he comes. This is getting dangerous. But you can’t seem to stop.
The party Saturday night is massive—Phi Delt always goes hard. You show up with your girls, already tipsy from pregaming, and immediately lose track of everyone in the crowd. You’re in the kitchen mixing a drink when someone bumps into you, sloshing vodka on your hand. “Shit, sorry—oh hey!”
You turn to find Mina, the girl from Jungwon’s Psych class. Up close she’s even prettier—long dark hair, perfect skin, bright smile. “No worries,” you say, wiping your hand on your jeans.
“You’re friends with Jungwon, right?” she asks. “I’ve seen you guys together.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Yeah, we’re friends.”
“He’s so sweet.” She’s making herself a drink, completely oblivious to your internal crisis. “We’ve been studying together for Psych. He’s really smart.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Are you guys like… together? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
The question catches you off guard. “Oh—no, we’re just friends.”
“Cool!” She seems genuinely relieved. “I was thinking about asking him out. Do you think he’d be into that?”
You should say yes. Or say you don’t know. You should definitely not feel like you want to throw your drink in her face, because you have no claim on Jungwon. That’s the whole point. “You should ask him,” you say, forcing a smile.
“I think I will!” She bounces off, and you’re left standing there feeling weird and hollow.
You down your drink and make another one, stronger this time. “Easy there,” a voice says, and you turn to find Jay watching you with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re drinking like you’re not fine.”
“I’m just trying to have fun, Jay. Is that allowed?”
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just checking.”
You feel bad immediately. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s been a week.”
“Want to talk about it?” You shake your head no. “Does this have anything to do with Jungwon?”
Your head snaps up. “Why would it?”
“Come on.” Jay gives you a look. “I’m not stupid. Neither is Sunghoon. We know something’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Right. And you guys just happened to leave that party within five minutes of each other for completely unrelated reasons.”You don’t say anything. “Look,” Jay says, his voice gentler. “I don’t care what you guys do. You’re both adults. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt. It’s just casual.”
“Is it?”
Before you can answer, Jungwon appears in the doorway, Mina trailing behind him. When he sees you, something flickers across his face. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
Mina touches his arm. “I’m gonna go find my friends, but text me about that study session?”
“Sure,” he says, and she leaves.
You feel Jay watching both of you. “I’m gonna go find Sunghoon,” he says pointedly. “You two… talk. Or whatever.”
When he’s gone, Jungwon moves closer. “You okay?”
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You want to get out of here?”
“I just got here.”
“So?”
“So people will notice.”
“Let them notice.” His hand brushes yours, brief but deliberate. “Come on. Please?”
You shouldn’t. You should stay at the party, hang out with your friends, stop making everything about him. “Fine,” you say. “But you leave first.”
You end up at his place again. Heeseung is gone for the weekend, so you have the apartment to yourselves. The second the door closes, he’s kissing you, and it feels different somehow. More desperate. Like he’s trying to prove something. “What was that about?” you ask when you break for air.
“What was what about?”
“With Mina.”
“Nothing. She wants to study together.”
“She wants to do more than study.”
He pulls back slightly, looking at you. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“You are.” He sounds pleased.
“I’m not—we have rules, Jungwon. You can do whatever you want.”
“So can you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t stop me from wanting to punch Marcus when I saw him sitting next to you in the library yesterday.”
“You saw that?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re just study partners.”
“I know.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “This is stupid, right? We shouldn’t be jealous.”
“Right.”
“Because it’s just casual.”
“Exactly.” You’re both quiet for a moment.
“For the record,” he says finally, “I’m not interested in Mina. Or anyone else.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This—what we have—it works. I don’t want to fuck it up by bringing other people into it.”
Relief washes over you. “Yeah. Same.”
“So… exclusive, then? Just while this is happening?”
“Just while this is happening,” you agree.
“Good.” He kisses you again, and this time when you end up in his bed, it feels different. Slower. More intentional.
He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he exposes. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you. “Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You.”
“Be specific.”
“I want—” You’re breathless already and he hasn’t even touched you yet. “I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.
“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think. He’s devastatingly thorough, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, sliding his fingers inside you when you start to squirm. You’re panting, desperate, right on the edge when he stops.
“Jungwon—”
“Want you to come on my cock,” he says, reaching for a condom. He rolls it on and slides into you in one smooth thrust, and you both groan. The angle is perfect, hitting deep, and when he starts to move, you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against your neck. “So wet for me.”
“Don’t stop—”
“Not stopping.” His hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “Want to feel you come.”
It doesn’t take long. The combination of his cock and his fingers pushes you over the edge, and you come with a cry, clenching around him. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he pulses inside you. You stay like that for a while, catching your breath, his weight comfortable on top of you.
“You’re staying tonight, right?” he asks eventually.
“Yeah,” you say, and you don’t even pretend to think about it. “I’m staying.”
He rolls off you to deal with the condom, and when he comes back, he pulls you against his chest. You let yourself relax into him, listening to his heartbeat slow. This is definitely more than just casual. But neither of you says it out loud.
Three months in, and you’ve gotten good at this. Really good. You and Jungwon have the routine down to an art form. You don’t leave parties together anymore—one of you leaves, the other waits at least half an hour. You vary whose place you go to. You keep your hands to yourselves during group hangouts, no lingering touches or loaded looks. In the group chat, you bicker and joke like you always have.
To everyone else, the initial excitement has worn off. Whatever was happening between you two seems to have fizzled out. Even Reina has stopped making comments. Which is perfect, because it means no one notices that you’re fucking almost every other day.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon in mid-October, and you’re sprawled across various surfaces in Jay and Sunghoon’s apartment. Maya and Jake are tangled together on the loveseat, Liv is rolling a joint at the coffee table, Reina is painting her nails on the floor. The guys are scattered around—Jay and Sunghoon playing FIFA, Heeseung scrolling his phone, Sunoo showing Niki something on his laptop. And Jungwon is sitting across from you in the armchair, looking completely relaxed, like he wasn’t buried inside you this morning before your 9 AM class.
“I’m so fucking hungry,” Reina announces. “Can we order food?”
“It’s three in the afternoon,” Sunghoon says, not looking away from the TV.
“Your point?”
Everyone starts debating what to order, and you catch Jungwon’s eye across the room. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you know exactly what he’s thinking about. This morning, you pinned against his shower wall, water streaming over both of you, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet even though Heeseung wasn’t home. You bite your lip and look away before you start smiling like an idiot.
“Earth to Y/N,” Niki says, waving a hand in front of your face. “You alive in there?”
“What? Yeah, sorry.”
“I was asking about that guy you were telling me about.” He grins. “The one from a few weeks ago?”
Your brain stalls. “What guy?”
“You know, when we went to get coffee last week. You were telling me about hooking up with someone and how he was like, insanely good?”
Oh shit. You do vaguely remember that conversation—you and Niki had gotten coffee between classes, and he’d been asking about your dating life, and you’d maybe been too honest about how good the sex had been lately. You’d kept it vague, hadn’t mentioned names, but still. The room has gotten quiet, everyone paying attention now. “Oh,” you say, very aware of Jungwon’s eyes on you. “That was… nothing. Just some guy.”
“Some guy who’s apparently the best fuck you’ve ever had,” Niki says, looking way too entertained. “Those were your exact words.”
“Niki—”
“What? I’m just saying, that’s high praise coming from you.”
Reina sits up straighter. “Wait, hold on. You’ve been holding out on us? Who is this mystery man?”
“It’s not a big deal—”
“Best fuck of your life sounds like a big deal,” Liv points out, though she’s trying not to smile. She’s the only one who knows the truth, and she’s clearly enjoying watching you squirm.
“Are you still seeing him?” Maya asks.
“It’s casual.”
“Is it that guy from your Econ class?” Reina guesses. “The tall one with the man bun?”
“No.”
“The bartender from that club we went to?”
“No.”
“Give us something,” Sunoo pleads dramatically. “We need details.”
You absolutely cannot look at Jungwon. “There are no details. It’s just… casual hookups. Nothing serious.”
“But the sex is good?” Reina presses.
“Yeah,” you admit, because denying it now would be weird. “The sex is really good.”
“How good are we talking?” Heeseung asks. “Like, good good, or like, mind-blowing life-changing good?”
Your face is burning. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”
“Oh my god, it’s mind-blowing life-changing good,” Reina says gleefully. “Look at her face!”
“I hate all of you.”
“What makes it so good?” Maya asks, genuinely curious. “Like, what’s he doing that’s so different?”
“Maya!”
“What? I’m trying to learn here!”
You risk a glance at Jungwon. He’s very still, expression carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else entirely. “He just—” You struggle for words that won’t give anything away. “He pays attention, I guess? Like, he actually cares about getting me off. And he’s… confident. Knows what he’s doing.”
“Size?” Reina asks bluntly.
“Oh my god, Reina!”
“What? It’s a relevant question!”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So it’s good,” she concludes. “Noted.”
“Can we please order food now?” you beg.
Jay takes pity on you. “Yeah, let’s vote. Pizza or Thai?”
The conversation mercifully moves on, and you finally let yourself breathe. But when you glance at Jungwon again, he’s looking at his phone, jaw tight. Shit.
The group ends up ordering pizza, and by the time it arrives, you’ve almost forgotten about the awkward conversation. Almost. You’re halfway through your second slice when your phone buzzes: jungwon: can you come help me with something in the car?
You frown at the message. You all walked here, no one drove. you: what?
jungwon: just come outside for a sec
You make an excuse about needing air and head downstairs. Jungwon is waiting by the building entrance, hands in his pockets. “What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Really?” He looks at you. “Best fuck of your life?”
Oh. “You’re mad about that?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t love the idea of you telling Niki about us.”
“I didn’t tell him about us. I kept it vague. He doesn’t know it’s you.”
“But you were talking about me. About our sex life.”
“Is that not allowed?” You cross your arms. “We’re not together, Jungwon. I can talk to my friends.”
“I know that.” His jaw ticks. “I just—forget it.”
“No, what? Say what you’re thinking.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you mean it? What you said up there?”
“About what?”
“About it being the best you’ve had.”
Your stomach flips. “I… yeah. I meant it.”
His expression softens slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “Why, did you doubt it?”
“No, I just…” He trails off, looking almost embarrassed. “I liked hearing it, I guess. Even if I wasn’t supposed to be the one hearing it.”
“You’re so weird.”
“You like it,” he says, echoing your texts from months ago.
“Maybe.” You glance back at the building. “We should go back up before someone notices.”
“Wait.” He catches your wrist. “Come over tonight?”
“Jungwon, we just saw each other this morning.”
“So?”
“So we’re supposed to be keeping this low-key.”
“I am keeping it low-key. No one suspects anything anymore.” He tugs you closer. “Please? I want to try something.”
“You always want to try something.”
“And you always like it.” He’s smirking now. “Come on. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
You shouldn’t. You’re supposed to be at the library studying for your midterm tomorrow. But the way he’s looking at you makes your resolve crumble. “Fine. But I can’t stay over. I really do need to study.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
You show up at his apartment at eleven, after spending three hours actually studying with Maya. Heeseung is home this time, playing video games in the living room. “Hey,” he says when you walk in. “Jungwon’s in his room.”
“Cool, thanks.” You’ve been here enough times now that it’s not weird anymore. Heeseung barely looks up when you head down the hall and knock on Jungwon’s door.
“Come in.” He’s at his desk, laptop open, but he closes it when he sees you. “Hey.”
“Hey.” You drop your bag by the door. “What did you want to try?”
“Impatient.”
“I have a midterm at 8 AM. Get to the point.”
He stands and crosses to you, and there’s something different about his energy tonight. More intense. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want.”
“I always tell you what you want.”
“No,” he says. “You tell me when I ask. I want you to take control. Tell me exactly what to do.”
Heat pools in your stomach. “You want me to… boss you around?”
“Yeah.” His hands settle on your hips. “Think you can do that?”
“I—” You’re flustered now. You’re used to him being in charge, confident and directing everything. The idea of flipping that dynamic is…
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “If you’re not into it—”
“I’m into it,” you cut him off. “Just… give me a second.” He waits, patient, and you take a breath. You can do this. You’ve been sleeping together for three months. You know what he likes, what makes him fall apart.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Take off your shirt.” He complies immediately, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
“Jeans too.” He unbuttons them, pushes them down with his boxers, and kicks them away. He’s already half-hard, and the sight makes your mouth water.
“Lie down on the bed.” He does, and you take a moment to just look at him. He’s gorgeous like this—all lean muscle and smooth skin, cock thickening against his stomach, watching you with dark eyes.
“Touch yourself,” you say. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and you watch, mesmerized.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask.
“You.” His voice is rough. “Always you.”
“What about me?”
“The way you taste. The sounds you make when you come. How good you feel wrapped around my cock.”
You’re definitely wet now. You start stripping, taking your time, and his eyes track every movement. “You’re so fucking hot,” he breathes.
When you’re naked, you climb onto the bed and straddle his thighs, just out of reach. “Stop touching yourself.” He does, hand falling to his side, and you lean down to kiss him. It’s slow and deep, and when you pull back, his pupils are blown. “I want your mouth,” you say.
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.
“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think.
You’re straddling his face, thighs bracketing his head. The position makes you feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. “Eat me out,” you order. “Don’t stop until I come.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. His tongue finds your clit immediately, and you gasp, gripping his hair for balance. He’s good at this—you’ve known that since the very first time—but something about being in control makes it even better. “Just like that,” you pant, rolling your hips against his face. “Fuck, your tongue feels so good.”
He groans against you, hands gripping your ass, pulling you down harder. You ride his face shamelessly, chasing your pleasure, and when he slides two fingers inside you, crooking them just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”
He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.
You’re still trembling when you climb off him, and his face is wet, lips swollen. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?” he asks.
“So good.” You kiss him, tasting yourself. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
“No?”
“No.” You wrap your hand around his cock, and he hisses. “I want to ride you. But you don’t get to touch me.”
“What?”
“Hands behind your head.” He complies, lacing his fingers behind his head, biceps flexing. You grab a condom from his nightstand and roll it on, and then you’re sinking down onto him, both of you groaning at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel amazing.”
“No touching,” you remind him when his hands twitch.
“This is torture.”
“This is fun.” You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the angle that makes you both moan. “Watch me.”
He does, eyes glued to where you’re joined, then traveling up to your bouncing breasts, your face. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
“Want to touch you. Want to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress.”
“Not yet.” You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, changing the angle. “Oh fuck—right there—”
“Yeah?” His voice is strained. “That feel good?”
“So good—” You’re close again, which should be impossible but apparently Jungwon has ruined you for anyone else. “I’m gonna come again—”
“Let me see.” His hands are fisted in his hair, knuckles white from the effort of not touching you. “Want to see you fall apart on my cock.” The words push you over the edge. You come with a cry, clenching around him, and he groans.
“Can I touch you now?” he begs. “Please—”
“Yes—”
His hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips, and he thrusts up into you hard. You’re oversensitive and it’s almost too much, but then he’s sitting up, wrapping his arms around you, and kissing you desperately. “You’re incredible,” he pants against your mouth. “Fucking incredible—”
He comes with his face buried in your neck, and you hold him through it, both of you slick with sweat. When you both catch your breath, he flops back onto the bed, bringing you with him. “That was—” he starts.
“Yeah.”
“We should do that again.”
“Definitely.” You glance at the clock and groan. “Shit, I really need to go study.”
“Stay,” he says. “Just for a little bit.”
“Jungwon—”
“Please? We can study together. I have a midterm tomorrow too.”
