untilmynextstory

fictional characters are ruining my life

[untilmynextstory]

Masterlist for all of my stories featuring Pope Cody x OFC Honey.

sugar on the rim | stripper!honey summary: pope didn't really want to go to a strip club for his birthday, but maybe it's not so bad when he receives a private dance by the headliner, Honey.

if this world were mine | teacher!honey summary: pope didn't mean to form a crush on lena's teacher.

father figure

after hours | bartender!honey summary:  Honey can't believe she has formed a crush on her boss's brother. 

questions existing

kiss with a fist | nurse!honey summary: Honey wonders what it means to know the smell of Andrew's blood more than her own. 

trapped between two lungs | starcrossedlover!honey (aka Trujillo!honey) summary: Pope finds an altar in Honey Trujillo.

the return

loving leads to bleeding | babymama!honey summary:  Honey and Andrew have found a delicate balance in raising their family while navigating their family history and career choices. However, the lines become blurred when the exiled Julie asks Honey for help with her addiction and with her son, Joshua. And it all comes to a head during the weekly family dinner.

the first

aftermath | belen!honey (TBD) summary: the hardest part should have been the prison sentence, yet Pope finds coming home to be the hardest part when the one person who has always been at his side wants nothing to do with him.

parachute (canon compliant/divergant au) | skateboarder!honey (TBD) summary: honey had grown up around the codys. It was by accident when she pickpocketed one of the boys and got caught by the eldest Cody. It led to her and her family becoming intertwined with the family's business.

divider credit

[untilmynextstory]

t. | 30s | slow, shaky writer at best

writings: All fanfiction-related posts are tagged #untilmynextstory Most, if not all, of my writing is for ages 18+

EXTERNAL LINKS: WATTPAD | FF.NET | AO3

current works in progress: sweetlikehoney!verse

lastest publication: "the crown" | steve harrington x sinclair!oc | 18+

MY LIBRARY:

Animal Kingdom

Characters: Pope Cody

A Song of Ice and Fire

Characters: Elia Martell, Ashara Dayne

Peaky Blinders

Characters: Tommy Shelby

Sons of Anarchy

Characters: Jax Teller

Stranger Things

Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington

Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Jo Harvelle

[untilmynextstory]

SUMMARY: The most painful confession he ever voiced was too late. It's always too late.

SUMMARY: Sometimes the end makes bittersweet beginnings. [part i.] [part ii.] [part iii.]

[untilmynextstory]

while we wait

A collection of AU one-shots

STATUS: COMPLETE (This is an update as I please) LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

serendipity (book i)

Delilah returns home with plans to just focus on her career and take care of her uncle, but it seems fate has other ideas especially with Jax Teller involved.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

the pull (book ii)

Following the birth of his son, Jax finds his father's manuscript that details the path of destruction the club would inevitably face. With his father's ghost shadowing him and the weight of fatherhood, Jax is faced with the choices and consequences of his lifestyle that bleeds over to his son and old lady.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3

the unknown

Sometimes relationships head into unknown waters. After facing many tribulations in their relationship, Jax Teller doesn't know how to tread back to where he and his wife, Alma, used to be.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

wandering romance

Aubrey finds herself caught in the web of Jackson Teller.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

tribulation

After serving five years, Jax returns home to his family. He soon learns that despite weekly visits, five years was a long time and his family has grown without him  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

black water

After being separated for a year, Vanessa believed it was time to move on. End it clean for the sake of their boys and for them. Despite still being in love with Jax, too much had happened, too much did happen. But six years was hard to let go and she still loved him.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

old bones

Kennedy River Winston for 9 years never knew what family meant until she met her older brother, Opie Winston. Now, at 25, Kennedy finds herself doing what she does best, taking care of her brother's family while dealing with her feelings regarding certain SAMCRO members as certain revelations come to light about her brother's murder.  

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3  

back to 505

She let him in, nothing she ever regrets, because despite how artificial the relationship was back then there was always that potential, the possibility, she could have fallen in love with him.

STATUS: COMPLETE LINKS: FF.NET | WATTPAD | AO3

[untilmynextstory]

”I Love Playing With Fire”  | rockstar AU | Corroded Coffin finally managed to break out of Hawkins. They may not be on the charts, but their crowds are more than the five drunks at the local pub, and they are actually getting paid. However, they get a rude awakening of life on the road. 18+

“Bring It On” | High School AU | Much to Eddie’s horror, Jensen tries out for the Hawkins cheer squad. 18+

“Tattooed Heart” | matching tattoos | With his girlfriend being an aspiring tattoo artist, Eddie decides to be her first client.

“Still” | college AU | Eddie didn’t think anything of volunteering to be a nude model for an art class. 18+

“The Lighthouse” | hiding | Eddie only knew of one place where he could find refuge after what he just witnessed in his trailer.

“Ya'aburnee” |  free choice | It’s the Class of ‘86 high school reunion and for once Eddie can’t wait to be back in Hawkins, Indiana.

Collection of one-shots of Jensen & Eddie, part of the stepsister!Jensen universe. 

“Soldier of Fortune” | 5 + 1

“One for the Road” | Eddie and Max go to a concert

“Love Doctors” | Max shows El there is more to life than boys. 

“No Glove, No Love” | Wayne buys Eddie a pack of condoms as he realizes how close Eddie and Jensen are (pre-dating).

“Blade of Grass” | Lucas goes to Eddie for relationship advice.

“Thin Lines” | Sometimes accidents happen. 

sinclair!camille

"lost in love" | one-shot, season 5 adjacent

Camille begins to doubt the nature of her relationship with Steve as Nancy becomes a more prominent figure in their lives.

"Interrupted" | one-shot, post-season 2

All Steve wants is some alone time with his girlfriend.

"blue magic" | one-shot

Erica does not appreciate Steve Harrington interrupting a very important sacred ritual between her and her sister.

"in the wake of your sunshine" | one-shot, post battle of starcourt

when the dust settles, it’s when the grief shows up.

"the crown" | one-shot, season 2

when the new kid in hawkins tries to topple the reign of king steve, steve can’t help, but question his relationship

[untilmynextstory]

"the crown" | steve harrington x sinclair!oc | 18+

summary: when the new kid in hawkins tries to topple the reign of king steve, steve can’t help, but question his relationship (3k)

notes: i saw djo/joe live...and it made me finish the last bit of this that i've had sitting in my drafts forever. i did not forget about my lemonade au though.

warnings: unprotected sex (F/M), billy hargrove, racism (can i say we acknowledge billys racism, if anyone you are billy lovers, none of my stories are for you), fluff

When Steve first saw the Camero, he didn’t question it or think about it much. Sure, it was sort of rare for new people to move to the small town of Hawkins, but he didn’t think it was headline news. Besides, why would he focus on some new kid when he had his beautiful girlfriend kissing him, providing him with his favorite breakfast of her lemonade chapstick? 

Besides, the only class he seemed to have with this Billy was gym, but he didn’t miss the way the man’s eye lingered on Camille as she waited for him after his shower. Worst, the smirk the boy gave him as he pointedly trailed Camille’s figure in her Levi jeans. 

Still, he did his best to ignore the fascination with Billy, as Billy’s new best friend was Tommy Hagan. So there was no real loss there. Yet, Hawkins is small, and rumors still spread that Billy was trying to take his spot. He wanted to be the top dog in the school. He wanted to take down the King. 

Steve’s main concern had been where Camille fit into this. If he were King, she would be his Queen. Though Camille hasn’t said anything about the boy. The only time Billy has come up between them was when she mentioned that Lucas had a crush on the boy’s stepsister. 

Steve was unsure of how to feel about that and left it alone. Despite being with Camille for three years, Lucas could still be a little shithead to him, and he knew if he pressed, he would get some sort of smart remark from the kid. 

Yet as the days cooled into October, he didn't pay much attention to the boy until Camille told him they needed to take Lucas to and from school indefinitely. It was then that Lucas informed him that Billy almost ran him over with his friends on their way home from school. 

Steve didn't like the feeling settling in his gut, especially as he and Camille got ready for Tina's Halloween party. He watches as Camille fixes her red wig for her Daphne costume in the mirror of his car. There had been a lot of back-and-forth on the costumes, but in the end, a happy girlfriend made for a happy life, as his Risky Business costume was nixed in favor of being Fred and Daphne from Scooby-Doo. Although he was thanking his stars, Camille didn’t stick with her Flintstones idea, although he thinks this purple dress is equally as dangerous as Wilma's white dress. 

As he trails down to Camille’s legs, he hopes she isn't attached to her tights. As he knows, he won’t have the patience later to take them off her slowly. 

In fact, he wouldn't mind skipping the party altogether. 

“How long do we need to stay here?”

“You’re wanting to skip out on a party?” Camille asks him. 

“I can think of other things we can do on this Halloween night,” he says, wagging his eyebrows. 

Camille laughs before she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, “Later, baby.”

He huffs, but he pulls her back and plants a deeper kiss on her lips. He doesn’t care about the remnants of gloss that will be left on his lips. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Camille can tell that Steve doesn’t really want to be at the Halloween Party. 

She really didn’t want to come herself, but all her friends were stating she had been spending way too much time with Steve. And as much as she loved her boyfriend, she didn’t want to be the girl whose whole world revolved around her boyfriend. 

She promised them a night out by going to the Halloween party. So after dancing with Steve for a bit and having a few drinks, she left her boyfriend talking to one of his basketball teammates while she found her girls, who were drinking, dancing, and gossiping. 

She makes her way back to where the drinks are and decides to take a break from alcohol and grabs a pop. It is then she feels a presence behind her, and at first she thinks it is Steve, but when she turns, she is invaded by the smell of sweat, leather, and beer. 

Billy Hargrove stands before her with a smirk. 

Camille didn’t have much thought of Billy Hargrove. She knows most of the girls think he's cute. He isn’t shy about boasting about all his conquests. Yet, he just seems like an asshole, especially from the tidbits she has been getting from Lucas since he slipped about his interest in Max, Billy’s stepsister. It didn’t take her long to realize why Billy was an asshole to her brother. 

She also wasn’t blind to Steve’s reaction to Billy’s presence. Her boyfriend hasn’t said anything directly to her. But she saw when his jaw would clench at the mention of the boy. If she was hearing about Billy’s threats of wanting to topple Steve from this so-called high school hierarchy, she knew Steve was as well. 

Yet, with all of Billy’s boasting and preening his peacock feathers, Camille has been curious about where she fits into all of this. 

She is lucky that she doesn't have the boy in any of her classes. Yet, she has become familiar with the heat of his eyes if she passes him in the hallways. 

“Can I help you?” She asks with a raised eyebrow. 

His smile is predatory. She knows objectively that Billy is pretty, she supposes. She can tell he cares about his appearance and loves the attention. It’s a trait the boy shares with her boyfriend.  She isn’t one to downplay the fact that during her and Steve’s freshman and sophomore years of high school, he had been a jerk. 

Though Steve had never been cruel for its own sake. He had been a bystander to the torment Tommy and Carol would inflict on others, and she had told him that made him just as guilty, especially when they hit a rough patch during sophomore year because of his nonchalant attitude towards the bullying. 

Billy seems to thrive on the harassment he does. Sharp, cruel words she finds can do more damage than a blade. 

“I figured it was time to properly introduce myself.”

Camille fights the urge to wrinkle her nose at the smell of beer wafting from his breath. 

She gives a polite smile. “I'm sure we weren’t introduced for a reason.”

His smirk is predatory. “I bet.”

He licks his lips, and she watches as his eyes move behind her. She can tell by his posture who is approaching before she is surrounded by a familiar warmth and the hand at the small of her back. 

She isn't surprised by Steve's territorial gesture, especially since he ignores Billy completely while whispering that he is ready to go.

Steve doesn't acknowledge Billy's presence at all as he drags her down the crowded hallway. They pass a few people who try to stop her and Steve, but Steve seems to be a man on a mission.

As they leave the house, the fresh air clears the fog from the teenage hormones. It's only then that she really can comprehend the tightness of Steve's grip on her hand. The way his shoulders are tense as he rushes them to his car. Camille stays silent as they approach his car. He is further from the house, where they can hear whispers of the music, and no one can really see them. 

He doesn't stop at the passenger door, but at the back door. He opens the door: “Get in.”

He doesn't miss the clenching of her thighs before she follows his command. He follows after her immediately, but he doesn't crowd her.

Instead, he makes himself comfortable against his door as he eyes her. He doesn't say anything as he unbuckles his belt and jeans, nor as his finger does the come here motion, and she doesn't hesitate as she slides over on the seat and into his lap. 

“Take me out.”

Before grabbing him, she licks her palm and gently grips him. He is warm and heavy in her hands. His pretty pink tip is already flushed and pulsing as he leaks in her hands. 

She begins moving her hand up and down, her fingertips teasing the slit as she smears his pre-cum. 

Steve's hands, which were at his sides, begin to move to her thighs, where she wants him most, but he bypasses her growing ache as he grips her hips. He moves her closer as he meets her lips. She can taste the beer and the fruity mixed drink on his tongue. She moans loudly as he traps her plump bottom lip with his teeth. Yet her moan turns into a yelp as he rips her tights. 

He releases her lips. “I'll buy you new ones, baby,” he promises against her neck as his fingers slither behind her panties. Camille’s breath hitches as he preps her with one of his thick fingers first. There is no resistance to his fingers.

Her gummy walls accommodate him easily as she chases his finger. She leans back slightly as her hands reach the hem of the dress, which is pushed up to her stomach. She removes it completely from her heated skin. Her wig gets caught in the shuffle of clothes. She removes it along with her dress, unclipping the barrettes holding her hair back. 

“You weren't wearing a bra,” Steve grumbles at the sight of her bare chest. 

“I sewed some cups into the dress,” she tells him. It wasn't as if she was necessarily gifted in the chest department. 

Steve doesn't respond verbally, but she mewls as he adds another finger, her walls constricting around his fingers. She can already feel her high building as she begins to ride his fingers. Yet, she wants more. 

“Steve…” 

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers as he places chaste kisses against her jawline. Camille grinds down harder, his thumb rubbing on her button, causing her breath to stutter. 

She knows she needs more. “Do you have a condom?’

With his free hand, he searches for his wallet and never once loses his rhythm as he continues his torturous plunges with his thick fingers. Yet, even in the fog of her lust, she feels his slight tenseness. “I'll pull out,” he mutters against her skin. 

“Steve…” she groans. 

“I promise.” 

Camille stops their movements. Camille knows they shouldn't. Every time she lets Steve go raw, she is filled with pins and needles until her period. She knows the pull-out method isn't 100% effective. And she can't get her birth control until she turns 18. 

Steve's pink lips trail from her jawline and capture her lips in a burning kiss. She sighs as his blunt tip knocks against her swollen clit. She knows the battle is lost. 

Camille pushes herself up, and Steve guides himself into her. “Fuck, Steve…” No matter the preparation, his size always steals her breath. 

Camille rolls her hips, and it's all the permission Steve needs as he helps lift her body up and down, slamming against him. 

She is moaning, groaning, and screaming as they grind together. He adjusts his body for more leverage, and she practically yelps as she feels him kiss the tip of her cervix, and she begins convulsing with her release. 

The car turns foggy and humid. She knows anyone walking by will no doubt know what is happening in the car, if not from the movement, then from the noise Steve draws from her throat. 

“Shit!” Steve lifts her off him, and she feels his cum coat her thighs and her tummy. 

Steve doesn't seem to care about his release pooling between them as his arms wrap around her, bringing her closer. His lips press against her sweaty hairline as they catch their breath. 

“You alright?”

Camille nods as she tries to catch her breath. Her limbs feel like jello, and she is not going to be surprised if she walks funny tomorrow.  “You know I don't pay any attention to him.”

Steve is quiet outside of his breathing. “I know. It's just…I don't know how to say this without sounding like an asshole.”

“It's just us, babe.”

“I don't really care about the high school politics…if he wants to beat my keg records, be the Star on the basketball team, or whatever other social title, by all means he can. I just don't like how he makes it seem like you're a consolation prize. Like you're not your own person. I just hate how I feel I'm being taunted. It's like it's all I hear every day about what he fucking does, and I truly don't care. Though what bugs me more is the thought I was that insufferable freshman and sophomore year.”

Camille can't help but snort at his last comment. He was a major asshole in public. It was part of why she would always shut him down when he approached her during their freshman year. 

“Hey, I'm serious,” Steve sniffs. 

“I know you are,” she coos. 

She snickers at the affronted look on his face. His pink plush lips set in a pout. Camille takes pity on her boyfriend and gives him a sweet kiss. Her boyfriend hums in appreciation before they pull apart. She digs in deeper. “You want to tell me what's really bothering you?” 

“I just worry about life after high school,” he admits. “You'll be gone…and I'll be here…a disappointment.”

“Hey, not everyone needs to go to college,” she consoles. She knows the topic of college has been a touchy subject in the Harrington household. She knows his dad has been pushing the topic to uphold the Harrington name. 

Ignoring the academic side, as much as she loves her boyfriend, he is an average C student at best; she knows that college wouldn't be the right path for him. He has gone with her to tour campuses, and they worked on applications together. Yet she could tell he was overwhelmed by the process, and even more so, he never showed much enthusiasm for higher education. 

In fact, Steve always seemed to falter when it came to deciding his future. Sometimes she thought he purposely didn't let himself see past high school. She didn't think it was self-sabotage, but she wouldn't be surprised if he avoided the thought because of the expectations his father had set for him. 

She always assured him he could go to tech school or join the workforce. He didn't need to know his path immediately. 

“And how does that look? You're going to college to be a nurse, and I'll be working at a gas station.”

“Steve, I'm not with you for money. And there is nothing wrong with working at a gas station.”

“It's pathetic,” he rebuffs. “I'll be here in shitty Hawkins, and you'll be surrounded by more Billys.” 

“There is always gonna be racist assholes, babe,” she responds in an attempt at a joke that Steve doesn't find amusing. 

“Steve, I'm with you because I love you. Not because of whatever monetary value or social standing you can bring me. I'm happy with you. If you work at a gas station and happen to love it, I'm fine with that. I don't want you to rush into something that is going to make you miserable.”

Steve doesn't say anything for a few minutes. “The only thing I know for certain about my future is that I am going to marry you.”

It amazes her that Steve can still give her butterflies. She is glad that the night and her skin tone can hide any blush that he could draw out of her.  “That's a bold statement, Harrington.”

“But true,” he replies softly. 

“You're such a sap, Steve Harrington.” 

Steve only smiles before he puckers his lips. Rolling her eyes, she kisses him sweetly before pulling back. She turns her attention to the mess between them, grimacing. “So messy.”

Steve snorts before he shuffles and pulls out a gym bag. Camille wrinkles her nose. “Do I even want to know how long that has been in there?”