You should say no. Should go back to your apartment and study alone like you planned. But his arms are around you and you’re comfortable and warm, and maybe staying for an hour won’t hurt. “Fine,” you say. “One hour.” You stay for three.
A week later, you’re at another party—this one at someone’s house off campus. It’s someone’s birthday, you’re not sure whose, but the music is good and the drinks are strong and you’re having fun. You’re in the kitchen with Liv and some people from your Communications class when you see Jungwon walk in with Heeseung and Jake. He spots you immediately, and you quickly look away. You’ve been good about not staring at each other at parties. Good about acting normal.
But then some girl approaches him—blonde, pretty, wearing a crop top that shows off her abs—and you watch as she touches his arm, leans in close to say something in his ear. Your stomach twists.
“You okay?” Liv asks quietly.
“Fine.”
“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring.” She follows your gaze. “It’s just some random girl. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know that.”
But when the girl laughs at something Jungwon says, her hand still on his arm, you feel something ugly rise in your chest. This is stupid. You have no claim on him. You’re not together. He can talk to whoever he wants. You turn away and pour yourself another drink.
“Want to go dance?” Liv suggests.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” You spend the next hour on the makeshift dance floor, deliberately not looking for Jungwon, deliberately not caring where he is or who he’s talking to.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
You’re getting another drink when you feel someone behind you. “Having fun?” Jungwon’s voice in your ear makes you shiver.
“Yeah. You?”
“It’s alright.” He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat. “Want to get out of here?”
“Busy tonight.”
“Busy with what?”
“Just… busy.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“You tell me.”
You turn to face him. “That girl you were talking to. She was pretty.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He steps closer. “For the record, she asked for directions. That’s it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You clearly do.” His hand brushes yours. “Come over. Let me prove I only want you.”
You should say no. Should make him work for it. But the look in his eyes makes your resolve crumble. “Fine,” you say. “But you’re leaving first this time.”
By the time you get to his apartment, you’re both frantic. You barely make it inside before you’re tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing desperately. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters against your lips, walking you backward toward his room. “Watching you dance with those guys—”
“I wasn’t dancing with anyone specifically—”
“Didn’t matter. Wanted to punch all of them anyway.” He gets you naked and on his bed, and then he’s between your legs, and this time there’s an edge to it. Like he’s claiming you, proving something. He eats you out until you’re crying, overstimulated and desperate, and then he flips you over.
“On your knees,” he orders, and you comply, ass in the air. He slides into you from behind and you both groan. The angle is deep, almost too much, and when he starts to move, you can barely breathe.
“You feel so good,” he pants, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking perfect.”
“Harder—”
He complies, fucking into you relentlessly, and you fist the sheets, moaning into the pillow. “No one else gets to have you like this,” he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Just me. Right?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—just you—”
One of his hands slides around to rub your clit and you come with a scream, clenching around him. He follows right after, collapsing on top of you.
When you can both move again, he pulls out carefully and you both clean up in silence. There’s something heavy in the air, something unsaid. “Stay,” he says when you start to get dressed.
“I can’t keep staying over, Jungwon. People will notice—”
“I don’t care anymore.” He catches your wrist. “Stay.”
You look at him—really look at him. His hair is a mess, lips swollen from kissing, and he’s looking at you like you’re something precious. This is getting too real. Too intense. You’re supposed to be keeping things casual, but nothing about the way you feel when you’re with him is casual anymore. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll stay.”
He pulls you back into bed, and you curl into his side, listening to his heartbeat slow. “Y/N?” he says after a while.
“Yeah?”
“This thing with us…” He trails off.
Your heart pounds. “What about it?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
But you’re both thinking the same thing. This stopped being casual a long time ago. Neither of you is ready to admit it yet.
November hits campus like a cold slap. The trees are bare, everyone’s walking around in puffer jackets and beanies, and the semester is hitting that point where everyone’s exhausted and stressed and living on coffee and spite.
You’re in Advanced Marketing on a Thursday morning, half-asleep and trying to absorb information about consumer behavior models, when Professor Chen makes an announcement. “Before we start, I want to introduce a new student joining us. This is Daniel Choi—he’s transferring from NYU. Daniel, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”
You glance up and—oh. Daniel is tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair styled back, and an easy smile. He’s wearing a navy sweater that probably costs more than your textbooks, and when he speaks, his voice is warm and confident. “Hey everyone. I’m a junior, majoring in Marketing and Communications. Just moved here from New York, so still figuring out the campus. Looking forward to getting to know you all.”
“Wonderful,” Professor Chen says. “Why don’t you take that seat next to Y/N? Y/N, raise your hand?”
You do, reluctantly, and Daniel makes his way over, sliding into the seat beside you. “Hey,” he says, smile widening. “Thanks for letting me sit here.”
“It’s not really my seat to give, but sure.”
He laughs. “Fair point. I’m Daniel.”
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Then Professor Chen launches into the lecture, and you try to focus, but you’re aware of Daniel beside you—the way he takes notes on his laptop, occasionally glancing over at your notebook like he’s comparing, the expensive cologne that’s subtle but noticeable.
When class ends, he turns to you. “Hey, I know this is random, but do you think you could help me out? I’m completely lost on where anything is on this campus.”
“There are maps—”
“I know, but they’re confusing as hell.” He gives you a slightly sheepish look. “And Professor Chen mentioned you’re a great student. I could use someone to show me around, maybe fill me in on what I’ve missed in class so far?”
You should say no. You’re busy. You have your own classes and your friends and your… whatever Jungwon is. But Daniel seems nice, and it’s just showing someone around campus. “Sure,” you find yourself saying. “I have a break after this. I can give you a quick tour.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” His smile is genuinely grateful. “Can I at least buy you coffee?”
You spend the next hour showing Daniel around campus—the library, the student center, the various academic buildings, the good food spots versus the ones to avoid. He’s easy to talk to, asking questions about classes and professors, and he’s funny in a dry, clever way that makes you laugh.
“So NYU to here,” you say as you walk past the quad. “That’s a big change.”
“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “My dad got relocated for work, and the family moved. Figured I’d come with them rather than stay in New York alone. Plus, cheaper tuition as an in-state student.”
“That’s fair. How are you liking it so far?”
“Campus is nice. People seem cool.” He glances at you. “Present company especially.” It’s flirty but not obnoxiously so, and you feel your face warm slightly.
“Wait until you experience your first real winter here,” you say, deflecting. “Then we’ll see if you still think it’s nice.”
“I’m from New York. I can handle cold.”
“This is different. This is Midwest cold. The kind that hurts your face.”
He laughs. “I’ll take your word for it.”
You show him a few more buildings, and by the time you’re done, your break is almost over. “This was really helpful,” Daniel says. “Seriously, thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Can I get your number? In case I have questions about class or campus stuff?” It’s innocent enough. Just a new student wanting help navigating. You give him your number. “Thanks.” He saves it in his phone. “I’ll see you next class?”
“Yeah, see you.” You watch him walk away, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling a little.
You don’t think much about Daniel over the next few days. You’re busy with midterms and work and your friends. And Jungwon. Especially Jungwon.
You’ve been spending even more time together lately—studying at his place, grabbing food between classes, and obviously still hooking up regularly. It’s gotten to the point where you have a toothbrush at his apartment and he has spare clothes at yours. It should worry you how domestic it’s becoming. It doesn’t.
You’re at his place on Saturday night, both of you on his bed with your laptops, supposedly working on separate assignments but really just procrastinating together. “I’m so sick of this essay,” you groan, flopping backward.
“How much do you have left?”
“Like, three pages.”
“That’s not bad.”
“It’s three pages I don’t want to write.” You roll over to look at him. “Entertain me.”
“I’m busy.”
“No you’re not. You’ve been on the same paragraph for twenty minutes.”
He closes his laptop with a sigh. “Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Something that isn’t homework.”
He shifts closer, hand sliding up your thigh. “I can think of something.”
“We literally had sex an hour ago.”
“So?”
You laugh and push his hand away. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He’s smiling but there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest tight.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and see a text from an unknown number.
unknown: hey! it’s daniel from marketing class. hope this isn’t weird but i had a question about the assignment due next week?
You smile and save his contact. you: not weird at all! what’s your question?
“Who’s that?” Jungwon asks, and there’s an edge to his voice.
“New guy in my marketing class. He transferred from NYU.”
“And he’s texting you?”
“He had a question about the assignment.” You glance at Jungwon. “Why?”
“No reason.” But his jaw is tight, and you recognize that look. He’s jealous.
Your phone buzzes again. daniel: professor chen mentioned something about a group project? do you know if groups are assigned or if we pick our own?
you: we pick our own! usually groups of 3-4. i can add you to mine if you want? we still need one more person
daniel: that would be amazing. thank you! also totally unrelated but are you free tomorrow? wanted to check out that coffee place you mentioned and could use the company
You hesitate. It’s just coffee. Daniel is nice, and he’s new and doesn’t know anyone. It would be rude to say no. you: sure! i’m free around 2?
daniel: perfect. i’ll meet you there
You set your phone down and find Jungwon staring at you. “What?”
“You’re getting coffee with him?”
“He’s new. He doesn’t know anyone. I’m being nice.”
“Right. Nice.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Jungwon, it’s just coffee.”
“Does he know that?”
“Know what?”
“That it’s ‘just coffee.’ Or does he think it’s a date?”
You sit up. “It’s not a date. We’re literally just getting coffee. Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“You clearly do.”
“I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Never mind. Do whatever you want.”
“I am doing whatever I want. That’s kind of the point of this arrangement, remember?”
The words come out harsher than you intended, and something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger, you can’t tell. “Right,” he says quietly. “The arrangement.”
The air between you feels heavy, wrong. You want to take it back, to explain that you don’t actually want to get coffee with Daniel, that you’d rather spend tomorrow with Jungwon like you spend most days. But you don’t say any of that. “I should go,” you say instead, closing your laptop. “It’s late.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I have an early class tomorrow anyway.” You gather your stuff quickly, and Jungwon doesn’t try to stop you. When you leave, he doesn’t ask you to stay like he usually does. You tell yourself it’s fine. Everything’s fine.
Coffee with Daniel is actually really nice. He’s waiting outside the café when you arrive, and he lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.”
Inside, the place is cozy and warm, smelling like espresso and cinnamon. You order your usual and Daniel gets some complicated drink with like five different modifiers. “High maintenance,” you tease as you find a table by the window.
“I know what I like,” he says, grinning. “Can’t fault me for that.”
You spend the next hour just talking. He tells you about growing up in New York, his family, his friends back home. He asks about your life, your major, your friends. He’s a good listener, asking follow-up questions, seeming genuinely interested. It’s easy. Comfortable. And he’s cute—you can’t deny that. The way he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. The way he leans forward when you’re talking, giving you his full attention.
“So,” he says eventually, stirring his drink. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, or… partner? I don’t want to assume.”
Your stomach drops. “I—no. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” He raises an eyebrow, curious, not pushy.
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
You shouldn’t tell him. It’s none of his business. But something about the way he’s looking at you, open and interested, makes you want to talk about it. “There’s this guy,” you say slowly. “We’ve been… hooking up. For a few months now. It’s supposed to be casual but lately it feels like…”
“Like it’s not casual anymore?” Daniel finishes.
“Yeah.”
“Does he know you feel that way?”
“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it.” You take a sip of your coffee. “It’s stupid. We had rules. No feelings, no complications. And I’m the one who’s complicating it.”
“Feelings aren’t stupid,” Daniel says gently. “And if he’s worth anything, he feels the same way.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’s an idiot.” He smiles. “For what it’s worth, any guy who has you and doesn’t want more is definitely an idiot.”
It’s sweet. Maybe a little too sweet, a little too flirty, but you find yourself smiling back. “Thanks, Daniel.”
“Anytime.” He checks his phone. “Shit, I have to go. Meeting my parents for dinner. But this was really fun. We should do it again?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
“Cool.” He stands, shrugging on his jacket. “See you in class Tuesday?”
“See you then.” You watch him leave, and you’re not sure how to feel. Daniel is nice. He’s attractive and smart and funny, and he’s clearly interested in you. But he’s not Jungwon. Your phone buzzes.
jungwon: you busy tonight?
You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: studying with maya. why?
It’s a lie. You don’t have plans. But you need space to think, to figure out what you’re doing.
jungwon: nothing. just wanted to see you. have fun studying
The guilt sits heavy in your chest.
You avoid Jungwon for the next few days. It’s not hard—you claim you’re busy with midterms and assignments, which is partially true. But really, you just need time to sort through your feelings.
Because the truth is, you’re falling for him. Have been falling for him for months now. And the idea of telling him and having him not feel the same way, of losing what you have, terrifies you. So you throw yourself into other things. Classes. Assignments. Your friends. And Daniel.
He texts you throughout the week—memes, questions about class, random observations about campus life. It’s friendly and light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that’s why you respond, why you agree to study together in the library, why you sit next to him in Marketing and laugh at his whispered jokes during lectures. But you know that’s not entirely true. You know you’re using Daniel as a distraction. And it’s not fair to him.
On Thursday, you’re leaving your Marketing class with Daniel when you run into the group. Literally—you turn a corner and almost collide with Maya and Jake.
“Oh! Hey!” Maya says, then notices Daniel. “Who’s this?”
“This is Daniel. He’s new. Daniel, this is Maya and Jake.”
“Nice to meet you,” Daniel says, friendly and charming.
“You too,” Maya says, but she’s giving you a look. “We’re all getting lunch. You want to come?”
“Oh, um—”
“You should definitely come,” Jake says. “Whole group’s gonna be there.” Your stomach sinks. Whole group means Jungwon.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Daniel starts.
“You’re not intruding,” Maya insists. “The more the merrier. Right, Y/N?”
“Right,” you say weakly.
Lunch is at the student center food court, and by the time you arrive with Daniel, everyone else is already there—Maya and Jake, Liv and Reina, Jay and Sunghoon, Heeseung and Sunoo and Niki. And Jungwon. He’s sitting at the end of the table, and when he sees you walk in with Daniel, something shutters in his expression.
“Everyone, this is Daniel,” you announce. “He just transferred here.”
Everyone introduces themselves, welcoming and friendly, and Daniel fits in easily. He’s charming and funny, and within minutes, he’s got Reina laughing at some story about his first week on campus. You sit across from Jungwon, and the tension is suffocating.
“So Daniel,” Sunghoon says. “Where’d you transfer from?”
“NYU.”
“Damn, that’s a downgrade,” Heeseung jokes, and everyone laughs.
“I don’t know,” Daniel says, and his hand brushes yours on the table. “I’m liking it here so far.” The touch is casual, probably meaningless. But Jungwon’s eyes lock onto it, and his jaw clenches.
“How do you and Y/N know each other?” Niki asks.
“We have Marketing together,” you say quickly. “I’ve been helping him get caught up.”
“Y/N’s been a lifesaver,” Daniel adds. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.” It’s innocent. Friendly. But the way he’s looking at you is… not. And Jungwon sees it.
“That’s nice,” Jungwon says, voice flat. “Y/N’s good at helping people.” There’s an undercurrent there that makes you flinch.
The conversation moves on, everyone eating and talking, but you’re hyperaware of Jungwon across from you. He’s barely touched his food, just pushing it around his plate, and every time Daniel says something that makes you smile, Jungwon’s expression gets darker.
“So Y/N,” Reina says. “You still seeing that mystery guy? The one who’s so good in bed?”
You want to die. “Reina—”
“What? I’m just asking!”
“What mystery guy?” Daniel asks, curious.
“There’s no mystery guy,” you say firmly. “Reina’s making stuff up.”