“They're clean. I still remember the lashing you gave me for leaving dirty clothes in my car.” 

“It was gross, Steve.” 

“And I learned my lesson,” he tells her as he finds the small hand towel and begins to clean his release from her skin and between them. 

“You should probably start keeping baby wipes in that bag.” 

Her boyfriend waggles his eyebrow: “This is going to be a recurring thing.”

Camille rolls her eyes before she rummages through the bag herself. Being clean from his spend, she grabs his Hawkins sports shirt and throws it over her chest. She moves herself off his lap. She debates putting on the pair of shorts, but, given the dampness of her thighs, she forgoes them. The shirt is long enough. 

“Home and shower?” Steve asks as he tucks himself back into his pants. 

“Can we go get a milkshake?” 

“Of course, babe.”

Steve bites his cheek as Camille practically squeals over the thought of a milkshake. He wonders if he should be slightly concerned that the thought of a milkshake brings more excitement than his cock. 

Yet the simple excitement of the milkshake reminds him why he loves Camille. It's always the simple things that she loves. Sure, he will spoil her with his dad's money, with perfumes, jewelry, and fancy dinners. Yet, it's always the small gifts like a teddy bear, a homemade card he had made with her siblings, or the quiet nights of them lounging in his backyard stargazing that she loved the most. 

It reminds him that he doesn't need to perform with her. He never did, as Camille always had the uncanny ability to see right through him even when they played in the sandbox as kids. 

Steve slides out of his car first. He holds out his hand for her to grab. “Hey.”

Camille looks up at him, and he only leans down as the kiss he places isn't consuming or heated. It's soft, gentle, and warm. “I love you so much.”

He feels Camille melt against him at his words. Her arms wrap around him. He places a kiss on the top of her head as he allows them to be in the moment. 

He almost misses it when he sees a faint light. But he knows who stands there in the dark as the cherry embers flicker in the night. 

Steve doesn't feel the need to gloat or brag. In fact, he doesn't bother to allow the moment to take up space between him and Camille. 

Instead, he gives Camille another kiss against her crown, and he can't help but give her butt a little pat. It causes her to giggle as he opens the passenger seat of his car. 

He doesn't care about being King or whatever crown Hawkins wants to bestow on him. 

He only cares about being the best version of himself for himself and Camille.

[drhobby]

bounded (4)

arranged marriage w/jack abbot x f!reader the one where you move in with him wc: 1.3 k warnings: forced proximity < prev . next chapter (on the works) >

You spent your day off packing. By the time Jack arrived, you had already said your goodbyes to your roommates, condensing your entire life into a single suitcase and two boxes.

“That it?” Jack asked, tossing the boxes into the back of his truck.

You shrugged. “I’ve always rented furnished apartments.”

You caught the way his mouth pulled sideways, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “Not even a lamp?”

Your gut twisted—the softness in his voice scraped against your nerves. “Don’t pity me” you barked, before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door.

.

Jack’s apartment was aggressively functional. It was ironic that he’d questioned your lack of belongings when his own home looked like an IKEA display. There wasn't a single photograph on the walls, no decorations, not even a houseplant to suggest a human lived there. Perhaps that was his personality.

He led you to what would be your room. It was sparse, featuring only a double bed and an attached bathroom. Once he set your suitcase down, the silence in the room became deafening, and you felt an urgent need to break it.

“So, I was paying seven hundred dollars before,” you said, the words rushing out in a jagged stream. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your hands trembled. The terrifying reality began to settle in your bones. “I assume yours is more than that. When do you need the money, and what’s my share?”

Jack looked at you, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “What?”

“I can pay my part of the rent,” you repeated, feeling smaller by the second.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his expression hardened. “I don’t pay rent.”

He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving you alone in the quiet, sterile room with nothing but your anxiety.

.

You spent the evening in the kitchen, preparing a simple tomato soup. The apartment was deathly quiet; Jack was either out or deeply asleep behind his closed door. Through the living room windows, you watched the last of the sunlight bleed into dark, bruised purple across the skyline.

You plated a bowl, leaving the rest on the stove, foolishly hoping he might want some when he woke. But he didn’t. Instead, his door opened, and he stepped out, already in sweats and a tee, a sweatshirt slung over his forearm. 

“Going to the gym,” he said, leaning against the counter, his eyes tracking you. “Wanna come?”

“Uhh,” your words stumbling over the offer and the sight of his biceps. “Not today. Thanks.”

“I have friends there,” he pressed. “You should meet them, too.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you said, your teeth catching on your lip as you shivered. “It’s chilly today.”

He nodded, glancing toward the kitchen. 

“There’s soup if you want,” you offered shyly, a thumb pointing at the stove.

Without looking at you, he walked to the door. “Later, thanks.”

He reached for the handle, then stopped. He turned back. “The heater’s in my room. You can adjust it if you want.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, and he was gone.

You cleaned your bowl and retreated to your room, attempting to unpack. You were just lining up your photographs on the dresser when the lights blinked once, twice, and died. The apartment plunged into darkness.

You flicked the switch, pointlessly, then sighed. You lit one of your Bath & Body Works candles, the scent of Warm Vanilla Sugar doing little to lighten the apartment or fight the chill settling into the walls. You layered on a sweatshirt, then another, but it wasn't enough. The november temperature was not going to stop falling just for you.

Minutes passed, then an hour. You climbed into bed, shivering so violently your teeth rattled. You curled into a ball, pulling the duvet over your head, but the cold had seeped into your bones.

The front door clicked open. You heard the heavy thud of Jack’s gym bag hitting the floor, followed by the silence of the power outage.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice deeper in the dark. “It’s freezing here. Did you mess with the heater?”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was shaking with such force it felt like you were vibrating against the mattress.

He walked closer, the floorboards creaking until he stood at the threshold of your room. The hallway light didn't exist to guide him, but you saw the silhouette of him standing there.

He repeated your name in the darkness, an edge of fear in it. He walked in, his footsteps pausing when he heard the frantic chatter of your teeth. “Jesus.”

Jack was at your bedside in two strides. He pulled the duvet back, and the sudden exposure to the air made you whine pathetically.

He touched your shoulder, and his hand was a furnace against your skin. He didn't ask questions; he just stripped off his hoodie and shoved you toward the center of the mattress. “Move over.”

“welcome home, honey” you managed to tease him. A menace through and through.

“Move over,” he commanded again. He climbed in behind you, pulling you against his chest and dragging the duvet up to cover you both. His immediate warmth had you sighing in relief.

He pressed his chin to your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he tried to stabilize your shivering.

“I wasn’t built for this weather,” you whispered, your voice cracking against the silence.

He didn't laugh. He just tightened his hold on you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “I know,” he murmured into your hair. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You were hyper-aware of everything—the scent of him; the terrifying speed of your own heart; the way his stubble grazed your neck when he shifted. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force your body to stop the violent tremors, but as your temperature rose, your anxiety kicked in.

“You’re still freezing,” he noted, his tone kind and attentive. He pulled the duvet up higher, tucking the edges beneath your sides. 

“This happens often?”

“Not really.” He shifted beneath the covers and pulled out his phone. The brightness of the screen illuminating his features. You saw how his brows pinched and the firm line of his lips spread open. “Oh.” 

“What?”

He locked the phone and put it in the nightstand behind him. His hand, however, returned to your back afterwards. “There is an email from the building administration about this outrage. It’s for maintenance and it’s scheduled to last until 10:30 pm.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Nine”

“Oh”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t check”

“‘s alright. We can always go to my place” You joked.

“No, thanks. I choose freezing.”

You chuckled.

“Wanna go have dinner somewhere nice and with heating?” He shook you softly and your eyes opened, catching his in the dark room.

You shook your head. “I’m sleepy.” 

“Yeah, you are.”

You clinged yourself closer to him, to his chest that radiated warmth. “You’re so hot.” You mumbled, “I mean, your temperat—.”

Jack chuckled against your hair. “I got that. But I’m all sweaty and gross.” 

You shook your head against his chest.

“We’re changing these sheets in the morning.” He murmured.

You huffed a laugh. “Deal” 

He didn't pull away. Instead, he reached down, finding your hand under the covers and interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Thanks” you mumbled. 

His hands shifted, moving to hold you even tighter. “Don’t.” A single order that you had no intention of challenging.

As you stopped shivering you waited for him to move, to leave, to remind you of the nature of this arrangement, but he stayed perfectly still. 

The exhaustion of the day finally began to win. The adrenaline of the move, the anxiety of sharing a space with him, and the sheer physical effort of trying to stay warm drained out of you, leaving you heavy.

You felt his breathing even out, slow and rhythmic. It was hypnotic. You tucked your nose into the crook of his neck, your hand still locked securely in his. You were exhausted, and for the first time in weeks, you felt safe.

The last thing you registered before sleep pulled you under was the feeling of his thumb tracing lazy, tender circles over the back of your hand. You drifted off, held fast by the man who was currently your roommate, your husband-to-be-on-paper, and your only source of heat in the dark.

Tag list: @thefemininemystiquee @sorilyae @mrsdominickstark @theaskeeps @toxicwasteee @realwhoreforfictionalmen  @thehockeynerd30 @holyhozierwp @ficcyyfics @thedamnqueenofhell

[untilmynextstory]

An arranged marriage with pope and the bride is from another crime family omg sign me up so much potential rivals and enemies to lovers and I would fully support pope taking over the family lol

Yeah, I decided to scrap my original idea for my last Honey iteration, "with one kiss, you inspired a fire of devotion," and while trying to revamp....I started creating some other characters and thought maybe I could actually write a long-form fic and play fast and loose with canon.

I also really want to try to dig into the dynamics with Baz & Pope...and with J in the picture, I felt we could explore alot more of trying to win J to their side, etc.

So I want to finish the remaining ideas I have for, "Sugar on the Rim" and my Belen!Honey, and then I will give this my full attention to really flesh it out.

I keep wanting to work on the outlines I have for Jack, but I keep going back to Pope, lol.

[untilmynextstory]

how would ya'll feel about a animal kingdom au w/ pope & an arranged marriage to another crime family...

baz is still alive

smurf is in prison

there is still the power struggle of who is in charge of the cody family.....and then a new family comes in....to make peace a deal is brokered that pope will marry the daughter of the family.....

would ya'll read that???

[drhobby]

bounded (1) j.a.

you never thought you’d end up married. less so with your boss. and even less to get residency in the us. arranged marriage to dr. jack abbot. enjoy :) warnings: mentions of federal agencies and deportations, immigration system overall. there is no mention of the country where you’re from or the specific reasons to leave but there are references of you not wanting to go back. word count: 1.2 > next chapter >

Disclaimer This story is 100% fiction. I do not own any of the characters presented and it is not based on true events. I questioned myself for too long whether or not to write this especially in the world we are currently living in. But my writing, as any of the things we do, is nothing but a reflection of myself as a political being. As a woman, as hispanic, as a human rights and victims advocate I can not be apolitical and yes, through this story it will become very clear where I stand.  With this, it is not my intention to caricature the suffering that millions of people experience around the world, on the contrary, to display how incredibly easy, unfair and unhuman these processes can be, along with the irreparable damage those around them face. No human is illegal. And I will live on that hill.

---

The world blurred at the edges of your vision. Your breath came in shallow, jagged hitches as you walked back into the hospital, your hands trembling so violently you shoved them deep into your pockets to hide them. You needed the distraction. You needed to be anyone other than yourself for the next twelve hours.

The sun was setting, casting long, mocking shadows across the ER as you reached the locker room. You punched in your code, your fingers sluggish. As you shoved your bag inside, you tried to mentally—and spiritually—lock your terror away with it, closing the door with a sharp clack.

You headed straight to triage. If you stayed busy—if you just kept moving—maybe you wouldn’t have to hear the echo of the call from this morning.

‘You need to find another way, or you’re out.’

“How long has your stomach been hurting?” you asked a man reeking of cheap tequila. You didn't wait for his slurred response; you were already moving to the next bay. You needed the noise of the ER to drown out the silence of your own desperation.

You pressed the wooden depressor to the next patient’s tongue and shone your pen-light down her throat. “Have you taken any unprescribed antibiotics?” She shook her head, though you knew the answer already.

“Breathe for me, please,” you murmured to a little girl clutching a teddy bear.

You cycled through patients with frantic efficiency, trying to discharge as many as possible to keep your mind occupied.

“Have you ingested any alcohol in the last 24 hours?” you asked a young man who insisted his stomach was shredding him from the inside. It was Sunday night; he looked every bit the part of a man paying the price for a wild weekend.

“No,” his voice cracked. “It hurts too much. I can’t even sleep.”

“We’re going to order some exams and—”

He started spitting blood.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered. “I need a gurney!”

Mateo helped you scramble him onto the gurney, guiding him into a trauma room. Abbot was the first one through the door, his eyes immediately assessing the chaos.

"Intubating now," you rasped, your voice sounding thin, detached from your own body.

Abbot was already at the bedside, his movements efficient and commanding. "I'm holding cricoid pressure," he announced, his hand firm on the patient’s neck to prevent aspiration as he kept barking orders to the rest of the room.

He saw the sweat beading on your forehead, the way your hand trembled as you visualized the vocal cords.

"You're second-guessing, Doc," Abbot said, his voice clipped and low, designed only for your ears. "Stay with the patient. Breathe."

You ignored him, forcing the blade in. You saw the cords and slid the tube home. You watched for the chest rise as you bagged him.

"Good placement," Abbot confirmed, grabbing the stethoscope to confirm lung sounds while simultaneously checking the capnography wave. "Bilateral breath sounds. Secure the tube."

The immediate medical crisis stabilized, but the adrenaline stayed with you. It didn’t belong to the patient but to you.

"You okay?" Abbot asked again, his eyes narrowing as he stepped away from the gurney, his posture still braced for a medical emergency.

"Where’s Ellis?" you asked, desperate to shift your attention elsewhere.

"She’s outside with some ICE agents," Abbot said, his tone shifting from professional to guarded.

“Some what?”

Abbot waved a hand, dismissive, as if this were just another bureaucratic hurdle. He didn't understand. 

But your stomach churned, the bile rising in your throat. Your knees betrayed you entirely. You stumbled backward, your hip catching the sharp edge of the supply cart, sending a tray of gauze and tape clattering to the floor, deafening the room.

You clawed at the edge of the counter, your knuckles white, but your muscles turned to water. You sank, sliding down the wall until you hit the linoleum, your chest heaving in jagged gasps. The room tilted violently, was it an earthquake? it couldn’t be. The fluorescent lights strobing above you. 

Abbot was with you in an instant. his strong hands on your shoulders, shouting orders left and right.

“It’s me,” you muttered between jagged, hitching breaths.

“You what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“They’re here for me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the monitors. “They’re coming for me.” and then the entire world faded to black.

You woke up in a room. Lights dimmed down and Jack Abbot, your boss, was sitting at the edge of your bed.

“Doctor Abbot” You composed yourself. There was an IV on your wrist, heart monitors clipped on your chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t know–”

“Spare me the bullshit.” His arms crossed on his chest. “What the fuck was that.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze, turning to see your own hands instead, tears dwelling up on your eyes. 

“I was here on a student visa” you said as the first tears fell, your voice soft and low. “And since my residency is ending in three months, I applied for residency. But it was denied.” 

His jaw unclenched. His arms fell on the sides of his body. You could see he was moved. 

You swallowed before continuing. “I am just waiting for the deportation order at this point. I don’t have many options.” 

“But you have some” he pressed.

A soft sigh left your mouth, it wasn’t really funny. But it was that for a man like him, options always existed.

“Yeah. I have two. One is to stay here for twenty-one years until a hypothetical child can sponsor me.” You scoffed, “Or find someone to marry.”

Abbot stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with that steady chief gaze. "Then get married."

“It’s not that simple. It has to be real. Photographs, dates, vacations, joint accounts, witnesses who can swear we’re in love. It’s–impossible. And I don’t have the time. I spent ten years here trying to be this” you gestured to the hospital,  “and I won’t be this anymore" your voice cracked, tears falling down uncontrollably now. You looked up at him, eyes stinging. "I’m going to have to go back to a place I haven’t called home in a decade."

“Don’t. Get married.” He said it like an order. Like he was telling you what to do in the middle of an emergency. And he was.

You scoffed, wiping your eyes. "Yeah, right. Who would do that for me?"

"I would."

You froze. The beep of the heart monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the silence between you."What?"

He didn't flinch. "I’d do it. I know anyone here would. But it’s your call.” 

“Doctor Abbot, that’s very kind to offer but–”

“You’d rather marry Shen? He can't lie to save his life—an INS agent would break him in ten minutes. Ellis? A black lesbian woman in this climate? Good luck with that." He took a step toward you, his presence grounding. "Or a white veteran who gave a leg to this country. You think a judge is going to deny me a wife?"

He stood there, waiting for you to respond. The ball was in your court and he had sent you a logical, almost perfectly reasonable proposal. He had thrown you a lifeline.

Then, he shook his head, looking toward the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t intrude int–”

“Yes.” You interrupted him before he changed his mind. 

His gaze snapped back to yours, his expression softening from his usual, unshakeable certainty.

“Jack Abbot,” you breathed, your heart hammering against the leads on your chest. “Marry me.”

A faint, rare smile touched his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

[80sfilmclub]

♡ɞ✦ ┆・ DOLL'S CORNER.

summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you. word count. 16.5k (this got away from me) content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)

As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡

[ladiesblr]

JESSICA ALBA as HONEY DANIELS Honey (2003) dir. Bille Woodruff

[darkseidex]

.ೃDAYS OF OUR LOVEᝰ

In which Jack Abbott has loved Jamila since he was twenty-two and foolish enough to take her ring shopping on the second date, and twenty-three years later, he still looks at her like she is the only fixed star in his sky.

From the golden ache of first love to the quiet rituals of marriage, Jack and Jamila’s story is one of devotion tested by time, war, grief, parenthood, and the terrifying work of being known completely. When Jack comes home changed by war, Jamila refuses to let him mistake injury for inferiority, and in the years that follow, their love becomes something deeper than romance — a home, a vow, a shoreline, a place where even the ruined parts of a person can be held without shame.

( the author still needs this old man in her drawls )

When Jack met Jamila, Shakespeare ceased to be literature and became anatomy, something living beneath his ribs, something with a pulse, something that explained why men in old plays looked into the face of love and lost all reasonable instinct, because suddenly he understood every doomed fool who had ever mistaken devotion for oxygen and every tragic lover who had ever decided that a world without the beloved was not a world at all, merely a country stripped of its sun, a sea abandoned by its moon, a body still moving long after the soul had left it.

He understood, with terrifying clarity, why Orpheus turned around.