“I’m literally not. You told Niki about him.”
“That was months ago.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Daniel asks, and there’s hope in his voice.
Before you can answer, Jungwon stands abruptly. “I gotta go. Got class.”
“But we just sat down,” Heeseung protests.
“I forgot I have to talk to my professor about something.” He grabs his bag and leaves without looking at you. The table goes quiet for a beat.
“What’s up with him?” Jake asks.
“No idea,” Sunoo says, but he’s looking at you thoughtfully.
“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Maya suggests.
You know that’s not it. You know exactly what’s wrong. “I should—” You start to stand. “I should check on him.”
“Why?” Reina asks.
“Because we’re friends. And he seemed upset.”
“I’ll come with you,” Daniel offers.
“No,” you say, too quickly. “I mean—you should stay. Finish eating. I’ll be right back.”
You don’t wait for a response before hurrying after Jungwon. You catch him outside the building, heading toward the parking lot. “Jungwon, wait!” He stops but doesn’t turn around. “What was that?” you ask when you reach him.
“What was what?”
“You know what. Walking out like that.”
He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes makes your chest hurt. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N.”
“I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”
“You really don’t know?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You show up with that guy, he’s all over you, looking at you like—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “And you’re just letting it happen.”
“He’s not all over me. We’re friends.”
“Does he know that? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he thinks you’re something more.”
“Even if he did, why do you care? We’re not together, remember? That’s the whole point.”
“Right,” he says bitterly. “The arrangement. How could I forget?”
“Jungwon—”
“Are you into him?”
The question catches you off guard. “What?”
“Daniel. Are you into him?”
“I—no. Not like that.”
“But you could be.” It’s not a question. “If things were different. If we weren’t…” He gestures between you, unable to finish the sentence.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. He’s nice. And he’s—”
“Uncomplicated,” Jungwon finishes. “He’s not sneaking around. He could actually take you on dates, be seen with you, give you what you want.”
“What I want?”
“More.” He steps closer. “You want more than this, Y/N. I can see it. And I can’t—”
He stops, and your heart is pounding. “You can’t what?”
“I can’t give you that.” His voice is rough. “This—us—it’s supposed to be casual. No strings. That’s what we agreed.”
“And what if I don’t want casual anymore?” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “What if I want more?”
He stares at you, and for a moment you think he’s going to say it—that he wants more too, that this has been killing him the same way it’s been killing you. But then he looks away. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
It feels like the ground has been pulled out from under you. “Right,” you manage. “Okay.”
“It’s fine.” You’re backing away, fighting tears. “You’re right. This was always supposed to be casual. My mistake for thinking it could be anything else.”
“That’s not—”
“I should get back. Everyone’s waiting.” You turn and walk away before he can say anything else, before you completely fall apart in front of him.
When you get back to the table, Daniel takes one look at your face and frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… tired. Long week.”
“Want me to walk you home?”
You should say no. Should put some distance between you and Daniel before this gets messy. But you’re hurt and angry and you don’t want to be alone. “Yeah,” you say. “That’d be nice.”
As you leave with Daniel, you don’t see Jungwon watching from across the quad, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like his world just fell apart.
You don’t talk to Jungwon for the rest of the week. He texts a few times— casual messages asking how you are, if you want to study, if you’re okay. You respond with short, noncommittal answers.
The group notices. How could they not? You and Jungwon have been attached at the hip for months, and suddenly you can barely be in the same room. “What happened between you two?” Liv asks when you’re alone in your apartment.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been miserable all week.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re avoiding him. And he’s been moping around like someone kicked his puppy.” You don’t answer, just stare at your laptop screen without actually seeing it. “Did something happen with Daniel?” she presses gently.
“No. Daniel’s just a friend.”
“Does Jungwon know that?”
“It doesn’t matter what Jungwon thinks.”
Liv is quiet for a moment. “You should talk to him. Actually talk. Because this? This is worse than whatever you’re avoiding.”
You know she’s right. But you’re scared. Scared that if you talk to Jungwon, you’ll have to end things for real. That you’ll have to accept that he doesn’t want what you want, that these past few months have meant something completely different to him than they have to you.
So you do what you’ve been doing—you avoid him. And you spend more time with Daniel.
It’s Friday night, and there’s a party at some senior’s house. You show up with Liv and Reina, already a few drinks in from pregaming, and the place is packed. You lose your friends almost immediately in the crowd. You’re making your way to the kitchen when you spot Daniel. “Hey!” He brightens when he sees you. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it.” You’re definitely drunker than you thought. “Having fun?”
“More fun now.” He hands you a drink. “Here. It’s strong, fair warning.” You take it and down half of it in one go. “Rough week?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
The music is loud, bass thumping through your chest, and Daniel leans in closer to be heard. “Want to go somewhere quieter? Maybe talk?”
You should say no. You know where this is going, and it’s not fair to Daniel or to yourself or to— “Sure,” you say.
He leads you upstairs, finding an empty bedroom, and closes the door behind you. It muffles the music, making it easier to hear. “Better?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He sits on the bed and you sit next to him, suddenly very aware that you’re alone together in a bedroom. “Can I ask you something?” Daniel says.
“Sure.”
“That guy you mentioned. The complicated one. Is it… are you still involved with him?”
You take another sip of your drink. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“I told him. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t feel the same way.”
“Then he’s an idiot.” Daniel shifts closer. “Because you’re incredible, Y/N. Smart and funny and beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to be with you.”
“Daniel—”
“I like you,” he says. “I know we just met, and maybe the timing is shit, but I really like you. And if this other guy can’t see what he has, then…”
He trails off, and then he’s leaning in, and you realize he’s going to kiss you. You should stop him. You should explain that you’re not over Jungwon, that you’re not in a place to start something new.
But you’re drunk and hurt and you want to feel wanted by someone who isn’t afraid to show it. So you let him kiss you. It’s nice. He’s a good kisser— soft lips, careful hands, nothing like—
The door opens. “Y/N, Liv’s looking for—” Jungwon stops dead in the doorway.
You jerk back from Daniel, but it’s too late. Jungwon saw. And the look on his face— betrayal and hurt and anger all mixed together—makes your stomach drop. “Jungwon—”
“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He’s gone before you can say anything else, door slamming behind him. “Shit,” you breathe.
“Who was that?” Daniel asks.
“I—” You stand up, suddenly feeling very sober. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Y/N, wait—” But you’re already out the door, pushing through the crowded hallway, trying to find Jungwon. You catch him on the front porch, about to leave.
“Jungwon, wait!” He stops, shoulders tense, but doesn’t turn around. “It’s not— that wasn’t—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says, finally facing you. “You can kiss whoever you want.”
“It didn’t mean anything—”
“Didn’t it?” His eyes are hard. “Looked like it meant something.”
“I was just—I was upset and drunk and he was there—”
“And I wasn’t,” Jungwon finishes. “Because you’ve been avoiding me all week.”
“You told me you couldn’t give me more! What did you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know!” He’s yelling now, and a few people on the porch are staring. “I don’t know, Y/N. But I didn’t expect you to move on in a fucking week.”
“I’m not moving on! And even if I was, why do you care? You made it clear you don’t want—”
“I never said I didn’t want—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”
“What? You never said you didn’t want what?”
“You!” The word explodes out of him. “I never said I didn’t want you. I said I couldn’t give you more, and that’s different.”
You stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I’m terrified, okay?” His voice cracks. “I’m terrified because this stopped being casual for me months ago, and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be what you need.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. “Jungwon—”
“I see the way Daniel looks at you. Like you’re everything. And I want to be that guy— the one who can take you on dates and hold your hand in public and tell everyone you’re mine. But I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. That I’ll lose you completely.”
“So instead you’re losing me anyway,” you say quietly. He flinches like you hit him. “I’m falling for you,” you continue, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. “I’ve been falling for you for months. And it’s been killing me because I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”
“I do,” he says desperately. “I do feel the same way. I just—”
“You just what?”
“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
“Jungwon, we’ve already ruined it. Pretending we can keep things casual when we both feel more—that’s what’s ruining it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can see him struggling with something. “If we do this,” he says finally, “if we make this real— what if it doesn’t work? What if we end up hating each other?”
“What if we don’t?” you counter. “What if it’s amazing?”
“What about the group? If things go bad—”
“We’ll figure it out. But Jungwon, I’d rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, and then— “Fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s different from every other kiss you’ve shared. More desperate, more meaningful. Like he’s pouring everything he couldn’t say into it.
When you break apart, you’re both breathless. “So,” you manage. “Does this mean—”
“It means I want to be with you. For real. No more hiding, no more pretending.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“Even the group?”
“Especially the group.” He smiles, and it’s tentative but real. “They probably already know anyway.”
You laugh, and it feels like relief. “Probably.”
“What about Daniel?”
“I’ll talk to him. Explain. But Jungwon, there’s nothing there. It’s always been you.”
“Yeah?” His smile widens.
“Yeah.” He kisses you again, softer this time, and you hear whooping from inside the house. You break apart to find half your friend group watching from the window—Reina and Liv and Maya and the guys all grinning like idiots.
“FINALLY!” Reina screams, and everyone laughs. Jungwon pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels right.
“So,” he murmurs against your hair. “Want to get out of here? I think we have some things to talk about.”
“And by talk you mean—”
“Actually talk,” he says, pulling back to look at you. “We should probably figure out how to actually do this relationship thing.”
“We should,” you agree. “But maybe we can do the talking back at your place? I’m still kind of drunk and these heels are killing me.” He laughs and takes your hand— openly, for everyone to see— and leads you toward his car.
As you leave, you glance back at the house and catch Daniel watching from the doorway. He looks sad but understanding, and he raises his cup in a small salute. You mouth “sorry,” and he nods. You’ll explain everything to him later. Right now, you just want to be with Jungwon.
You wake up to sunlight streaming through Jungwon’s window and his arm draped across your waist. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, trying to process that this is real now. You’re actually dating Jungwon. Your phone buzzes— multiple times. You reach for it and find the group chat exploding.
reina: SO ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT LAST NIGHT OR
maya: I KNEW IT
liv: you all owe me $20 btw
jay: jungwon if you hurt her i’m fighting you
you: good morning to you too
reina: GOOD MORNING??? THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY???
you: yes we’re official
reina: EXTREMELY
you: and we’ve been hooking up since that party in august
heeseung: AUGUST?????
reina: I FUCKING KNEW IT
Jungwon stirs beside you, eyes fluttering open. When he sees you, he smiles— soft and sleepy and genuine. “Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“Morning.” You show him your phone. “We’re famous.”
He scrolls through, laughing. “They’re ridiculous.”
jungwon: i’m not going to hurt her
jay: good
reina: now that that’s settled TELL US EVERYTHING
The “mandatory celebration” ends up being at Jay and Sunghoon’s that evening. By the time you and Jungwon arrive— together, holding hands— everyone else is already there. “THERE THEY ARE!” Reina shouts. “The happy couple!”
Maya rushes over to hug you. “I’m so happy for you!”
Jake hands you both drinks. “So, real talk. How long have you actually had feelings for each other?”
“I’ve liked her since before we started hooking up,” Jungwon says. “Remember that party in July? When you wore that black dress?”
Your face is burning. “You never said anything.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think you were interested. And then the bet happened and… well, you know the rest.”
“What about you?” Liv asks.
“Probably that first morning after,” you admit. “When we were texting about the arrangement and he was being all careful. That’s when I started thinking he might be different.”
Several drinks later, everyone’s sprawled around the living room. You’re tucked into Jungwon’s side on the couch, and it feels so natural. “Real talk,” Jay says, tone serious. “I’m happy for you guys. But—” He looks at Jungwon. “—you hurt her, and we have a problem.”
“I know. And I’m not going to hurt her. I’m—” He looks at you. “—I’m in love with her.”
The room goes silent. Your heart stops. “What?” you whisper.
“I’m in love with you. I have been for a while. I was just too scared to say it.”
“I love you too, you idiot.” You’re shaking your head. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His smile is brilliant. He kisses you, and this time it’s softer, more tender.
“Okay, we’re leaving,” Reina announces. “Before this gets too cute.”
After everyone leaves, you and Jungwon stay on the couch. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “About loving you.”
“I meant it too.” You shift to straddle his lap. “I love you, Jungwon.”
He cuts you off with a kiss. “Want to go home?”
You end up at his place. The second you’re inside, he’s on you, kissing you with urgency. “Bedroom,” you gasp.
“Too far.” He lifts you, carries you to the couch. You land in a tangle of limbs, laughing, then his mouth is on your neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“Show me,” you challenge.
He does. He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin. When you’re both finally naked, he hovers over you. “This is different now. Better,” he says. “I get to keep you.”
“You always had me.”
“I know. But now I don’t have to pretend I don’t want forever.”
“Forever?”
“Too soon?”
“No.” You pull him down. “Not too soon.”
He makes love to you slowly, thoroughly. More intimate. More real. Every touch feels like a confession. He enters you with a groan, and you wrap your legs around him. The rhythm is unhurried, sensual. He angles his hips just right, and his hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “God, you feel so perfect,” he breathes. “So tight and wet for me.”
“Jungwon— fuck— don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He keeps that perfect pace until you’re trembling. When you come, clenching around him, he follows right after with a moan of your name.
When you’re both spent on his couch, you feel something settle in your chest. “We should move to the bed,” he says eventually.
“Heeseung’s going to be home soon.” You gather clothes and make it to his room. “Stay,” he says.
“Obviously.” You curl into his side. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The next morning, you wake to Jungwon’s alarm. Your head is pounding. “Turn it off,” you groan.
“We have brunch in an hour.”
Forty-five minutes later— after a shower where Jungwon pressed you against the tile and made you come on his fingers— you’re dressed and heading to the diner. You walk in holding hands. The sight of your friend group crammed into booths makes you smile.
“There they are!” Maya calls. You slide in next to Liv, Jungwon beside you, arm over your shoulders.
“So,” Sunoo says. “Now that you guys are official, does this mean we have to watch you be gross?”
“We’re not going to be gross,” you protest.
Jungwon immediately kisses your cheek. “Can’t promise that.”
“How long did you actually know?” you ask.
“I knew from the start,” Liv says. “You’re my roommate. You think I didn’t notice when you’d come home at 3 AM with hickeys?”
The conversation shifts to other topics, and it’s easy. Normal. Like nothing’s changed except now you don’t have to hide.
Later that day, you’re back at Jungwon’s, on the couch watching a movie. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Always.”
“Why did you kiss Daniel?”
“Honestly? I was drunk and hurt and he was there. It was stupid.”
“Did you… were you interested in him?”
“No.” You shift to look at him. “He’s nice, but I was so hung up on you.”
“Good.” He kisses you. “Because I was losing my mind.”
“Every time I was with him, I kept thinking about you.”
“You have me now.” His arms tighten. “For as long as you want me.”
“Forever, remember?”
“Forever,” he agrees.
“Want to order food and spend the rest of the day in bed?”
“Is that code for something?”
“Food, bed, probably some making out, definitely a nap.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Later that night, after Chinese food and another round of sex— with you riding him while he gripped your hips and watched you with dark eyes— you’re lying in his bed. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For being brave enough to tell me how you felt. I would have lost you if you hadn’t.”
“You wouldn’t have lost me. I was too far gone.”
“Speaking of which,” he says. “You could just keep some more stuff here. Make it official.”
“Jungwon, we’ve been officially dating for less than 24 hours.”
“So? We’ve been unofficially together for months.”