Not because he was weak, not because he doubted the gods, not because he could not obey, but because love, real love, the kind that sinks its teeth into the marrow and remakes a man from the inside out, does not move comfortably on faith alone, and Jack knew, the moment Jamila looked at him, that he too would have glanced back into the mouth of hell just to make sure she was still behind him, even if it condemned them both, even if Hades himself stood waiting with a crown of ash and judgment in his hands.

He understood Romeo and Juliet then too, not in the foolish way people mocked them for, not as children too dramatic for their own hearts, but as two souls who had stumbled into recognition so violent it made the world before each other feel counterfeit, because when Jack met Jamila, he understood how death beside the one you loved could seem less cruel than life in a universe where their hand no longer fit into yours, where their voice no longer called your name across a room, where the earth kept turning with the audacity to pretend the stars had not gone out.

He was twenty-two when he met her, already walking toward army medicine with the grim focus of a man who had decided early that blood, discipline, and survival would be the shape of his life, while Jamila was twenty, bright-eyed and brilliant, stepping into software engineering like she had been born to speak in languages machines understood, her mind clean and electric, full of logic, architecture, systems, and possibilities he could barely name.

They should have been opposites, and perhaps they were, in the way the sun and moon were opposites, in the way land and sea met only at the shoreline yet spent eternity reshaping one another, in the way Apollo drew his golden chariot across the morning while Artemis guarded the silver hush of night, separate and sacred until eclipse made a miracle of their collision.

Jamila was sunlight over open water, all warmth and movement and impossible shimmer, the kind of woman who made ordinary rooms look briefly blessed, while Jack was moonlight over dark fields, quieter, watchful, made of shadow and gravity, a man who had learned to love carefully because carelessness had teeth; and yet from the moment they met, it felt less like attraction and more like orbit, as if some ancient god had taken their names, carved them into opposite sides of the same star, and set them loose across the heavens just to see how long it would take them to find their way back.

Jack was sure of her almost immediately, so sure it frightened him, so sure that the certainty did not feel reckless but ancestral, as if every man in his bloodline who had ever loved a woman properly had leaned across time and whispered, that one, as if the earth beneath his feet had changed its axis and expected him to adjust without complaint.

So on their second date, with no grand proposal planned and no velvet box burning a hole through his pocket, he took Jamila ring shopping.

Not because he was trying to trap her, not because he mistook desire for entitlement, and not because he believed love gave him ownership over her future, but because Jack Abbot had already decided that if the day ever came when he knelt before her, he would not do it empty-handed in spirit, would not arrive before the altar of her life unprepared, would not insult her by guessing at what she liked or, worse, choosing something that reflected his ego more than her heart.

To him, there was nothing more careless than an unprepared man, nothing more selfish than a man who dressed his own desires up as romance and placed them in a woman’s lap like tribute, expecting gratitude for a gift that had never truly considered her.

Jamila deserved better than that.

She deserved intention.

She deserved study.

She deserved a man who paid attention the way sailors once studied constellations, the way farmers read the sky before planting, the way ancient Greeks listened for the gods in thunder and tide, because loving Jamila, even then, felt like learning a sacred language, one made of glances, preferences, silences, laughter, and the small unguarded truths she did not yet know she was giving him.

He remembered her in that jewelry store with a clarity that time had never managed to dull, remembered the soft halo of her hair framing her face like something painted by a Renaissance hand, remembered the way the lights caught in the dark strands and made her look celestial, half-woman and half-constellation, remembered how her features had softened each time she slipped a ring onto her finger, her smile going shy at the edges though she tried to play it cool, dimples appearing like little moons in her cheeks while she turned her hand beneath the glass-bright glow and pretended she did not know he was memorizing everything.

Ring after ring after ring, silver and gold, oval and emerald, delicate bands and bold stones, quiet elegance and glittering declarations, and Jack watched her the way men once watched the horizon for ships, the way Orpheus must have listened for Eurydice’s footsteps in the dark, the way the moon pulls at the sea without ever touching it, learning what made her eyes linger, what made her mouth tilt, what she dismissed quickly, what she came back to twice, what made her hand look most like hers.

He did not rush her.

He did not steer her.

He simply stood beside her, young and already ruined, smiling like a man trying very hard not to show that he was watching the rest of his life choose its shape beneath a jewelry store light.

And Jamila, laughing softly as she slid another ring from her finger and placed it back into the tray, had no idea that Jack was not merely collecting her size or her preferences, but building a map, charting the coastline of her desires grain by grain, star by star, already preparing himself for a future he had no right to claim yet but every intention of earning.

“Jack, where are you takin’ me?” Jamila asked, turning toward him in the passenger seat as he drove through the late afternoon, her voice carrying that sweet Southern edge that made even suspicion sound like music, while the sun lowered itself over the city in a slow golden surrender and poured across her brown skin as if it had been waiting all day for the privilege of touching her.

Jack should have been watching the road with the strict discipline of a man trained to notice danger before it had a name, a man already half-married to order and duty and all the clean, brutal logic of army medicine, but God help him, Jamila made vigilance feel impossible, because every time the light caught the slope of her cheek or the curve of her mouth, every time her hair shifted around her face like a dark halo loosened by the wind, he felt something ancient and unreasonable rise in him, something that belonged less to the modern world and more to myth, to men who built temples because their hearts had nowhere else to put the worship.

He glanced at her, just once, and smiled like he was trying not to give himself away too early.

“Do you trust me?”

Jamila’s brows lifted, her mouth curving before she could stop it, and she turned fully in her seat with the solemn suspicion of a woman who had watched enough true crime to know that charm and bone structure had never saved anybody from being found in a ditch.

“I’m pretty sure that’s how murder documentaries start.”

Jack laughed then, not loudly, not carelessly, but with that low warm sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, and Jamila hated how much she liked it already, hated how quickly it had started to feel familiar, like a song she had not heard before but somehow knew the words to.

“I would make a terrible murderer,” he said, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other briefly shifting against the gear stick as the car rolled past rows of brick buildings washed in amber light. “I’m too organised, which means I’d overthink everything, leave no evidence, then feel guilty about depriving the investigators of a decent puzzle.”

“So you admit you’ve considered the logistics?”

“I’m pursuing medicine in the army, sweetheart, unfortunately my brain considers logistics before romance, breakfast, sleep, and most major holidays.”

Jamila narrowed her eyes at him, but her smile deepened until one dimple appeared, that single devastating indentation that had already begun ruining Jack’s sense of proportion, because every time he saw it, the world rearranged itself around the small fact of her happiness.

“First of all, don’t sweetheart me like you’re not currently driving me to an undisclosed location,” she said, folding her arms as though she were not enjoying herself. “Second of all, men who call women sweetheart in that calm voice are exactly the ones women end up warning each other about.”

Jack looked over at her again, and this time his smile softened into something quieter, something that had no business appearing on a second date, because it looked too close to recognition, too close to promise, too close to a man standing on the shore and seeing, not just the sea in front of him, but every storm he was willing to cross.

“I’ll accept that criticism,” he said, “but I need the record to show that I am not taking you anywhere suspicious.”

“The record will show that you refused to answer a direct question.”

“The record will also show that you got in the car anyway.”

Jamila turned toward the window with a huff, but Jack saw the reflection of her smile in the glass, saw the way she tried to press it down and failed, saw the way the evening light gathered along her profile as if Apollo himself had slowed his chariot just to admire the line of her nose, the softness of her lips, the quiet brightness of her eyes.

He was twenty-two years old, and still, in that moment, he felt impossibly young, almost boyish with wanting, not just wanting her body near him or her hand in his, though God knew even the brush of her shoulder earlier had nearly undone him, but wanting in the larger, more terrifying way, wanting her mornings and her bad moods and her opinions on things he had never cared about before, wanting to know how she took her tea, whether she liked rain, what songs she played when she was sad, whether she cried at films and pretended she didn’t, whether she slept curled into herself or sprawled like she owned the bed.

He wanted to learn her the way ancient sailors learned the stars, not casually, not for beauty alone, but for survival.

That was what unsettled him most.

Jamila did not feel like a woman he had met.

She felt like a direction.

She felt like north.

The road curved toward the older part of town, where the buildings stood close together and the pavements were warm from the day’s heat, and Jamila watched the streets pass with interest, her skepticism shifting into curiosity as Jack pulled onto a quieter lane lined with small shops and window boxes overflowing with flowers that leaned toward the sun like worshippers.

“Jack,” she said slowly, stretching his name in that way that made him feel both accused and adored, “why are we somewhere that looks expensive?”

He did not answer immediately, partly because he enjoyed the rising suspicion in her voice and partly because he needed a moment to gather himself, because the truth was ridiculous even to him, and yet not ridiculous enough to stop him.

Instead, he parked along the curb, turned off the engine, and sat there for half a breath with both hands still on the wheel, looking out at the storefront ahead of them where the windows glimmered with the cold fire of diamonds beneath soft lights.

Jamila followed his gaze.

Then she went still.

Not dramatically, not loudly, but completely, like the sea drawing back from the shore before a wave broke.

“Jack,” she said, and this time his name came out softer, lower, threaded with disbelief.

He turned to her, and though he tried to keep his expression steady, the yearning was there in him like tide under moonlight, pulling at everything he had not said, everything he had no right to say yet, everything his heart had already decided before his common sense had even arrived at the meeting.

“Before you panic,” he said, “I am not proposing to you.”

Jamila blinked at him.

Then blinked again.

“You brought me to a jewelry store on our second date and thought the first thing you should say is, ‘before you panic’?”

“In my defence, it seemed efficient.”

“In your defence?” she repeated, turning toward him in full now, eyes wide and incredulous. “Jack Abbot, I am about to get out this car and walk home.”

“You don’t know where you are.”

“Women have crossed deserts, oceans, and bad marriages with less information than that.”

He laughed again, but there was something nervous beneath it now, something boyish and exposed, because as much as he had rehearsed the explanation in his head, as much as he had arranged the words carefully like instruments on a surgical tray, Jamila looking at him made language feel clumsy.

“I know this is… unusual,” he said, and the understatement made her give him a look so sharp it could have split marble, but he pressed on because if he stopped now, he would lose his nerve. “I’m not asking you for anything, Jamila, and I’m not trying to rush you or scare you or make assumptions about what you want from me, because that would be unfair and honestly stupid, but I do know that I like you, and I know that when I care about something, I prepare for it properly.”

Her expression shifted, suspicion still there, but softened now by curiosity, by the strange tenderness of being taken seriously before she had even asked to be.

Jack swallowed, his gaze dropping for a moment to where her hand rested in her lap, graceful and brown and bare, her fingers catching the sunlight like something sculpted from warm earth.

“I don’t ever want to be the kind of man who decides what a woman should want and then calls it romance,” he said, his voice quieter now, steady but full of something that pressed against the air between them. “If I ever ask you something important, something life-changing, something that deserves reverence, then I want to know I listened before I spoke, and I want to know I chose with you in mind, not with my pride in mind.”

Jamila stared at him, and for once, her mouth did not have a quick answer ready.

That silence nearly killed him.

It would have been easier if she teased him, easier if she scoffed or called him insane or told him he had lost his whole mind somewhere between the starter and the main course on their first date, but instead she just looked at him, really looked at him, as if she were seeing past the smile, past the controlled posture, past the military discipline he wore like armour, and into the young man beneath it, the one who had already started building a place for her in his life with his bare hands.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“I usually am.”

“No, Jack,” she said, her voice gentler now, almost careful. “I mean you’re serious about me.”

The late afternoon seemed to hush around them, the city dimming into a painted thing beyond the windshield, the sun lowering itself toward the horizon like Helios descending into the western sea, and Jack felt the truth rise in him, luminous and dangerous.

“I am,” he said.

Jamila let out a small breath, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, and turned her face toward the jewelry store again, where the diamonds sat in their velvet beds like fallen stars.

“On the second date?”

Jack looked at her profile, at the golden light along her cheek, at the dimple threatening to return even as she tried to remain stern, and he felt so helplessly fond of her that it was almost painful.

“Technically, I knew on the first one,” he admitted.

Her head snapped back toward him.

“Jack.”

“What?”

“You cannot say things like that to me while parked outside a ring store.”

“I could have said it while driving, but you already thought I was taking you somewhere to die.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile so hard he could see the battle moving across her face.

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You are insane.”

“Possibly.”

“You are dangerously intense.”

“That one feels fair.”

“You barely know me.”

Jack’s expression changed then, not into offence, but into something solemn, something that made the air feel warmer and heavier, like summer rain gathering above dry land.

“I know,” he said, and his honesty disarmed her more than any pretty answer could have. “I know I barely know you, and I’m not pretending that I do, but I know enough to want the privilege of learning the rest slowly, properly, without rushing you, without making you feel cornered, without turning my certainty into pressure.”

Jamila’s gaze searched his face, and Jack let her, because there was no manipulation in him, no polished trick, no hidden net beneath the words, only a frightening earnestness that made him feel as vulnerable as Orpheus walking out of the underworld with the whole of his heart behind him and one command standing between hope and ruin.

“I know you’re brilliant,” he continued, voice low, “and I know you like arguing even when you agree, and I know you pretend not to enjoy being complimented even though your left dimple gives you away every single time, and I know you check exits when you walk into restaurants, which means either you’re cautious, nosy, or you watch too much crime television, and I know you spoke about software engineering like it was less of a career and more of a kingdom you intended to build brick by brick until the whole world had to respect the architecture.”

Jamila looked away before he could see too much of what that did to her, but he saw enough.

He always saw enough.

“And,” he said, softer still, “I know that when you laughed last night, I thought about it again before I fell asleep.”

Her eyes closed briefly, as if she needed a second to survive him.

“You are dangerous,” she murmured.

“I thought we established I’d make a poor murderer.”

“Not that kind of dangerous.”

Jack’s smile faded into something more tender, and for a moment he looked at her like she was the only fixed point in an expanding universe, like every star in the sky had been born only to teach him what orbit meant.

“Then what kind?”

Jamila turned back to him, her eyes bright with the kind of feeling she was not yet ready to name, and her smile came slowly, like dawn coming over water.

“The kind women write poetry about and then regret.”

Jack’s breath caught, just barely, but enough for her to notice.

She noticed everything.

That was another thing he loved already, though he had no right to call it love yet, no socially acceptable reason to admit that some part of him had stepped into her gravity and simply stopped fighting the fall.

“Come on,” he said, opening his door before he said something unforgivably honest. “Let me be prepared, and then you can tell all your friends I’m insane over dinner.”

Jamila did not move at first, watching him step out and come around to her side like manners were not performance to him but instinct, something bred deep into the bone, something steady and old-fashioned without being possessive.

When he opened her door, he offered his hand.

She looked at it.

Then she looked at him.

“If I go in there with you,” she said, placing her hand in his palm but not yet letting him help her out, “you understand this does not mean I am agreeing to marry you, have your children, take your last name, or let you start acting like you have claims on me.”

Jack’s fingers closed gently around hers, warm and careful, and the contact moved through him like lightning striking open sea.

“I understand.”

“And you understand that I will tell my friends you’re crazy.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“And you understand that if the saleswoman starts smiling at me like she knows something I don’t, I will leave you in there.”

“I’ll deserve it.”

Jamila stepped out of the car, and when she stood in front of him, close enough that he could smell the soft sweetness of whatever lotion she wore, close enough that the wind lifted a strand of her hair against his sleeve, Jack had the wild, almost unbearable thought that if Aphrodite herself had risen from seafoam and walked barefoot through the world, she might have carried herself like this, amused and luminous and entirely aware that men had been losing wars for less.

He did not say that, of course, because he wanted to live.

Instead, he shut the car door and walked beside her toward the jewelry store, careful not to crowd her, though every part of him wanted to reach for her again, wanted to know whether her hand fit his as perfectly on purpose or whether the universe was simply showing off.

Inside, the store was cool and bright, the air faintly perfumed, the glass counters arranged like small altars beneath constellations of light, and Jamila slowed as she entered, her earlier teasing falling into a quiet sort of wonder she tried very hard to conceal.

Jack watched her take it in.

Not the diamonds first, not the price tags, not the glitter, but the shapes, the settings, the artistry of it all, the language of gold and stone and craftsmanship speaking to that architectural part of her mind, and he felt something inside him settle with certainty so deep it was almost frightening.

He wanted to give her beautiful things, yes, but not because beauty alone could impress her.

He wanted to give her considered things.

Chosen things.

Things that said, I saw you, I listened, I remembered.

A saleswoman approached with a professional smile, and Jamila immediately cut her eyes at Jack as if to say, behave, which made his mouth twitch.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said warmly. “Are we looking for anything special today?”

Jamila opened her mouth, probably to say something sensible, something clarifying, something that would spare them both from the absurdity of the situation, but Jack spoke first.

“We’re just learning what she likes,” he said, with such calm conviction that Jamila’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly beside him. “Nothing more than that.”

The saleswoman’s expression softened in a way Jamila absolutely noticed, and Jack felt Jamila’s elbow brush his side in warning.

He looked down at her.

She smiled up at him, sweet as honey and just as dangerous.

“I told you,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“She’s smiling.”

“I see that.”

“I’m leaving you here.”

“You said that already.”

“And yet you’re still misbehaving.”

Jack leaned slightly closer, not enough to be improper, just enough that his voice became something meant for her alone.

“If this is me misbehaving, Jamila, you’re going to be very disappointed when you find out how good I can be.”

For one glorious second, she forgot how to respond.

Jack saw it.

Jack cherished it.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she turned toward the counter with the dignity of a queen pretending she had not just been knocked off balance by a soldier with tired eyes and a devastating mouth.

“Show me something simple,” she said to the saleswoman, her voice perfectly composed except for the faint warmth in it. “Elegant, not boring, and please do not bring me anything that looks like a man chose it to prove he had money.”

The saleswoman laughed softly, and Jack looked down, smiling like a condemned man who had no interest in appeal.

There she was.

There was his Jamila, though he would not dare say his aloud, not yet, not before she gave him the right, not before he earned it with patience and reverence and the kind of devotion that did not clutch but cultivated, that did not conquer but tended, like fertile land waiting for rain, like a lighthouse keeping watch over a restless sea.

Ring after ring appeared on black velvet, each one catching the light in small bursts of fire, and Jamila tried them on with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment, as though she were amused by the drama of it all and secretly, dangerously touched by the fact that he cared enough to ask.

Jack paid attention like a man taking sacred instruction.

He noticed how she dismissed round stones too quickly, how her fingers lingered over emerald cuts, how she liked gold but paused longer over warmer tones, how she frowned at anything too bulky, how she smiled despite herself when a delicate band caught the light like a narrow river under the sun.

He noticed the way she flexed her hand when a ring felt wrong, the way her mouth softened when one felt close, the way she glanced at him once after trying on an oval stone and then immediately looked away, as if sharing the reaction too soon would reveal more than she was ready to give.

“That one?” he asked quietly.

Jamila looked down at her hand, then at him.