He has a point. “Fine. I’ll bring some stuff over tomorrow.” And he’s grinning from ear to ear
Three weeks later, you’re at another party— pre-Thanksgiving. This time, everything’s different. You and Jungwon arrive together, hands intertwined. When he pulls you onto the dance floor, you don’t worry about who’s watching. “Having fun?” he asks.
“So much fun.” You loop your arms around his neck. “This is better than hiding.”
“Way better.” He kisses you.
Later, in the kitchen, Daniel approaches. You haven’t really talked since that night. “Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Jungwon gives your hand a squeeze and steps away.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Daniel starts. “For that night. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have been clearer. It wasn’t fair to you.”
“It’s okay. I get it now.” He glances at Jungwon. “That’s him, right?”
“Yeah. Not so complicated anymore.”
“Good. You seem happy.”
“I am. Really happy.” You hesitate. “Are we okay?”
“We’re okay. Friends?”
“Friends,” you agree.
He leaves, and Jungwon returns to your side. “That looked like it went well.”
“It did.” You lean into him. “Everything’s good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Everything’s really good.”
You stay like that, watching your friends scattered around— your family. And Jungwon, solid and warm behind you. “I love you,” you say.
“I love you too.” He kisses your neck. “Want to get out of here?”
“And do what?”
“Go back to my place. Watch a movie. Make out. Order food. Fall asleep together. All the boring couple stuff.”
“That sounds perfect.” You say goodbye to your friends and head out.
“Your place or mine?” Jungwon asks.
“Yours. I already have a toothbrush there.”
He grins. “Look at us, being all domestic.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
As he drives through the quiet streets, his hand finds yours, and you think about how different things were just months ago. When you were both pretending, both scared, both holding back. And now you’re here. Together. For real. “What are you thinking about?” Jungwon asks.
“Just… how happy I am. How glad I am that we figured this out.”
“Me too.” He brings your joined hands up to kiss your knuckles. “Best decision I ever made.”
“Proving you could make me come?”
He laughs. “No. Although that was a good decision too. I meant taking a chance on this. On us.”
“We both took a chance.”
“And it paid off.”
“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It really did.”
Back at his apartment, you fall into your routine— changing into his drawer of your clothes, brushing teeth side by side, collapsing onto his bed. “Movie?” he asks.
“Sure. Nothing too intense though.” He puts on a comedy, and you curl into his side. This is your favorite part. Not the sex— though that’s amazing— but this. The quiet moments. The casual intimacy.
“Hey Y/N?” Jungwon says softly.
“Hmm?”
“I’m really glad you’re mine.”
You lift your head. “I’m glad I’m yours too. And that you’re mine.”
“Always,” he promises, and kisses you.
Lying there in his arms, warm and safe and loved, you believe him. This is just the beginning. And you can’t wait to see where it goes.
The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - nothing really, just the obvious pregnancy
main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist
The bed is well and truly cold by the time you come to.
It takes a second to orient yourself - for last night to come crashing back to you. Jack, his hands, that stupid cowboy hat, the way it felt when he-
You cut yourself off.
This isn’t the start of something. Absolutely not. You were looking for a quick fling to get over Seth, and you found one. Jack made it very clear he wasn’t looking for anything either, and you’re not about to beg him for more.
If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.
You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.
There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.
You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.
Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.
He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.
Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.
And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.
God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?
Anything to get him off your mind.
You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.
The walls are covered in hockey.
Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.
There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.
Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.
Fuck.
You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.
While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.
In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.
He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.
His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.
Basketball? Bad.
Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.
Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.
Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.
Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.
You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.
Which, to be fair, was intentional.
The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be
No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.
For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.
You wouldn't know.
All you know is that his name is Jack.
He plays hockey.
He's pre-med.
He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.
You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.
You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.
Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.
Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.
Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.
You force yourself to look away.
This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.
You could leave your number.
Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’
As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.
You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.
You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.
You slip outside.
The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.
You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.
The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.
You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.
Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.
You didn’t ever mind.
Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.
When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.
Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.
You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.
The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.
Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.
Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.
He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.
Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.
Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.
You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.
Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.
Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.
Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.
Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.
Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.
This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.
It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.
You’re determined the break is sticking this time.
The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.
Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.
*****
You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.
When you're walking to class.
When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.
When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.
But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.
No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.
Which means you're doing great.
Objectively.
You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.
Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.
You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.
Again.
Apparently today's crisis is pathology.
Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.
Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.
"I haven't slept in two days."
You snort. "That's healthy."
"I hate you."
You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.
"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.
"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."
"There are too many."
"Okay."
He groans. "I'm serious."
"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."
There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."
"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"
"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.
“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”
“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.
Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."
Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"
"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.
"Obviously."
"Or the conditioning."
"Also obviously."
"But the guys."
You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"
You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.
Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.
"Some of them."
You hum. "Who?"
He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”
"So?"
Robby laughs. "So?"
"Yeah."
You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.
"Lots of people apply to med school."
"Not while playing a college sport."
"Oh."
"He asked me to look over his application."
Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."
"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."
You stare straight ahead.
Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”
“Everything okay?”
Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”
Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”
“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”
“Love you too!”
*****
The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.
Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.
This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.
You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.
You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.
You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.
By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.
You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.
You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.
Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.
Your heart stops.
You can’t be.
You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.
Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.
You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.
You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.
Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.
Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"
"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.
"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.
You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.
You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.
You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.
You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.
When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.
You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?
Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?
When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.
“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”
No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”
You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.
SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.
NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !
“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.
The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”
The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.
“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.
The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.
There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.
You go down hard.
Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.
The world tilts. Sound distorts.
You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.
“Shit!”
“Hold her back!”
“Move!”
Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.
“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.
“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”
“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.
Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.
Dana presses you back down without hesitation.
“No, you’re not getting up yet.”
“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.
“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”
You glare weakly. “I am—”
“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”
Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.
“What happened?”
“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”
“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.
Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.
Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”
You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.
The check is quick. Too quick.
Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.
“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”
“I will,” you say.
You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.
You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.
By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.
Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.
You see Jack the second he walks in.
It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.
He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”
No hello. No lead-in. Just that.
You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”
You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”
“Knocked how?”
“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”
His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.
You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”
“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”
“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.
“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”
Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”
You nod. “I promise.”
You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.
“I’ll text you,” you add.
He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.
You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.
The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.
The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.
Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.
“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.
Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.
No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.
“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”
He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.
Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.
He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.
You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.
Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.
It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.
Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.
A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.
Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.
“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”
The dog doesn’t move.
If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.
Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.
Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”
Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.
It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.
Jack’s stomach drops. “…where is she?”
Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”
Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.
The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.
Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”
No answer.
His chest tightens further as he steps inside.
You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.
Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.
You don’t wake straight away.
Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.
The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.
Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.
Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.
“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.
“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.
“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”
“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.
You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.
“I am fine.”
Jack doesn’t even entertain that.
“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”
“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.
His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.
“Try again.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.
“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”
“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”
Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”
You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”
You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.
Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.
“Hey, easy, easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.
“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”
You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.
Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.
Jack notices. Files it away.
“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”
You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.
“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”
“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.
“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”
You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.
“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”
“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”
“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”
“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.
You freeze. “How did you—”
He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.
“Right,” you mutter weakly.
Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.
He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.
Your throat tightens. “I know.”
There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”
You blink. “We?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”
Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.
“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”
You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.
“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”
Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.
“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”
Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.
Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.
He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.
“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.
You nod.
He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.
“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.
“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.
It’s a lie. A weak one.
Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.
“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.
“A bit.”
“How much is a bit?”
You hesitate. “More than a bit.”
He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”
“Yes.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.
“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.
“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”
“Adrenaline,” he says simply.
You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”
You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”
“I feel stupid,” you whisper.
His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”
“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”
“That doesn’t make it smart.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”
You swallow. Your chest tightens.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.
“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”
You don’t argue. You can’t.
Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.
Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.
Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.
“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.
Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.
By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.
He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.
“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.
You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”
The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.
You’re watching Jack without meaning to.
The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.
“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.
He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”
“That I didn’t tell you.”
There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.
You blink. “Really?”
“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”
That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.
“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.
“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”
“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”
You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.
His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”
“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”
“I know. I’ll try,” he says.
Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.
Jack stares at him. “Really?”
Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.
“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”
There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.
Buddy allows it. Barely.
You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.
“I’m really tired,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”
Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.
“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.
Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”
Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.
All three of you tangled together in the quiet.
— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !
ALL PITT: @shawnhatosysrightbicep @goldfishenthusiast67 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @aureliacalista @sheridamn
ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath
JACK ABBOT: @moonlitblossomsofthesun @nebuleuseeeeee @nyxmoretti @oliviarw3
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
Can we please stop making virgin/innocent readers act like literal toddlers. Thanks.
Virgins still have a general if not very clear concept of how sex works, we're not fucking idiots.❤️ And stop making "bookworm!" Readers only read smut, that's not book worm, thats smut addict. You guys are so annoying. "Oh it hurts! It won't fit!" *Sob sob sob* "you're so pure, I don't want to ruin you" Actually shut the fuck up. Virgin doesn't mean stupid baby who has no basic or full concept of human anatomy.
-Saying as a virgin who knows more about sex than most people in my state and have never attended sex ed.
Innocent reader in general makes me mad because literally anyone over the age of 13 has a general understanding of sex unless you're literally sheltered with no access to the internet and that's neglect. Stop promoting age play even if it's unintentional, it's disgusting and misogynistic. Stop making virgins sound brain dead just because they haven't had sex. And it is that serious because people are gonna think that's how we act in person.
AND STOP ASSOCIATING VIRGINS WITH CHRISTIANITY. You guys are so fucking weird and not in a good way. Do I know this is mean? Yes. Do I care? No, because most of you are in your late 20's-30's typing up this shit and should know the difference between realistic first time and the misogynistic expectations first time. Also virgins masterbate, so I don't wanna hear "what would you know!"
When I see “bambi!bunni!prey!bimbo!clumsy!petite! Innocent!reader! “ without her “ master!non-con!dark fic!hunter!experienced!whorish!( insert character ) “ so genuinely slime her out
reader having date night with baran in that outfit..... so many thoughts
ohmygod are you in my brain, anon……
gn!reader . nsfw / suggestive , mdni .
being crammed into the back booth at a restaurant… baran’s satin burgundy dress riding up her thighs every time she shifts. and your eyes keeps going back to where the thin fabric clings to the curve of her breasts, nipples faintly visible, and you can’t stop picturing your mouth on them, you’re almost drooling from the thought alone.
her loose curls falling heavy against her shoulders, you can’t stop staring at her rings either, thick and cool, imagining them dragging slow down your stomach, pressing hard between your legs where you’re very aware of how soaked you currently are. your pulse is already hammering and you haven’t even touched her yet.
she’s mid-sentence about some new er protocol, voice low and steady when she notice you staring and her mouth quirks, a small tilt. “you’re not listening to a word i’m saying,” she casually calls you out, which makes you blush.
her thumb rubs slow circles over the back of your hand, the edge of her ring scraping your skin just enough to make your breath catch. you swallow hard, heat flooding straight to your core, and mutter some excuse about the food being good but it comes out wrecked. baran’s mouth curves, small and knowing, and she leans in so the satin pulls tighter across her chest. you can smell her perfume and it makes you throb so hard you have to press your thighs together.
the waiter clears the plates and she thanks him with a calm little nod, but the second he’s gone her dark eyes lock on yours. she reaches across and trails one finger along the inside of your wrist slowly, like she’s checking your pulse. you feel it everywhere, that cool metal promising exactly how it would feel sliding inside you later, curling just right while she watches your face.
your whole body is tight and aching, slick already soaking through your underwear, and you’re this close to yanking her out of the booth and shoving her against the first wall you find. instead you just place a hand on her thigh under the table, thumb digging into the soft skin where the dress ends, and baran exhales short and sharp through her nose. she doesn’t pull away. she just squeezes your hand once, and you can tell she’s counting down the minutes until she can take you back home as well.
summary: dr whitaker thinks he has a pretty good handle on his crush on you, until he sees you out of your scrubs for the first time.
pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker
warnings/tags: dennis being the little nervous cutie that he is, alcohol consumption, flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you'd expect from the pitt!
notes: i can't believe it's taken me this long to write for the pitt, I love it sm <3
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
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masterlist
Growing up on a farm, Dennis Whitaker learnt early on the benefits of effectively compartmentalising things.
Like a flick of a switch, he could shut off one part of his brain when he went into work and could switch it back on when he stepped out of the PTMC doors.
It was a skill that served him well as an ER resident. A place where you were literally in sink or swim, life or death situations for 12 hours straight.
Steady hands, steady voice, steady mind. No matter how intense things got, how quickly he needed to react, he handled it.
Which is why his very manageable, very under-control crush on you had never been a problem.
He wasn't completely unaffected of course, he wasn't a total robot.
His heart rate still picked up when you smiled at him from across the pitt, his eyes sometimes lingered just a touch too long when you laughed, his pulse thrummed in his ears when you teased him and said his name coyly - Whitaker - like you knew just how much of an effect you had on him.
He noticed little things too, like the way you pushed your hair back with your wrist when you were gloved up and stressed, how you would bite your lip when you were locked in on charting, or the way you would anonymously (or at least thought you did) leave snacks in the break room for your colleagues.
But it was fine.
You and your radiant smile were completely compartmentalised.
Filed neatly away under do not open - things that will get me fired or someone killed or both if I think about it at work.
Until tonight.
Javadi's 21st birthday - organised by Princess, Perlah and Dana despite her weeks of protesting against it.
He almost hadn't come.
The clinical side of his brain warned him that mixing coworkers with alcohol and personal time was a bad move - teetering way too close to the 'friend' sphere - which would make it all the more harder for him to engage his compartmentalisation switch.
"You literally live with me, I think that ship has sailed Huckleberry." Santos had remarked when he'd confided in her about his doubts.
Amy had texted him that afternoon asking him if he was coming up to the farm. His thumbs had hovered over his phone, willing up the courage to text Javadi to say he wasn't going to be able to make it.
Then, his phone buzzed.
His heart leapt.
A message from you that simply read:
You're coming tonight, right?
An hour later, he was walking to the bar with Santos, trying to keep any thoughts of you shoved firmly in your assigned compartment.
When he stepped inside, he spotted the group instantly. Milling around in a corner clustered around a bunch of high tables, a set of slightly deflated pink balloons numbered '21' floating half heartedly above them.
A chorus of greetings met them as they approached. Dennis tried not to think about how weird it was to see everyone out of uniform, glowing in that post-shift, one drink in kind of buzz.
"Drink?" Santos turned to him.
He nodded, suddenly eager to be on the same level as his colleagues. They had just made their way to the bar when a set of wolf whistles and cheers erupted from their area.
"Watch out Pittsburgh!"
He turned to locate the source of their ruckus.
And then everything - every neatly labelled, meticulously stored thought - came crashing down around him.
You were not in scrubs.
Logically he had known that would be the case. People did not wear scrubs to bars. You were not going to be an exception. He had psyched himself up for this exact sight on the walk over.
But seeing it in person was something he could never have prepared himself for.
Your hair was down and styled, not tied back in that purely practical way he had grown so used to. Your makeup sculpted your features in a way that made you look even more angelic than usual.
Your outfit fit your body perfectly, hugging you in places and curves he had never dared to let himself think about, had trained himself very deliberately never to follow.
He found himself silently thanking the inventor of scrubs for designing them to be so baggy, because if this is how you looked all the time - he wouldn't be able to control himself.
Heck, who was he kidding, how was he ever going to control himself again now that he'd seen you like this?
He watched as you crossed the crowded bar, oblivious to the hungry looks of random men that you passed. A huge grin was on your face as you twirled around to show off your outfit to the group, causing another huge bout of cheers.
There was no clipped efficiency, no fluorescent lighting washing you out, no neat, clinical version he could pretend was easier to ignore.
This was what everyone else outside of the pitt had the privilege of seeing.
It felt almost wrong, like he was seeing a version of you that he hadn't been cleared access for.
"You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth Fuckleberry."
Dennis' cheeks bloomed violent red.
"W-what?" He stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from you.
"Trust me, I have eyes too. I get it." Santos continued, her gaze flickering over to you. "But she is so out of your league."
He huffed. "Gee thanks. Want to tell me something I don't know?" He grumbled before pressing his drink to his lips and downing it in one go.
"Atta boy Fuckleberry." Santos slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Drown your sorrows with me."
"Why, Garcia not paying you enough attention?"
Santos shot him a glare. "Watch it or-" She cut herself off as she glanced over Whittaker's shoulder.
"Oh shit - incoming."
Dennis turned to see you making your way towards the bar.
"I gotta pee, good luck farmboy." Before he could protest, Santos pushed off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.
By the time he turned back around, you had spotted him.
Your smile widened when you locked eyes.
You slipped through the crowd toward him like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you hadn’t just fundamentally altered his understanding of reality.
"Whitaker!" You called out by way of greeting.
God. It was somehow even worse outside the pitt.
"I was worried you were going to bail." You teased as you slid in beside him at the bar. You were so close he could smell your perfume, see the flecks of mascara painting your lashes, the pink sheen of your lip gloss.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He cleared his throat, motioning for the bartender to try and stop the red from creeping back into his cheeks. "Yeah. I um- yeah. Do you want something to drink?"
Smooth.
"Please, I'll have whatever you're having."
You leant an arm against the bar, angling your body towards him. You tilted your head slightly, your eyes roaming his body as he ordered for you in a way that made his pulse trip over itself.
And then you grinned.
"You know, you scrub off quite well Whitaker."
Dennis was pretty sure there was a full, tangible moment where his brain fully short-circuited.
You had to be teasing him, surely. You'd probably made the same joke to every single one of his colleagues, who had all probably laughed in a way that only you could illicit from them.
He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's uh.. that's not how that phrase usually goes."
"I know." You said easily. "I'm reinventing it."
"Right."
"I have a theory." You continued. He watched as you twisted around, pressing your back into the wooden edge of the bar.
"You either look way better in scrubs or way better out of scrubs, there's no in between."
You gestured to your table.
"Take Robby for example, can you imagine that man in anything other than scrubs? I saw him out on a run once and I can confirm, it was disturbing."
Dennis let out a genuine chuckle at that.
"Ok, I like this game." He nodded, feeling himself relax slightly without being under your intense gaze. "Javadi's an out of scrubs for sure."
Your grin widened at his willingness to go along with it. "Exactly. I never thought I'd see her part with that purple sweater."
Dennis laughed again, watching out of the corner of his eye at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled.
"So uh- which one am I then?" He asked sheepishly just as the bartender plonked your drinks down on the sticky surface.
You grabbed your drink before you turned your attention back to him. You took a sip from your straw as your eyes flitted up and down his figure, a smirk forming on your lips.
"I haven't decided yet."
Dennis gulped.
"Thanks for the drink Whitaker."
He watched helplessly as you walked away.
All composure and restraint had flown out the window. He was a man completely undone, like putty in your gentle hands.
"What did I miss?" Santos reappeared at his side, surveying the dance floor with eagle eyes.
"She... she said I scrub off quite well." He murmured, his eyes never leaving your figure as you animatedly chatted with Mohan.
"Huh?"
"She said everyone either suits scrubs or normal clothes more, so I asked her which one I was."
"And?"
"She said she hadn't decided yet."
Santos looked over at him in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god."
Dennis' neck snapped to look at her. "What?"
"Huckleberry, she was fucking flirting with you!"
"What?" He repeated, blinking in a few times. "No she wasn't."
"Uh yeah - she was." Santos insisted. "What you just told me? That's a fucking line. She lined you!"
"No I-" Dennis stammered. "There's- there's no way she was flirting with me. Aren't you the one who said she was way out of my league anyway?"
"I did." Santos nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "But even geniuses can be wrong on the rare occasion."
She turned to face him fully, her face completely serious. "This is your chance."
"What-"
"Go flirt with her! Ask her out! Do something!"
"B-but I-" He cut himself off as he glanced up, watching you twirl Javadi around.
"If you don't Huckleberry, I will."
One look at her face and Dennis knew she was fully serious.
-
As the night wore on, people began siphoning into the 'I have work at 7am tomorrow' and the 'I have a day off tomorrow' camps.
Mohan and Ellis were doing shots off a strangers stomach. Mel and Langdon were animatedly discussion the upcoming renaissance fair. Santos was making a point of flirting with any girl within earshot of Garcia.
Dennis had found himself and you alone, clustered together on stools at one of the high tables. He tried to ignore the way your shoulder casually brushed against his every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.
"I think Javadi is going to have a headache for about a week." You remarked. "I'm also pretty sure I just saw her sneak into the bathroom with Matteo."
"We've all been there."
You raised a brow.
"What, hooking up with co-workers?"
The tips of his ears turned pink. "No-no I-"
"Relax, I'm teasing." You laughed.
He let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, right."
The thumping bass enveloped the two of you, preventing the possibility of awkward silence.
"You're quieter than usual." You observed after a few moments.
"I-" He cut himself off before he tried to deny it as you looked at him imploringly.
Who was he kidding? You would see right through him, you were way too good at reading people. He saw it everyday at work. It was a skill he'd always admired in you, your ability to coax the truth out of patients, but right now he found himself cursing your keen eye.
"Yeah, sorry." Was what he ended up saying.
You frowned. "You okay?"
He hesitated, then exhaled.
"Yeah I think just seeing everyone and you like this kind of threw me off."
You stilled, just slightly.
"Like what?"
"Like..." He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Like not in clinical grade hospital lighting."
That earned a quiet laugh from you.
He didn't know why he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Santos' words from earlier, maybe it was the way you'd ignored every single man in here tonight who had tried to hit on you and only seemed to want to talk to him, and he couldn’t help but hold onto the smallest spark of hope that it meant something.
"You um-" He gestured vaguely to your figure, immediately regretting it. "You just look... different."
He winced as the awkward words rolled off his tongue.
But instead of the teasing look he'd expected, your expression shifted into something gentler.
"Different....good?"
He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his drink for a second before gathering himself.
"Yeah." He looked up at you, his voice quieter. "Different good."
Your smile widened.
The familiar bass of Maneater started thumping through the bar speakers.
The sound of your name being called made the two of you break eye contact.
A slightly dishevelled Javadi, apparently having been summoned from the bathroom by Nelly Furtado, was grinning at you.
“This is our song!”
You and Dennis laughed as she pointed at you, demanding your presence on the dance floor immediately.
“Sorry, duty calls.”
Dennis pressed his two fingers to his head in mock salute. “Good luck soldier.”
You grinned, giving him a salute back before going to join the small dance circle that had started to form.
Dennis’ eyes followed you all the way there.
-
As the night wore on, the herd thinned.
Santos and Garcia had conveniently left at the same time. Abbott had muttered something about sunrise yoga before vanishing. Princess and Perlah were slow dancing in the corner.
It seemed you were next in line for departure. Dennis watched from his chair as you started doing your rounds, handing out obligatory goodbyes.
Dennis turned as Robby cleared his throat this throat beside him.
“You know, she told me she walked here.”
Dennis followed Robby’s gaze, leading directly back to you.
“Lives just a couple of blocks away.”
“Uh… ok.”
“So… she’ll probably walk home.” He spoke slowly, like he was describing some incredibly complex medical term to one of his patients.
“And she’d probably appreciate it if someone were to.. oh I don’t know…” His lips quirked ever so slightly, “… offer to walk her home?”
“Oh.” Dennis balked, jerking his head over to look at you as realisation hit him. “Right yeah- that’s a great idea.” He shot up of his seat so quickly that the table shuddered, half drunk, forgotten drinks sloshed in their glasses.
“Thanks Robby.”
Robby's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Dennis hastily make his way towards you.
“Kids.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.
You were rifling through your purse, making sure you had everything as Dennis approached you.
“Hey.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You heading home?”
“Yeah.” You sighed. “Figured I should try and get at least four hours sleep before my shift, I don’t think it would be ethical otherwise.”
Dennis chuckled. “Yeah I feel that.”
There was a slight pause before.
“So, how are you getting home?”
“Oh I was just going to walk. I only live a couple blocks that way.” You gestured vaguely behind you.
“Right.” Dennis nodded. A heartbeat passed.
“Would you um- would you like me to walk you home? You can totally say no.”
You smiled softly. “Yeah I’d love that, thanks.”
He shot you a tight lipped smile back as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Great ok, well we can head off whenever you’re ready.”
You glanced over Dennis’ shoulder to see Robby watching the two of you.
“See you tomorrow Robby!”
Robby raised a hand in passive acknowledgment. “Later kiddo.”
The Pittsburgh weather had decided to be kind to the both of you as you spilled out onto the lamplit street. A warm, gentle breeze lapped at the two of you as you began the short walk to your apartment.
You made small talk, mostly about work, giggling about the crazy patients you'd both had recently, until you came to a reluctant stop at your doorstep.
Things felt calmer out here, away from the loud music and the preying eyes of co-workers.
“This is me.” You gestured to your building.
Dennis felt his heart sink. He thought he would have more time. More time to build up the courage to finally say something.
How was it that he could intubate a critical patient without breaking a sweat, but the thought of saying anything remotely risky to you was enough to turn him into a quivering, spiralling mess.
You peered up at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Happy to.”
You observed him for a few moments.
Dennis wondered if you could tell exactly what he was thinking. Wondered if you knew the effect that you had on him. If you could tell that he was frantically flicking through a list of things to say that could stop this moment from ever ending.
“You’re giving me that look again.”
“What look?”
Your smile curved. “Like you’re still trying to get used to seeing me not under clinical grade hospital lighting.”
Dennis chuckled weakly. “Sorry for being weird tonight I…” He sighed as he looked at you.
As the soft light of the street lamp hit you, Dennis felt something unfurl beneath his ribs.
You were so beautiful, both in your scrubs and out of them. Neither one was better than the other. One would not exist without the other. Both sides made you whole, culminating in one perfect, sweet, smart person.
And now he had seen both sides, he didn't think that he could ever live without either of them again.
That feeling swelled in him, creating a tidal wave finally ready to knock down those barricades he'd held so stubbornly in place for so long.
He met your eyes then, properly, and whatever nerves he had seemed to settle into something steadier, the realisation grounding him.
"I've spent a long time trying to pretend that you don't exist outside of work." He finally said.
"Why's that?"
There was something so open about your face that made his remaining walls crumble, made him desperately want to spill all of his thoughts at your altar.
"Because... because I knew that you were someone I really, really wanted to know outside of work." He confessed.
"And uh-" He gestured to you. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore. Actually, I think it might make me go insane if I keep trying."
You smiled softly.
"You know how you asked me earlier whether I thought you were a scrubs or no scrubs type?"
Dennis nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation.
"Well, I've been waiting all night for you to ask me again. I uh- I had this whole thing planned out, I was going to say something lame like, 'I don't know, I think I'd need to see you a few more times not in your scrubs to make an assessment.'"
"Holy shit." Dennis blinked. "You were flirting with me."
That made you burst out into a fit of giggles, relieving some of the tense energy crackling between the two of you.
"Yeah no kidding. Trin said I was going to have to lay it on pretty thick for you to get it, but I didn't realise how thick she meant."
"Wait-" He stared down at you, eyes wide. "Santos knew about this?"
You nodded.
"I'm going to kill her."
"Wait no, don't be mad at her - I swore her to secrecy." You said hastily. "I only asked her for advice after none of my more subtle attempts worked. I figured since you literally live with her, she'd know you pretty well."
Dennis thought his brain was about to implode.
"What... what other subtle attempts?"
For the first time tonight, Dennis finally caught a hint of colour in your cheeks.
You chuckled sheepishly. "I don't know... I always made an excuse to consult with you, or to take a break at the same time. And didn't you think it was weird that I started bringing in your favourite snacks every time you mentioned what you liked?"
"Wait - you don't like Doritos? I thought you said you loved them."
You shrugged. "More of a Fritos girl."
Anyone who walked past them must have thought that Dennis resembled a stunned mullet.
"I'm an idiot." He stated matter-of-factly.
"You're not an idiot." You reassured him. "You're just-"
"Blind? Stupid? A combination of both?" He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into his hands.
"I'm so sorry I- I was so focused on keeping you off my mind and convincing myself that I didn't like you that I had total tunnel vision at work."
"It's ok, really." You insisted. "I can get so emotional at work." You huffed. "But you...you're always so composed and clinical and precise." You cut yourself off before you started rambling.
Dennis' heart hammered in his chest.
"Really?"
"Really. I wish I was more like you at work."
Dennis' brow furrowed. How could you not see that you were perfect?
"What do you mean? You're a literal ball of sunshine at work. Everyone loves you, you manage to make the grumpiest of patients smile. Jesus Christ I'm pretty sure I even saw Park the Shark crack a smile once-"
"-I think he was just trying not to sneeze."
He glared at you playfully. "It was a smile...by Park's standards anyway." He insisted. "You light up every room you're in. And you just get patients. If anything, I wish I was more like you."
This time, a fully fledged blush flushed your cheeks.
"Well then…I guess we balance each other out."
Dennis smiled, "I guess we do."
"And for the record." Dennis continued, "That's one of the many reasons why I.. you know..." He bit his lip as he glanced down at his feet. "...like you."
He looked up at you shyly, his nerves making his stomach churn. There was a pause. Then you whispered your next words so quietly that Dennis almost missed it.
"I like you too, Whitaker."
You eyed each other for a few moments, like you were both trying to figure out the new energy that swirled between the two of you.
It was uncharted territory, but it was something new and exciting, something that you both wanted to explore.
You only broke your eye contact to glance down at your phone, wincing at the time.
"I really should get to bed." You eventually said reluctantly.
"Yeah, me to." Dennis studied you for a moment. "I guess I'll see you today?"
You chuckled. "I guess you will."
A small silence settled between you.
Not awkward.
Just...comfortable, full.
"Good night Whitaker." You finally said, your eyes bright despite your sleep deprivation.
"Good night." He replied softly.
Dennis waited until you were up the stairs, behind the safety of a locked door and out of sight before he started his walk home.
You didn't need to know that his apartment was in the complete opposite direction of yours, meaning he had to double back past the very bar you had just been in.
As he approached the bar, he noticed a familiar figure standing by the curb.
Robby looked up from his phone as Whitaker approached. He peered over his glasses, observing the biggest grin he had ever seen on Whitaker plastered across his face.
"You get our bundle of sunshine home safely?"
"Delivered without a scratch."
"Alright, well I'll see you bright and early."
Whittaker's grin somehow widened as he patted Robby on the shoulder as he walked past.
"Thanks Robby."
This time, Robby couldn't fight the smile that appeared on his features.
"Anytime kiddo."
-
Five hours later, you shuffled through the ED doors, clinging to a double strength red bull like it was your life blood.
Shen rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you.
"Well well well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
You shot him a weak smile, pressing the can to your lips.
"What? No witty reply?"
"I don't have the brain capacity."
Shen chuckled, twisting around to grab something off one of the nurses desks.
“Here. This might help.”
He watched as your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sight of an extra large Dunkin iced coffee.
You immediately threw your measly substitute in the bin beside you.
“You are a lifesaver.”
“Actually it’s pronounced doctor.”