“It’s pretty.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes lifted, and there it was again, that spark between them, that answering flare, like two celestial bodies recognizing the pull before impact.

“What did you ask, then?”

“I asked if you liked it.”

She swallowed, and Jack watched the movement with a tenderness that nearly undid him.

“I do,” she said, softer than before. “I like this one.”

The saleswoman smiled and began noting details, but Jack barely heard her, because Jamila was looking down at the ring on her own hand with an expression he knew he would remember when he was old, when his curls had gone fully silver, when their life had gathered years the way shorelines gathered shells.

He imagined, against all reason and permission, that same hand reaching for him in the dark.

He imagined it resting on his chest.

He imagined it holding his child’s fingers.

He imagined it wearing something he had chosen not because it was expensive, not because it announced him, but because it belonged to her as naturally as moonlight belonged to the tide.

The yearning that moved through him then was not hunger alone, though hunger was there, sharp and human and impossible to deny; it was something larger and more reverent, something rooted in the deep earth of him, something that wanted not to take but to build, to plant, to return, to become worthy of being trusted with her name in his mouth and her future anywhere near his hands.

Jamila glanced up and caught him staring.

“What?” she asked, her voice quieter now, stripped of some of its teasing.

Jack could have lied.

He could have made a joke.

He could have hidden behind charm, because charm was easier than truth and far less likely to frighten a woman on a second date in a jewelry store.

But he looked at her beneath those soft white lights, with all those diamonds burning around them like fragments of fallen stars, and he found he could not make himself cheapen the moment.

“I’m trying to remember this,” he said.

Her expression changed.

“Why?”

“Because one day,” he said, carefully, gently, as if laying something precious between them and not asking her to pick it up yet, “I think I’m going to be very grateful that I did.”

For a long moment, Jamila said nothing.

Then she looked back down at the ring, turning her hand slightly, watching the stone catch the light.

“You really are crazy,” she whispered.

Jack smiled, but his voice, when it came, was steady as a vow spoken under stars.

“Only about you.”

Their love was a symphony, not loud for the sake of being heard but perfectly composed, deliberate as a hand hovering over ivory keys before the first note, every breath and glance and touch arriving where it was meant to, as if some unseen conductor had been standing beyond the veil of their lives long before they met, waiting for Jack Abbot and Jamila Vermont to finally find the same measure.

After that second date, when the evening had folded itself into something soft and dangerous, when the city outside had gone blue-black beneath the moon and the stars had begun pricking holes in the dark like heaven itself wanted to spy, Jack understood that what was happening between them was not simply want, not simply chemistry, not the ordinary hunger of a young man undone by a beautiful woman, but something older than language, something tidal, something celestial, something that moved through him with the terrifying certainty of the sea answering the moon.

He had thought himself disciplined before Jamila, thought himself steady, thought the army had already begun carving him into a man of restraint and reason, but then she said his name in the dark, soft and wanting and ruinously sure, and every law he had ever obeyed became smoke, every sensible thought scattered like birds startled from a field, every carefully built wall inside him lowered its drawbridge as though it had only ever been waiting for her arrival.

He did not think of conquest, because Jamila was not territory to be taken, nor treasure to be seized, nor some mortal prize for a man arrogant enough to believe love meant possession, but he thought of worship, of temples built from marble and devotion, of sailors who kissed the earth after surviving storms, of farmers who fell to their knees when rain finally broke over starving land, of Orpheus looking back not out of weakness but because the beloved voice behind him was worth more than obedience to the gods.

That was how Jack loved her already, helplessly and with the full surrender of a man who knew, even at twenty-two, that he had reached the place where his life would divide itself into before and after.

When they became one, it was not crude or careless, not some fleeting collision of bodies mistaken for intimacy, but a crossing of oceans, a meeting of weather systems, a sacred eclipse in which the sun and moon stopped chasing one another long enough to touch, and Jack, with Jamila close enough to feel like warmth beneath his skin and fate beneath his hands, swore with the kind of silent desperation men saved for battlefields, deathbeds, and altars that he would spend his life loving her if she allowed him the honor.

He swore it to every god who had ever meddled in the affairs of lovers, to Aphrodite rising from seafoam with mischief on her mouth, to Hera watching over vows with stern and ancient eyes, to Selene dragging her silver chariot across the night, to Poseidon roaring beneath the black belly of the ocean, to every power that had ever watched humans ruin themselves beautifully in the name of love.

He swore it on his mother and father, on the generations before him whose names he carried in his blood, on the bones of every Abbot who had known how to keep a promise, that Jamila would not be a season in his life, would not be a woman he remembered with regret, would not become some almost-love he spoke of years later with a glass in his hand and sorrow in his throat.

Jamila would be his wife.

Jamila would be his lover.

Jamila would be the woman whose name lived behind his teeth when he prayed, cursed, laughed, bled, survived, and came home.

And God, the way she held him close, the way she seemed to pull the very tide out of him, the way her breath trembled against his skin like wind moving over summer grass, the way his name left her mouth not as a sound but as a summons, made something in Jack tighten with such unbearable tenderness that he almost could not endure it, because desire was one thing, sharp and human and blinding, but being wanted by Jamila felt like being chosen by the sun.

He had known attraction before her, had known the quick flare of interest, the passing heat of pretty faces and easy conversations, but this was not heat alone; this was gravity, this was the earth learning the shape of its own orbit, this was a man standing at the edge of the known world and realizing the horizon was not an ending but an invitation.

“Jamila,” he breathed, and her name sounded different in his mouth then, less like a name and more like scripture, like a prayer he had not been taught but somehow remembered.

She touched his face with a softness that undid him more completely than any urgency could have, her fingers tracing him as if she were learning not merely the lines of his jaw or the slope of his cheek, but the man beneath the skin, the boy who had grown into discipline because chaos had frightened him, the soldier-in-training who trusted structure because tenderness felt too unpredictable, the young man who had looked at her across a dinner table and known, with no proof except the wild arithmetic of his own heart, that he was finished.

“You’re staring,” she whispered, laughter tucked into the words, breathless and affectionate and a little shy despite all the boldness she had shown him.

“I know,” he murmured, because lying to Jamila already felt impossible, and because even then, even before rings and vows and children and night shifts and gray curls, Jack understood that love demanded honesty before it demanded poetry.

“You always this intense?”

“No,” he said, and the answer came too quickly, too seriously, because he wanted her to understand that this version of him, this undone and open and almost reverent version, belonged to her alone. “Only with you.”

That made her quiet in a way that pleased and terrified him, because Jamila was quick, Jamila was sharp, Jamila had a mouth made for teasing and a mind made for dismantling foolish men brick by brick, yet she looked at him then as if he had reached into some hidden place and touched something she had not meant to show him so soon.

Outside, the moon climbed higher, pouring silver over rooftops and windowsills, and inside, the world reduced itself to the sacred hush of two people finding each other in the dark, not with the clumsiness of strangers but with the awe of lost kingdoms recognizing the same old flag, with the sea rushing toward the shore and the shore opening to receive it, with stars collapsing into constellations because chaos had finally been given a shape.

Jack wanted to tell her everything then, wanted to confess that he had already imagined her old beside him, already imagined her laughter in rooms he had not lived in yet, already imagined her hand wearing a ring he had chosen with the care of a man selecting a star from the sky, already imagined mornings where she fussed at him for leaving shoes in the wrong place and nights where he came home heavy with the world and found her waiting like a lighthouse refusing to let him drown.

But he did not say all of it, because even in the flood of feeling, he knew love was not proven by overwhelming a woman with the full weight of a man’s longing, and Jack would rather bite his own tongue bloody than make Jamila feel cornered by the force of what he already knew.

So he kissed the truth into the quiet instead, kissed it into her hairline, into her temple, into the bend of her laughter, into the places where speech became too small and feeling had to find another language, and every time she drew him closer, every time she answered him with that same impossible tenderness, the vow inside him rooted deeper.

He would earn her slowly.

He would study her properly.

He would learn the weather of her moods, the architecture of her ambitions, the passwords to her silence, the small ceremonies that made her feel loved, the sharp edges of her fears, the hidden softness behind her wit, and every private constellation that made up the universe of Jamila Vermont.

He would not rush her to the altar simply because his heart had already run there barefoot.

He would not place his certainty around her neck like a chain and call it devotion.

He would become steady enough for her to lean on, patient enough for her to trust, humble enough to be corrected, tender enough to be safe, and strong enough to stand beside her without trying to stand over her.

That was the vow beneath the vow, the one no god could witness because it was carved too deep for heaven to see, and as the night moved around them like dark water, as Jamila’s breath softened and the universe seemed to hold its own, Jack rested his forehead against hers and felt his whole future gather itself into one luminous point.

Her.

Always her.

Not because she had been promised to him by fate, not because myth or moonlight or desire had made the choice for them, but because in a world full of noise and ruin and brief, forgettable things, Jamila felt like the one truth he would spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of keeping.

He remembered when he lost part of his leg during his time at war; it had been fifteen years now, fifteen whole years of scar tissue and prosthetic fittings and phantom aches that came with rain or exhaustion or memory, and still he remembered it with the bright, cruel clarity of yesterday, as if the wound had never truly closed but had simply learned manners, as if it had dressed itself in skin and time and let the world believe it had stopped bleeding.

Apparently army medics were not exempt from becoming casualties themselves, and Jack had learned that lesson not from textbooks or triage drills or the clean theoretical language of trauma training, but from the dirt, from the smoke, from the terrible red arithmetic of war, from a field where the earth had split open like some ancient god had struck it in anger and demanded payment in flesh.