You let that joke slide as you eagerly took a sip, resisting the urge to let out a moan. If you could, you would have this stuff injected straight into your veins.
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“Anytime. Oh and good luck today, it’s a shit show.” He called out after you.
“As opposed to what?” You called back, giving him one final wave before making your way to your locker.
You went to keypad in your code, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. You were the worst offender when it came to leaving your locker unlocked, much to Dana's despair.
You froze when you yanked open the door.
Placed unassumingly on top of your things, was a packet of Fritos.
Upon closer inspection, you realised there was a small note attached to it, fastened with what appeared to be surgical floss contorted into a delicate looking bow.
You glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before leaning forward and carefully unfolding the note, revealing scrawling handwriting.
Figured you would need some sustenance to get you through this shift.
P.S I've completed my initial assessment. My findings are that you scrub up just as well as you scrub off.
P.P.S To really make sure, I think I need run some further observations. Dinner this Saturday?
You bit your lip, unable to contain the wide grin that spread across your face.
Unbeknownst to you, Dennis was peaking through the glass, scrutinising every micro expression that appeared on your features.
A smile just as wide as yours spread across his face as he watched you fold the note back up neatly and tuck it into the front pocket of your scrubs.
Dennis subconsciously filed you under a different tab.
Except this time, it was labelled something far more dangerous.
High risk, once in a lifetime opportunity - proceed anyway.
He allowed himself to stare at you for moment before making his way towards the centre of the pitt for the day shift handover.
"Whitaker!"
He turned around, his heart rate increasing at the sight of you making your way towards him.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
The two of you naturally fell into step with one another.
"Ready for another day in paradise?"
He glanced over at you to see you peering up at him.
"With you? Always."
Your smiles widened.
Then, very deliberately, he turned off the switch.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
life in the 2000s means flip phones, low rise jeans, a chaotic friendgroup, and a cocky skater boyfriend who climbs your window when he needs to apologize.
pairing: bf!riki x fem!reader ⭑ ft. friendgroup Enhypen
🗯️ vaeh’s notes: the fic is finally here! you already KNOW i had to be cliche and make him climb through your window muhahah. I also wasn’t sure whether this was the right time to post this with everything going on atm, still posted it, hoping it helps cheer you guys up a little! Take care xx #enhypenis7
⊹
There were seven of them.
Seven loud, annoying ass, inseparable boys who took up too much space at every party, every hallway, and every parking lot. They were always together, skateboards under their arms, half-finished coca-cola cans in their hands, laughter echoing too loudly through college apartments that definitely couldn’t fit all of them.
You really weren’t supposed to be part of them. Even thought they we’re weird at first.
The first time they saw you, you were standing alone at some shady off-campus house party.
You were leaning against the kitchen counter in low rise jeans and a baby tee, flipping your pink bedazzled Motorola shut and open again because you didn’t know what else to do with your hands.
It was Sunghoon who noticed first. “Why is she by herself? She looks nice.” And then all seven of them ended up standing in front of you like a mildly intimidating boyband.
You don’t remember how, but that night you were adopted into their friendgroup.
You’d been with them ever since.
Especially Riki.
—
You and Riki were never stable.
You were either disgustingly in love or dramatically broken up. There was no in-between.
You’d ‘break up’ over anything:
Because he didn’t call you back fast enough. You helped another guy with his homework. He didn’t let you borrow his clothes. You told him smoking was unattractive.
And once because spilled an entire cup of Sprite on your Juicy Couture bag, which you spent your entire salary on.
You cried like a baby. He’d rolled his eyes and said, “It’s just a bag. Get a new one.”
You didn’t speak to him for a week.
The friend group suffered… Riki got quieter. You got meaner. The air felt heavy every time you were in the same room.
Until Jungwon snapped.
“I can’t do this,” he’d said, rubbing his temples. “You two are exhausting. Apologize. Now.”
You tried to act careless but you both folded in under five minutes and ended up in your bedroom.
—
You hated being called popular, but you weren’t invisible.
People knew you.
You had that early-2000s glow. Glossy lips, hoop earrings, low-rise everything. Professors remembered your name. Girls whispered about you. Boys stared a little too long.
Riki? He had baggy jeans sagged so low you could always see which brand of underwear he was wearing, Calvin Klein most days, sometimes something knockoff that you’d tease him about constantly.
“Pull them up,” you’d hiss in the middle of the mall, grabbing the waistband of his jeans and yanking it higher. “You’re embarrassing me.”
He’d just grin, completely unbothered.
“Why? You don’t like my boxers?”
“I don’t like that everyone else can see them.”
He’d lean closer, smoke still lingering faintly on his breath. “I don’t care.”
And then he’d glance down at your hips.
Low rise jeans. A tiny strip of pink lace peeking out when you moved. Belly piercing glinting under the mall lights.
“Oh,” he’d mock, tugging lightly at the strip of your thong on your hip, making it snap back. “And that’s modest?”
You’d swat his hand away. “That’s fashion.”
“Mine is too.”
“You look homeless.”
“You look like a hooker.”
“I do not. You asshole.”
You’d both be smiling by the end of it.
—
It’s one of those perfect late mid-August afternoons.
The sun is low and orange. Everything smells like hot pavement, sunscreen, and cigarettes. The entire city feels outside, kids with scraped knees, girls in denim skirts, boys shirtless with skateboards tucked under their arms.
The skatepark is loud.
Wheels scraping. Laughter echoing. Music playing from someone’s brand new portable speaker.
The whole friend group is there and Riki insisted you’d come too.
His white tank top clinging slightly to his back from sweat. Wired headphones dangling out of the pocket from his jeans. A cigarette tucked behind his ear, which you hate.
Heeseung is beside him, attempting something reckless off a skating ramp.
They take turns.
They hype each other up.
They shove each other when one of them almost eats concrete.
You’re sitting on top of the half-pipe, legs dangling over the edge, flip-flops hanging loosely off your toes. The smallest top imaginable clings to your torso more lace than fabric, blue jeans sit dangerously on your hips, held in place by a big bedazzled belt.
Riki had absolutely hated the top.
“That’s not a shirt,” he said earlier.
“It is.”
“It looks like a bra.”
“It’s hot outside.”
“It’s hot for me too.”
“Then take your shirt off.”
He gave you a glare, you walked ahead anyway.
Now you’re bored.
Bored and slightly irritate because you’ve already watched him light up two cigarettes.
Two.
And you hate when he smokes. Hate the smell. Hate the way it makes his voice raspier. Hate how casual he is about it.
And he knows that, but he does it anyway. Which makes it worse.
He skates toward you suddenly, rolling to a stop between your knees. One hand presses to the ramp beside your thigh, the other still holding his board.
“You look grumpy,” he says, squinting up at you against the sun.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He leans forward and kisses your forehead anyway.
Then he pushes off again before you can respond.
You sigh.
You’re melting. You’re bored. And you’re watching your boyfriend risk concussions for fun.
Amazing.
Then Heeseung has an even more amazing idea.
“Teach her something,” he says, nodding toward you.
Riki looks up immediately.
You narrow your eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He’s already skating toward you again.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand. “It’s easy.”
“It’s not easy.”
“It is.”
“I’m wearing slippers.”
“Then take them off.”
You gasp like he’s insane.
He grins.
“Baby, I’ll hold you.”
Everyone’s watching now.
Jay whistles from somewhere near the fence. Sunghoon pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. Sunoo is already smiling like something crazy embarrassing is about to happen.
“If I fall and ruin my outfit,” you warn, pointing a manicured finger at him, “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
You step onto the skateboard and it wobbles instantly.
You grab his hands.
“Why is it moving?”
“Because it has wheels.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
He positions himself in front of you, holding both your hands firmly.
“Okay,” he says, focused now. “Just bend your knees a little. Then pop the tail and slide your foot up.”
“Pop what?”
“The back.”
“I don’t know what that means Riki.”
He laughs softly.
“It’s fine. I’ve got you.”
You glare. “You better.”
He counts you down.
“One. Two—”
You jump.
The board flips sideways instead of up.
Your foot lands wrong.
His grip slips and suddenly you’re falling. You hit the concrete with a very embarrassing thud.
There’s a split second of silence, then there’s Laughter.
Sunoo’s laugh is the worst. High and dramatic and absolutely unnecessary.
You sit up slowly, hair in your face, pride completely shattered.
Riki is crouching immediately. “Are you okay?”
You stare at him.
“Did you catch me?”
“I tried—”
“You did not.”
He bites back a smile.
You gasp.
“Don’t you dare laugh.”
He fails. Just a little chuckle, but that’s it for you.
You stand up, brushing off your jeans dramatically.
“I’m done.”
“Baby—”
“No.”
You grab your slippers and stomp back toward the half-pipe.
Sunoo is still giggling when you sit down beside him.
“I’d like to see you try next time,” you snap.
Sunoo chuckles. “I would never fall like that.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I have natural balance.”
“You have natural dramatics.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You wanna bet?”
You both dissolve into a stupid little argument about who would survive longer on a skateboard.
It almost distracts you from Riki.
Almost.
Until you glance over and see some random guy offering Riki a joint.
And Riki… takes it?
Your stomach drops.
He laughs at something the stranger says. Throws his head back slightly. That boxy grin that made you like him in the first place.
Your jaw tightens.
Sunoo is still talking beside you.
“…and then I’d definitely land it because— helloo? Are you even listening?”
You aren’t. Your eyes are locked on Riki.
Then a girl loses control of her board and swerves straight into him.
She stumbles forward and Riki catches her.
One hand at her waist on instinct.
You feel it before you even think, that little sting in your chest.
He lets her go immediately.
“You good?” he asks casually.
She laughs. “Yeah, thanks.”
She lingers half a second too long.
That’s it. That’s your last straw. You’re already on your feet. Sunoo reaches for your wrist. “Wait—”
Too late. You walk fast, hips swaying, chin lifted, eyes low and dangerous.
Riki doesn’t even notice until you’re right in front of him.
You grab his arm and tug him away from the small group of strangers.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He blinks. “What?”
“I said what do you think you’re doing.” you repeat, quieter but sharper.
He genuinely looks confused. “Nothing?”
You look at the joint still between his fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, you reach up, snatch it from him, drop it to the ground and grind it into the concrete with your heel.
“Are you serious right now?” he mutters.
“Oh, I’m serious.” you snap.
He runs a hand through his hair. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?” Your voice rises. “You’ve smoked, like, five cigarettes today. And now this? Oh and you’re just touching girls?”
His head jerks back. “Touching girls?”
“You literally had your hands all over her waist.”
“She ran into me.”
“And you had to grab her like that?”
“She was falling.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Keep it down,” he says under his breath. “Not everyone needs to know you’re mad at me again.”
That does it.
“Oh, I’m embarrassing you?!” you fire back. “You weren’t embarrassed five seconds ago.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re making a scene.”
“You’re smoking in front of me after I told you I hate it.”
He exhales hard. “It’s my choice.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s called free will,” he adds, clearly irritated now.
You stare at him.
“Right,” you say flatly. “So you just do whatever you want.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were all up on her.”
“She bumped into me.”
“You didn’t have to hold her like that.”
He scoffs. “Like what?”
“Like—” You stop yourself before you say something dramatic.
He shakes his head. “You’re overreacting.”
You feel your chest tighten.
“Am I?” you ask quietly.
“Yes.”
Silence hangs between you. Then he makes the mistake.
He gestures vaguely at you.
“And don’t act like you’re not out here in that top all day.”
Your eyes widen.
“What about my top?”
“It’s too revealing.”
You laugh once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“So now this is my fault?”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’re just saying what?” you cut him off. “That I deserve it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But you thought it.”
He looks frustrated now. “You can’t tell me what I thought.”
“You can’t tell me I’m overreacting.”
“You are tho.”
Your face goes cold.
“Okay.”
You step back.
“Okay,” you repeat.
He frowns slightly. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
He grabs your wrist once.
“Don’t leave.”
“Whatever.” You say and you turn and walk away.
You expect footsteps. You expect him to call your name. You expect him to follow you like he always does.
You walk past the fence, the group of boys, past Sunoo’s wide eyes. And still nothing.
You finally glance back and your stomach drops.
He’s back on his board like nothing happened.
Like he isn’t supposed to chase you.
And that hurts more than the cigarette, more than the girl, more than the argument. Because in your head, he’s supposed to follow you and beg you to stay. But instead he just skates.’
—
By nine o’clock it’s almost completely dark, the last bit of orange fading out of the sky. Your room is lit by the glow of your TV, candles and the small lamp on your nightstand. You’re curled up in bed in soft pajamas, a plate of brownies balanced on your stomach while Clueless plays for what might be the hundredth time.
Your flip phone has been buzzing the last half hour.
Four missed calls.
Ten texts.
You’ve read none of them, you refuse to.
Then you hear A small tick against your window.
You pause mid-chew.
Another one.
And then a third.
You sit up slowly, pushing the plate aside and sliding out of bed. The floor is cool under your feet as you walk toward the window and pull the blinds apart.
Riki is standing in the street below, hands filled with tiny rocks to throw, looking up at your room like he’s been waiting for you to appear. When he sees your face, he waves casually, like this is completely normal behavior.
You stare at him for two seconds.
Then you shut the blinds and walk straight back to your bed.
Your phone buzzes again immediately.
You don’t check it.
A few seconds pass.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
You exhale sharply and shuffle back to the window, throwing the blinds open this time and sliding the window up.
“What?” you hiss down at him.
“You need to let me in,” he says like it’s obvious.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But I want to talk to you.”
“Too bad.”
He steps closer to the house, lowering his voice even though no one is outside. “Please, baby. I wanna make it up to you.”
You cross your arms against the windowsill. “Make what up? You didn’t do anything, remember?”
“Come on,” he tries again. “Are you really gonna let me stand out here looking like a fool?”
“Yes,” you say immediately.
He stares up at you, half offended, half impressed.
You hold his gaze for another second, then slide the window shut and drop the blinds again before he can argue. You get back into bed, pull the covers up, grab your brownie plate, and press play like nothing happened.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet.
Then you hear something strange. Not rocks this time, but a scraping sound. A shuffle. Something brushing against the side of the house.
You freeze.
The sound gets closer.
Your heart jumps as you sit up again just in time to see two hands grab onto your windowsill from the outside.
And then Riki’s stupid face appears.
You let out a sharp gasp and scramble out of bed as he hoists himself up, creased sneakers braced against the brick. He looks mildly proud of himself, slightly out of breath, hair falling into his eyes.
You slide the window open with a dramatic sigh.
“Seriously, Riki?”
He doesn’t answer. He just swings one leg over the sill and climbs into your room like he’s done it a hundred times before, landing lightly on your floor.
“You’re insane,” you whisper-yell, shoving the window shut behind him. “My dad is literally going to kill the both of us if he finds out you climbed through my window.”
“He won’t,” Riki says easily.
“And you smell like smoke,” you add, wrinkling your nose. “If he comes in here—”
“He won’t,” he repeats, completely unbothered.
You stand there with your arms crossed, trying to stay angry while he casually looks around your room like he’s on a tour.
He glances at you slowly, eyes dragging from your messy hair to your pajama shorts. A lazy grin spreads across his face.
“Those make your ass look good.”
Your mouth drops open. “That’s what you have to say right now?”
“I’m just being honest.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable.”
He walks past you toward your bed, picking up one of your pillows and tossing it aside before noticing the plate of brownies. Without asking, he takes one and bites into it.
“You made these yourself?” he asks through a mouthful.
“Yes.”
“They’re good.”
“They’re mine.”
He shrugs and flops down onto your bed like he belongs there, one arm behind his head, chewing lazily while Clueless continues playing in the background.
Your eye twitches.
“I’m still mad at you, Riki” you remind him.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”
You stay standing by the window like you’re guarding it, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Riki, meanwhile, looks entirely too comfortable sprawled across your bed, one hand behind his head, the other reaching lazily for another brownie.
He watches you for a moment, amused.
“Are you gonna stand there all night?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He snorts softly. “Come sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
“You weren’t nervous climbing up my house like a creep.”
He pats the mattress beside him anyway. “Baby.”
You hesitate, but you do it. Of course you do. You walk over and sit cross-legged on your bed, leaving a noticeable gap between you. You grab a pink heart-shaped pillow and hold it against your chest like armor, arms wrapped around it as a clear barrier.
Riki doesn’t look intimidated.
He slowly looks you up and down instead, gaze dragging over your shorts, your bare legs, your messy hair. He takes another bite of brownie, chews thoughtfully, then winks at you.
“Can I get a kiss?”
Your jaw drops.
“You’re unbelievable.”
You lean forward and snatch the plate of brownies out of his hands before he can grab another one. “Start talking,” you demand. “Or I swear I’m throwing you back out that window.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not strong enough for that.”
“I’ll get my dad to do it.”
He actually laughs at that, like the idea is ridiculous.
You glare harder.
He sighs dramatically and sits up, closing the space between you. The mattress dips as he moves closer.
He reaches out, resting his hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. The touch is warm and familiar, annoyingly gentle.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “For what?”
He pauses half a second too long.
“For… making you mad.”
That’s it.
That’s the apology.
He doesn’t even fully know what he’s apologizing for, the smoking, the girl, the comment about your top, he just knows you’re upset and that saying sorry usually fixes it.
You try to hold your glare, but your grip on the pillow loosens.
This is how it always goes. One of you gets mad. The other gives a weak apology. And somehow it’s enough.
He watches your expression soften, just slightly, and that tiny shift is all he needs.
“Come here,” he says quietly, patting his lap.
You roll your eyes like you’re still annoyed, but you put the pillow aside and shift forward, settling onto his lap anyway. His hands come to your waist automatically.
He leans in and kisses you.
It starts slow, almost careful, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You kiss him back, fingers curling lightly into his black hair. For a few seconds, everything feels lke the argument never happened.
Then you wrinkle your nose and pull back slightly.
“Take your jacket off.”
He blinks. “What?”
“It smells like smoke.”
He smirks immediately. “If you wanted to undress me you could just say that.”
You don’t even entertain it. You grab his shirt and kiss him again just to shut him up.
He laughs against your mouth, hands tightening at your waist, and for now, at least, the fight is over.
Until he chuckles, he pulls back just slightly, still close enough that his lips brush yours when he talks.
“You know,” he mumbles, half smiling, “Sunoo told me to apologize.”
You don’t really listen, just give him another peck on his lips. “Hm?”
He shrugs, leaning back in to kiss you again like it doesn’t matter. “He said I should just say sorry and you’d stop being mad.”
Your lips press together instead of moving with his.
“And?” you ask slowly.
“And it worked,” he says lightly. “I don’t even know what I did wrong.”
You freeze.
He tries to kiss you again, but you pull your head back this time.
“Are you kidding me right now?,” you say.
He frowns, confused at the sudden shift. “What?”
“You don’t know what you did wrong?”
He laughs a little, like this is harmless. “You were just in a mood.”
You slap his arm.
Not hard. But sharp enough.
“Ow— what was that for?”
You’re already climbing off his lap. “I actually can’t stand you.”
“What?” he repeats, genuinely lost.
“You didn’t apologize because you meant it,” you snap. “You just didn’t want me to be mad.”
“That’s the same thing y/n.”
“It’s not the same thing!”
He sits there, staring at you like you’ve switched languages mid-conversation.
You grab his arm and yank him off the bed. “Come here.”
“Why are you dragging me?”
“Because you’re leaving.”
He stumbles after you as you pull him toward the window again. “I just said sorry!”
“No, you didn’t!” you fire back, pushing the window open. “You said sorry because Sunoo told you to and because you wanted me to shut up.”
“That’s not—”
“That is exactly what it was.”
He steps closer, trying to catch your wrist, trying to pull you back in like he did before. “You’re overthinking it.”
You shove his chest lightly. “Go.”
“Can you calm down for two seconds?”
“No.”
He leans in again like kissing you will solve it, like it always does. You put your hand flat against his chest and push him back.
“Get out.”
“Baby—”
“Go!”
He exhales sharply, clearly frustrated now. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
“And you’re not making it a deal at all!” you shoot back. “Come back when you can take accountability!”
You don’t care how loud you are. You don’t care if a porch light flicks on somewhere down the street. You’re too irritated to think about neighbors.
He glares at you for a second longer before finally swinging one leg over the sill again.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters as he climbs out.
“You’re stupid!” you yell back.
“You love me though.”
“Bye Riki!”
He drops down to the ground below with a dull thud and looks back up at you. “Throw my jacket!”
You grab it off your floor and hesitate for a second.
“It smells like smoke! Wash it out!” you shout.
“Just throw it y/n, Jeez!”
You toss it out the window a little harder than necessary. It hits him in the face before falling to his arms.
“And pull your up your goddamn pants, you loser!” you yell one last time before slamming the window shut.
He stands there for a second in the dim streetlight, running a hand through his hair and muttering a curse under his breath. “Fucking hell.”
He pulls up his pants anyway, then he turns and starts walking.
Riki walks home with his jacket slung over his shoulder. His jaw is tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he kicks at small rocks along the sidewalk. He replays the entire thing in his head.
He apologized.
Didn’t he?
He showed up. Climbed yout house. Said sorry. What else was he supposed to do?
He mutters under his breath, calling the whole situation dumb, ridiculous. Calling you dramatic.
You just crawl back into bed and press play on your movie again, rather relieved than angry.
Cher’s voice fills the room.
You reach for a brownie.
Your fingers hit an empty plate.
You stare at it.
“Oh my god,” you mutter to yourself, rolling your eyes.
—
The next day feels like nothing happened, it’s a Saturday and you’re at the mall with your friends, like usual
The mall in the center of the city is loud. Every store window is screaming SALE in red letters. Somewhere above them, a movie trailer echoes from the cinema entrance. The air smells like hotdogs, sugar, perfume samples, and fryer oil all blending into one.
Every time you guys go there to “just walk around”, someone somehow leaves with an empty wallet.
The vibe between you and Riki, though? Ice cold.
You walk slightly ahead when he’s near. Conversations split awkwardly around you two. You guys barely acknowledge each others presence. Everyone notices. No one says it yet.
You split up near the giant directory map in the middle of the mall.
Heeseung, Sunoo and you walk towards the arcade, immediately distracted by blinking machines and the sound of digital coins clinking. Jungwon and Jay walk off with one mission only, to eat every free sample the mall has to offer.
Jake, Riki and Sunghoon head towards the skate shop onsecond floor.
“Bro, I’m telling you, softer wheels are better for street,” Jake insists.
“Yeah, if you like going slow,” Sunghoon shoots back.
Riki barely speaks. He flips a board over, studies it, doesn’t see it.
He sees you in his head instead, standing at your window, yelling at him to come back when he can take accountability.
They check every board. Compare prices. Debate colors. In the end, none of them buy anything.
When they walk out into the mall hallway again, the crown hits them full force. Sunghoon stretches his arms above his head.
“So,” Jay says casually. “You and her gonna keep pretending you don’t know each other?”
Riki clicks his tongue immediately. “She’s mad at me.”
“Yes,” Riki insists. “I climbed her window. I could’ve fallen and died bro. I said sorry.”
Jake squints at him. “For what?”
Riki opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…For making her mad?”
Sunghoon actually laughs. “That’s not an apology, idiot.”
Riki runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “She was yelling about the joint, and the cigs, and that girl at the skate park. But I didn’t even do anything with that girl. I just caught her because she bumped into me.”
Jake raises a brow. “By her waist?”
Riki hesitates. “…On instinct.”
“Mm,” Sunghoon hums. “And then?”
“And then she dragged me to the window and kicked me out ‘cause I said Sunoo told me to apologize,” Riki mutters.
Both boys stare at him.
“You told her…” Jake says slowly, “that someone else told you to apologize.”
“I was joking. “And at least I apologized? I don’t see the problem.”
Jake lets out a sigh. “I don’t know how you ever got her to like you, man.”
Riki scowls. “I literally climbed into her room. What more does she want?”
Jake grins. “Maybe don’t touch random girls in front of her.”
“She ran into me.”
“And you caught her,” Sunghoon says dryly. “You couldn’t even catch your own girl when she fell.”
Riki groans. “It’s not like that.”
Jake smirks. “Then go tell her that.”
“She’ll just get mad again.”
Sunghoon shrugs. “Get better at apologizing.”
Meanwhile the boys are discussing how to apologize to girlfriends, you’re at the arcade, trying to win a stuffed animal.
The arcade is chaos, neon lights flickering, pixelated sound effects, the constant clink-clink of coins dropping somewhere. A racing game to your left, a dance machine behind you, and right in front of you—
The claw machine.
Inside it sits the biggest stuffed cat you’ve ever seen. Grey and white, oversized head, cute smile. It’s ridiculous. You want it immediately.
You shove another coin in.
Heeseung leans casually against the machine beside you. “You’ve been trying for like ten minutes.”
“I almost had it,” you mumble, eyes locked on the claw.
Sunoo crouches dramatically beside the glass. “Manifest it. Tell it you love it.”
“I do love it,” you whisper.
The claw drops.
Grabs the cat.
Lifts it.
For one beautiful second it hangs there.
“YES!”
Then slips.
The cat falls back into the pile.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you curse under your breath, stepping back in disbelief.
Heeseung laughs softly. “Y/n, did something happen between you and Riki?”
You don’t even look at him. “He was being a dick.”
Sunoo nods immediately. “Newsflash.”
Heeseung hums in agreement. “Fair.”
No further questions.
You shove another coin in aggressively. The claw misses completely this time and you kick the machine.
Heeseung gently nudges you aside. “Let me.”
You cross your arms, pretending you don’t care. “You’re gonna lose.”
The claw lowers.
It grips the stuffed cat around its head.
Lifts it.
Carries it over to the hole.
Drops.
The cat tumbles into the prize slot.
You and Sunoo scream like he just won an Olympic medal.
“NO WAY—” you laugh. It’s bigger than you expected, soft and and perfect.
Heeseung smiles, brushing his hands off. “All skill.”
He takes the cat from the slot and hands it to you with a small grin. “For your suffering.”
You hug it immediately. “You’re my favorite person.”
He just laughs.
ou three walk out of the arcade a few minutes later, the mall lights feeling calmer after all the flashing machines. You hold the stuffed cat in your arms like it’s something precious, its giant head resting against your shoulder.
Riki notices you.
From halfway down the hall, he spots you walking toward them, oversized plush cat in your arms, laughing at something Sunoo just said.
And unfortunately for his pride, you look cute. And pretty. And happy.
It does something uncomfortable to his chest.
The groups meet in the middle of the walkway.
Sunghoon claps his hands once. “We’re gonna go find Jungwon and Jay before they eat themselves sick.”
“Too late,” Heeseung says dryly.
They all start walking, Sunghoon and Jake up front debating something again, Sunoo walking slightly behind them.
Heeseung slows just enough to walk beside Riki for half a second.
He gives him a small nod toward you.
Go.
Riki exhales through his nose.
Fine.
He steps up, walking beside you.
You don’t look at him.
He notices that immediately.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to sound casual. “Where’d you get that?”
Your eyes stay forward. “Arcade.”
“Obviously.”
“Heeseung won it for me.”
There’s something about the way you say it, so simple, that hits him wrong.
He glances at the stuffed cat.
Heeseung won it… not him.
“Oh,” Riki mutters. “Cool.”
You finally lift it slightly, showing him the cat’s stupid stitched smile. “It’s my new boyfriend.” You say it teasingly.
But Riki doesn’t smile.
Something annoyed flickers across his face before he masks it.
“Yeah?” he says, voice calm but a little tight. “He looks like he’d treat you better.”
You glance at him briefly, catching that tone.
“It doesn’t climb through windows uninvited,” you reply.
He huffs softly. “Yeah. It also doesn’t have legs.”
You shrug. “Less likely to run around with random girls then.”
He goes quiet for half a second.
Then he nudges the cat’s head lightly with his fingers. “He looks dumb.”
Your eyes narrow. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
“You really replacing me with a stuffed animal?”
You keep walking straight ahead.
“Depends. Can he apologize properly?” You say, then you step up your pace to nonchalantly walk away from Riki.
You eventually find Jungwon and Jay exactly where everyone expected them to be, around a food stand with tiny paper cups in their hands.
Jay is mid-sentence when the group walks up. “I’m telling you, if you circle back in ten minutes they forget your face.”
Jake nods seriously, holding up another sample. “This one’s teriyaki chicken. Third time.”
Heeseung sighs like a tired parent.
“Are we leaving?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Sunghoon says.
Everyone slowly makes their way toward the mall exit.
Riki walks quietly behind everyone.
You do too.
By the time the glass doors slide open, the air outside is thick and warm, with the hum of traffic and laughs from somewhere down the street.
Sunghoon and Jake walk ahead, arguing about the best type of flipphone. Jay tries to convince Jungwon to stop at a convenience store on the way. Sunoo keeps poking Heeseung about the stuffed cat like it’s some kind of trophy.
You and Riki walk a few steps behind them again.
For a minute, neither of you says anything.
Your arms are wrapped around the giant plush cat, its soft head resting against your shoulder. Riki glances at it once, then looks ahead at the group, then down at the pavement like he’s building up the courage to say something.
Finally, he exhales and speaks.
“Y/n...”
You glance at him.
“I was being an asshole yesterday.”
You blink slightly.
He keeps walking beside you, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on the ground instead of on you.
“And… I’m sorry,” he adds. “For the cigarettes. And the joint. And that girl at the skatepark.”
You don’t interrupt.
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“And I’m sorry for not knowing how to say sorry,” he admits. “I know I kinda… suck at that.”
For a moment you just look at him.
Then a small giggle slips out before you can stop it.
He looks over immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, smiling a little. “I just like hearing you apologise”.
He shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“I maybe shouldn’t have kicked you out the window.” You say hesitantly.
He snorts. “Maybe?”
“Okay, I shouldn’t have done that.”
He slides his hand out of his pocket and slowly, almost carefully, he lets it brush against yours. When you don’t pull away, his fingers curl around your hand.
The group ahead of you turns a corner toward the quieter streets leading back to your neighborhood.
You glance at Riki. “Do you wanna come to my house?”
His eyebrows lift. “You gonna let me in trough the door this time?”
You roll your eyes. “If you behave.”
“I always behave, baby.”
You scoff softly. “Mhm… just pull your pants up before my parents see you.”
⊹
extra note: I rlly hate the ending, I had writers block…
remy lebeau would be an absolute angel to you on your period and i will not hear otherwise. he's already a pretty doting partner, but i think that would elevate during your menstruation. he's the type to fully indulge any cravings you have, late night shopping runs or warm, homey meals he makes from scratch. remy's also the type to be very physically affectionate. wrapping you up in his arms, a heating pad wedged between you to sooth your cramps. rubbing your lower belly when they get too painful, telling you how proud of you he is. if you get emotional he's the type to kiss your tears away while he tells you how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how strong you're being. lots of soft french murmurs of "ça va bébé, remy's right here," "gambit loves you chéri, you bein' real strong," "respire, douce fille, breathe wit' gambit." he'd also never be opposed to period sex, if you're not either. regardless, remy's an absolute sweetheart when you're on your period. <3
summary: jack abbot never gets jealous; that is, until he finds out that you have a whole lot of history with the handsome radiologist from upstairs that everyone else is fawning over. (3k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, nick barker / ex!reader, dr. al-hashimi, michael robinavitch, princess dela cruz
contents: secret relationship, friends with benefits, grump!reader, jealous!jack, fluff, humor, so much sexual tension
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
“I was thinking Italian for tonight,” Jack says in lieu of a greeting as he falls seamlessly into step with you down the busy hall of the emergency department. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his fitted black tee as he reaches to hold either end of his stethoscope. “Or burgers, maybe— but I’m not picky. What about you?”
His heavy head swivels slowly to face you. The bright white fluorescents overhead cast a greyer tint over his curls and light eyes, which glimmer faintly with amusement as a knowing half-smirk tugs slowly at his lips.
You look up from the clipboard in your hand with a squinted look of mild annoyance, despite the quiet smile that threatens to pull at your own mouth.
“Very subtle, Dr. Abbot,” you croon in a dry monotone.
“Well, I can be less subtle, if you want,” the man shrugs, side-stepping to walk backwards ahead of you. He ambles carefully into the central work station with a wider, smugger smile. “Go out for dinner with me tonight… I promise I’ll make it worth your while…”
“Oh, really?” you hum and slide your clipboard back onto the chart rack. “Do tell.”
“Well, I’d get into the details and all, but… There are kids around, so…”
Your eyes cut to the crowd of young residents gathered by the dry-erase board, now acting as a makeshift monitor for the time being. You scoff an emotionless laugh in response. “Trust me, whatever Santos and Garcia are getting up to is far more scandalous— And don’t even get me started on Whitaker and that farmer’s widow of his.
“I wasn’t talking about them,” Jack quips, but makes a mental note to ask you about all that later. “I was talking about Robby.”
He nods to the front desk, where the man himself scribbles at the chart laid crooked before him. Robby flashes Jack an unenthusiastic look from over the top of his glasses at the sound of his name.
“Don’t drag me into this,” he deadpans.
“Into what?” Jack scoffs.
“Into whatever the two of you are flirting about.”
“Have you seen Dr. Al?” you blurt, if only as a desperate plea to change the subject.
He points aimlessly over his shoulder, and you follow his thumb across the room. You leave Jack behind without a second thought and make a beeline for the curly-haired woman on the opposite side of the station.
“Hey, Dr. Al— Have you figured out what we’re doing about the CT films? Because I’ve got a patient with an ankle injury that’s already been sitting for hours.”
“Yep,” the woman smiles, flipping through the yellow order slips in her hands. “I have them right here.”
You freeze in place just ahead of her, glancing at the papers between her fingers and the chaotically organized desk beside her with wide eyes. “…Where? Have they been miniaturized?”
A laugh sputters from her mouth as she shakes her head. “No, I mean— Radiology is getting backed up upstairs, obviously, so… I brought radiology to us.”
She motions behind her, and only then do you notice the portable machine sitting on the other side of the circular desk. A crowd of grey-scrubbed nurses helps adjust the station to make room for the bulky device. When Jesse moves the long arm of the X-Ray machine, a familiar face comes into view that makes your skin flare beneath your black scrubs — though you’d sooner blame it on the sweltering summer heat blowing in from outside.
Because, just when you think the day can’t get any worse than a heat wave and a potential cyber attack, your ex-boyfriend shows up out of nowhere.
Nick Barker smiles kindly at you with all of his pretty white teeth, swiping a veiny, sun-kissed hand through his dark, pushed-back hair.
“Hey, Professor. Long time, no see.”
You meet his warm grin with a wavering smile of your own, though it looks more like a grimace when your eyes widen at the old nickname his family had given you some years back — when you graduated high school early and became the youngest med student in your class.
It was not working with your ex that was the issue — you’ve already been doing it for years at this point — but you’re realizing now that he was much easier to stomach when he was upstairs, totally out of your line of sight.
“Dr. Barker,” you greet, with your voice an awkward octave higher and trembling with a palpable panic. “Hi…”
“Oh…” he winces playfully. “I’ve been demoted to last-name basis, huh?”
You muster an artificial smile in response and wring your clammy hands together as you amble slowly to his side. He tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze, though you refuse to meet the big brown eyes he looks at you with.
“Have you gotten the order slip for Adebayo? A-D-E-B-A-Y-O?”
“Uh…” he trails off and turns away to glance at the files on the desk beside him, organized by alphabet and urgency. He skims his manicured pointer finger down the list and taps on the clipboard when he finds the patient’s name. “Yep. Right. I’ll get right on it.”
“Great,” you sigh and take a step back to walk away. “Thank you.”
“Busy day, huh?” Nick hums distantly, half-distracted as he taps at the keyboard of the heavy machine before him. He’s as kind and casual as you remember him being — not nearly as fazed by your presence as you are by his — which is why you falter so desperately at the innocent small talk.
“Yep…” you nod with an apologetic grimace. “Which is kinda why I have to run right now, so…”
“Right. Yeah,” Nick chuckles. A rogue strand of silky black hair drapes effortlessly over his forehead as he shakes his head at himself. “That was a— stupid question, right? Look at this place.”
You fake a laugh at his laughing and turn on the heel of your sneaker to walk away.
Your smile ebbs the second you’re out of his sight, contorting into a pained sort of wince as you slide past Jack — who leans on a desk some feet behind you, hardly trying to conceal that he’d been watching you. (He hadn’t thought anything of it until he saw you get all embarrassed; because you never let anyone see you embarrassed, least of all a man.)
“What the hell was that about?” he murmurs lowly, falling into step with you once more. His squinted eyes dart between your profile and the vaguely familiar radiologist across the room — until you duck behind the oversized dry-erase board like you’re hiding from something. Some-one. “You know him or something?”
“Uh… Yeah?” you shrug, trying and failing to be casual, as you uncap a black marker with a sharp pop. “Kind of… I guess…”
“Kinda?” Jack echoes with a scoffed-out laugh, further disturbed by your sudden diffidence as you update the patient board with anxious hands. “What— Did you guys screw around together or something?”
“Don’t be crude,” you scold with your features twisted in disgust — mean all over again, and not at all how you were with Dr. Barker. “We just… used to date… A long, long time ago.”
“Yeah? For how long?” Jack presses, brows raised to his hairline.
“Not long,” you shrug. “Just a… better part of a decade, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” he repeats, a little louder than he meant to. He cowers at the strange looks he gets in response and takes a step closer to you behind the towering board. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you were engaged to the guy?”
He chuckles until you flash him a weary look in reply.
His shock returns.
“Holy shit— You were engaged?”
“We were high school sweethearts going into medicine together— getting engaged was just on par with how cliche we were,” you ramble with your gaze pointed at the organized board before you.
“Oh, don’t tell me you got married to the guy,” Jack huffs. “I don’t think my heart could take all that.”
You sigh in annoyance but answer him honestly anyway. “No… We never made it that far.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, half-detached in reminiscence. “We just… We weren’t good together, you know? He was… way too nice…”
Jack blinks owlishly at you. “You broke up with him because he was… nice?”
“It’s a long story,” you sigh.
“Well, I got plenty of time,” the man tells you, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest. “It’s not like we’re on the cusp of a cyber attack or anything.”
“Okay… We got into this crazy fight one night,” you murmur, stepping closer to him like you’re telling him some sort of secret. You tilt your chin to keep Jack’s gaze as you gesture with the marker in your hand. “Sort of. ‘Cause I was the only one that was mad— But I was trying to push him into an argument because I started to notice that he never got upset with me. Like, ever. And he just… wouldn’t budge, you know? Everything I told him he was doing wrong, he just… agreed with me. And promised to work on it.”
“Wow…” Jack monotones. “He sounds like a real psychopath.”
“I know he’s a good guy, alright? That’s not the point,” you tell him. “He was just… dreadfully boring.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, he’s like— missionary personified,” you ramble. “He’s great and reliable and he gets the job done, but… Sometimes you wanna spice things up, you know?”
“Do you?” Jack teases with narrowed eyes.
“It was a metaphor,” you deadpan.
“Well, I promise that if you ever feel like fighting it out, I will always be there for you, sweetheart,” he lilts.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Dr. Abbot,” you croon drily.
“Jealous?” he scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”
“Who are you convincing here— You or me?”
“Well, between me and Dr. Barker only one of us got shot at today, so…” Jack trails off with a lazy shrug. “You can’t exactly call me boring, honey.”
You cap the marker and set it back on the rack with a nod and a knowing smile. “Well, we never exactly had trouble in the boring department, did we, Dr. Abbot?”
He ambles slowly after you as you walk off in the opposite direction.
“What did I say about talking dirty to me while we’re at work?”
Nick still smells the same, you realize, when he calls you to his side to show you the newly produced film. You recognize the cologne on his navy button-up almost instantly — the soft, vanilla musk cologne you’d gotten him for his birthday when you were still in med school.
Something about it makes your chest feel funny; the acknowledgment that, in many ways, the two of you are still tied together. You’d stolen a collection of band tees from his closet back in college, and even now you swear that they’re the coziest shirts to sleep in (though you’d never tell Jack exactly where you got them from.)
You slouch in the cushioned swivel chair at his side with your heavy head propped on your fist, blinking slowly as he flicks through the various X-Rays on the monitor ahead of you.
“Looks like the ankle’s negative for fracture…” he mumbles.
“No, that can’t be right,” you murmur to yourself, lifting your head to motion at the blue-white image before you. “Look— The tibiofibular clear space is enlarged. And the overlap seems reduced, no?”
“Hm…” he hums. “Maybe a little.”
You reach blindly for the clear ruler at your side and press it to the screen, aligning it with the x-rayed ankle. You trace the ridges with your pointer finger. “8 millimeters dilated, and… 3 millimeters overlapped. Which would mean that—”
“There’s probably a tear in the sydesomatic ligaments,” Nick finishes for you, clicking at the ink pen in his right hand. “Yeah.”
“Which needs surgical fixation, which means I need you to put in a request for an MRI, which means I can free up another bed,” you ramble with an exhausted sigh as you slouch back into the cushioned seat.
“On it,” Nick nods with a quiet laugh. “When did you learn so much about radiology, Professor?”
“Well, we were kinda together for a long time, Dr. Barker,” you answer like it’s obvious. “I guess I just picked up a thing or two over the years.”
“Well, I’ve heard you complain about a thousand surgeries, but that doesn’t mean I could do one,” he scoffs with a lopsided grin that would’ve made you swoon five or more years ago.
“Sounds like a skill issue, Barker,” you joke with a shrug.
“No, I think you’re just smarter than you give yourself credit for,” he grins. “Why do you think my mom still calls you Professor?”
A laugh sputters from your mouth before you can stop it. “Why is your mom even still talking about me?”
“Are you kidding?” Nick chuckles. “She loves you! I’m pretty sure she’s still holding out hope that we’re gonna get back together…”
“You just need to date another doctor, that’s all,” you shrug. “Then she’ll forget all about me—”
“I’m a nurse!” Princess volunteers from the nurse’s station, behind the portable machine. She chirps like a songbird, with a hopeful grin and a pair of sparkling eyes. “That counts, right?”
“Aren’t you married, Princess?” you laugh.
Her smile turns into a frown in a flicker.
“Thanks for blowing my cover,” she deadpans and turns away.
“Sorry…” you grimace.
Nick laughs, dark eyes crinkling at the edges. You fight the urge to cower at the melted chocolate look in his gaze when he turns back to you. “You haven’t changed at all, you know that?”
“You have,” you retort.
“Really?”
You nod, eyes squinted in observation. “I realized you fixed that chip in your tooth.”
“I did…” Nick lilts with a slow nod, instinctively running his tongue over the bottom of his front tooth, which he’d chipped in a fall during a particularly drunken 4th of July party some years back. “I forget sometimes— Most people don’t even notice.”
“Well, I notice everything,” you quip.
“Hence the reason we still call you Professor—”
Ahem. Someone clears their throat from just behind you. The two of you turn in tandem to glance over your shoulders, where Jack looms like a storm cloud with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an emotionless look on his scruffy face that would seem almost intimidating if you didn’t already know him so well. Maybe that’s why Nick cowers at the sight of him.
“Sorry to interrupt, guys,” Jack greets in a gritty monotone. “I’m just checking on my patient’s scans. Name’s Reeves.”
Nick swallows hard at the older man’s unwavering stare and turns to the order slips on the desk ahead of him. “Uh, yes— Reeves is still in the wet read, but I’ll come get you when they’re done, Dr. Abbot.”
“Sounds good,” the man hums with a slow nod, warm and cordial again in a flicker. His light eyes flit back to yours as he says, “Dr. Al-Hashimi wants to talk to you about your patient. Adebayo.”
“Dr. Al?” you echo, but rise from your chair despite yourself. You don’t think twice about it as you follow the man’s footsteps across the station. “I took the case from Robby. Why would Dr. Al wanna—”
“She doesn’t,” Jack answers without looking at you, when Dr. Barker is finally out of earshot. “I just didn’t like what I was looking at back there.”
You slow to a stop in front of the chart rack, where Jack pretends to survey the list of patients there. Your eyes narrow into a challenging squint. “I thought you said you weren’t jealous, Dr. Abbot.”
“Well, in my defense, I’d be a lot cooler about it if I didn’t know the two of you were literally engaged,” he whispers sharply, as if it’s some deeply held secret. “And if I didn’t know that the only reason you broke up with the poor guy was because he was too nice to you. I mean, what the hell does that say about us?”
“Us?” you scoff. “I didn’t know there was an us.”
“Of course, there’s an us,” he squints. “But if you broke off an engagement because he was too nice, what does that make me? An asshole?”
You look him up and down, smacking your lips against your teeth. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Jack’s frown deepens. “I usually find your tendency to deflect with humor incredibly hot, but unfortunately, I am trying to be serious right now.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “You’re nice, Jack. Obviously. But you’re also a little bit of an asshole— And you argue with me about stupid shit— And I wake up every day excited about what you’re gonna do to piss me off next—”
“Well…” he quips drily, despite the sudden flaring in his chest as he fights the urge to kiss you. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m not talking about love,” you retort in a monotone.
“Oh, yeah? Then what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know…” you trail off, narrowed eyes glimmering. “I’m still figuring that out…”
“Wanna figure it out tonight?” he wonders with a newfound grin, as smug as ever. “Over pasta and/or burgers? My treat?”
“You’re still on that?” you deadpan.
“Yep,” he nods, popping the p. “And I promise to start an argument with you over something meaningless if it’ll make you wanna come with me.”
“…Fine,” you roll your eyes, and poke him in the chest as you tell him, “But we’re ordering takeout. Pasta. At my place.”
“My place,” Jack corrects with a pair of squinted eyes.
“It’s your day off, Jack, and I’m the one who has work in the morning,” you argue. “And if we eat at your place, that means I can’t stay over, and last I heard, you were supposed to be making it worth my while, Dr. Abbot.”
“Touche…” he nods slowly with a sly smirk. “Well played, Professor.”
You shake your head and smile as you turn on your heel and walk down the adjacent hall. He never takes his eyes off of you — not even when Robby appears at his side to return a clipboard to the rack.
“She really keeps you on your toes, huh?” the older man murmurs.
“You don’t know the half of it, brother…” Jack mumbles lowly. “No way that Barker kid knew what he was doing with her…”
Robby only scoffs. “You say that like you do.”
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