He remembered the sky most of all.

That was the part that haunted him strangely, not the shouting, not the burning metal, not the sharp medical voices in his ear, but the sky above him, wide and blue and indifferent, an impossible dome of heaven stretched over the ugliest hour of his life, and he remembered thinking that the gods had always been cruel in the old stories, always watching men break themselves against war and love and destiny, always asking for a limb here, a heart there, a wife turned to shadow, a son sent across the sea, a soldier dragged home in pieces.

He remembered thinking, absurdly, stupidly, with blood in his mouth and his hands trying to do their work even when his body had become the emergency, that Jamila was going to leave him.

Not because she was shallow, not because she was cruel, not because she had ever once loved him in a way that depended on him being whole by anyone else’s definition, but because fear was not rational when it found a man already on the floor; fear was a vulture, circling low and patient, whispering the ugliest things in his own voice until they sounded like truth.

Good fucking job, pal, he remembered thinking, bitter and delirious and so furious at himself he could hardly breathe. You didn’t deserve her to begin with, and now she’s surely going to leave your ass.

He remembered all of it, the shame most of all, the hot, suffocating shame that rose in him before the grief even had language, because Jack had always known how to be useful, had known how to be steady, had known how to stand between disaster and the people he loved, and suddenly his own body had become a country after invasion, its map redrawn without his permission, borders broken, landmarks missing, the familiar terrain of himself turned foreign under his hands.

He wanted Jamila more than he wanted air.

And he did not want her anywhere near him.

That contradiction nearly killed him more thoroughly than the injury had, because the person who could soothe his woes most was the very person he could not bear to see, the woman whose hands had always known how to find the ache beneath his armor, whose voice could call him back from any ledge, whose love had once made him feel larger than fear, and yet the idea of her walking into that hospital room and seeing him reduced, altered, lessened — God, the word made him hate himself even as he thought it — felt like staring down a second battlefield.

He had imagined her face before she arrived, and his mind, being a cruel and gifted enemy, painted every version designed to ruin him.

He imagined pity.

He imagined shock.

He imagined her trying to hide grief too quickly, her smile trembling at the edges, her eyes falling where his leg no longer was and then lifting with too much effort, too much kindness, too much careful mercy, and he thought that if Jamila looked at him like something to be handled gently because it had been broken, he would not survive it.

He could take pain.

He could take blood.

He could take surgeons, morphine, military doctors speaking in clipped tones over him as if his body were a report they had to file by morning.

But he could not take Jamila’s pity.

He could not take being loved out of obligation by the woman he had once promised the moon to with twenty-two-year-old arrogance and a second-date ring size tucked in the secret chambers of his memory.

He remembered hearing her before he saw her.

That was Jamila all over, arriving not like a storm exactly, but like weather the earth had been warned about, like pressure gathering over the sea, like thunder still beyond the horizon but already making every living thing lift its head. He heard the sharp rhythm of her heels first, then her voice cutting through the sterile quiet of the ward with that polished, dangerous sweetness she used when she was one inconvenience away from ruining somebody’s afternoon.

He remembered hearing her before he saw her.

Not clearly at first, not as a voice with words and edges, but as a force moving through the corridor outside his hospital room, as unmistakable as thunder rolling over black water, as familiar as the moon dragging the tide toward shore whether the sea was ready or not. Even through the haze of pain medicine, even through the sterile hush of machines and the thick, shameful fog of his own fear, Jack knew that voice before his mind could fully hold it.

Jamila.

“Jack. Jack Abbot. I’m looking for my husband.”

Her voice was controlled, which somehow made it worse for everyone involved, because Jamila Vermont-Abbott did not need to shout to become dangerous; she had never been the kind of woman who mistook volume for power, and even then, even frantic, even terrified, she spoke with the sharp precision of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

“Yes, I am aware he doesn’t want any visitors,” she said, each word polished smooth with false patience, the sort of patience that promised ruin if tested one second longer. “And I’m also aware that you are standing between me and the man I married, Curtis, so either you let me see him, or I’m going to make your wife aware of your extracurricular activities.”

Jack closed his eyes.

Even half-broken, even with his body remade by war and his pride lying somewhere in the dust beside what he had lost, some stunned, horrified part of him thought, I told her that in confidence.

Of course she had remembered.

Of course she had stored it somewhere behind those pretty brown eyes like a queen keeping a dagger beneath her silk, not because she was cruel, but because Jamila believed information was a tool and fools were merely people who did not know how to use what they had been given. She had always been like that, brilliant and ruthless when necessary, sunlight with teeth, warmth with a warning label, the kind of woman who could kiss softness into a man’s forehead and then reduce an obstacle to ash without ever raising her voice.

There was a pause outside the door.

A small one.

The kind men took when they realized the woman in front of them had not come to negotiate, but to collect what belonged to her heart.

Jack could almost see Curtis through the wall, could imagine the blood draining from his face, could imagine the nurse at the desk pretending not to listen, could imagine Jamila standing there with her coat still on, hair probably pulled back in a rush, eyes bright with fear and fury, looking less like a worried wife and more like Hera herself descending from Olympus to remind mortals what happened when they confused protocol with authority.

And God help him, beneath all the shame and terror and pain, Jack loved her so violently in that moment that it nearly split him open all over again.

And God help him, beneath all the shame and terror and pain, Jack loved her so violently in that moment that it nearly split him open all over again.

Because only Jamila would arrive at a military hospital with fear clawing its way up her throat, with her husband lying somewhere behind a closed door and the worst day of their marriage unfolding in sterile white light, and still have the presence of mind to weaponize a man named Curtis’s infidelity like she was pulling a blade from her garter at a dinner party, polite as a duchess, deadly as Athena stepping fully armed from Zeus’s skull.

There was another pause, then a low male voice, nervous now, muffled through the door but not muffled enough to hide the surrender in it.

“Mrs. Abbot, I really don’t think—”

“You don’t need to think, Curtis, that’s clearly been part of the problem.”

Jack would have laughed if his ribs had not hurt, if his throat had not been tight, if the lower half of his body did not feel like a foreign country after war had burned the borders and left him stranded in the ash, but even then, even there, the smallest, most battered part of him stirred at the sound of her, because Jamila had always had that effect on him, always reached through whatever fog he was lost in and tugged him back by the soul.

Outside, someone cleared their throat, someone else shifted, and then Curtis, poor foolish Curtis, who had once spoken too freely to Jack during a late-night smoke break and assumed a married man would not repeat another man’s sins to his wife, finally seemed to understand that Jamila Abbott had not flown all the way here to be reasonable.

The door handle moved.

Jack’s heart stopped.

It was a strange thing, to have survived the blast, the blood loss, the hands pressing down on him, the morphine, the doctors talking over what remained and what could not be saved, only to feel, at the turning of a simple metal handle, that he had reached the true edge of himself.

He wanted her.

God, he wanted her so badly it felt animal, humiliating, almost holy, the way a man lost at sea wanted the first glimpse of land, the way Orpheus must have wanted one forbidden glance, the way every tide in the world wanted the moon even though the moon never came close enough to hold.

And yet he wanted the door to stay closed forever.

Because if Jamila crossed that threshold, then the thing he had been dreading would become real in a way even the wound itself had not made real, and she would see him not as memory, not as voice over a dropped call, not as a husband preserved in the bright amber of before, but as he was now, bandaged and battered and changed, with part of his body gone and the rest of him drowning in the ugly belief that war had finally revealed what he had feared all along, that he had never deserved someone like her and now had the evidence to prove it.

The door opened.

For one breath, no one moved.

Jamila stood in the doorway like a figure from myth, not fragile with grief but lit from within by it, her coat still buttoned wrong as if she had dressed faster than her hands could manage, her hair pulled back with several curls escaping around her face, her eyes dark and furious and wet, and behind her, Curtis lingered like a man who had just met Nemesis in a pencil skirt and regretted every decision that had led him there.

Jack saw her see the room first.

The machines.

The wires.

The bruises.

The bandages.

The emptiness beneath the sheet where there should have been shape.

He saw the storm pass over her face so quickly anyone else might have missed it, saw the flash of horror, not at him but at what had been done to him, saw the grief slam into her ribs and nearly fold her in half, saw her swallow it down with brutal discipline because Jamila, even in devastation, understood that this moment could not be about making him hold her fear when he could barely hold his own.

Then her eyes found his.

Not his leg.

Not the wound.

Him.

And Jack, who had spent hours imagining pity, revulsion, obligation, sorrow too heavy to bear, was completely unprepared for the simple, devastating fact of being recognized.

“Jack,” she said, and his name in her mouth was not a gasp or a cry or a funeral bell, but an anchor dropped into black water, something heavy enough to hold.

He turned his head away.

He hated himself the second he did it, hated the cowardice of it, hated that this woman had crossed oceans of fear to find him and he could not even give her his eyes, but shame was a hand around his throat and grief was a second body in the bed with him, and he could not bear the tenderness coming toward him, could not bear the possibility that her love might soften because softness, in that moment, felt too close to mercy.

“Leave,” he said, though the word broke so badly it sounded nothing like an order.

The room went still.

Behind Jamila, Curtis made the fatal mistake of breathing like he might speak.

Without turning around, Jamila lifted one finger.

Curtis shut his mouth.

Even ruined, Jack noticed.

Even heartbroken, even half-sedated, even lying there with his whole future split open like earth after a quake, Jack saw his wife silence a grown man with one hand and thought, stupidly and helplessly, That’s my girl.

Then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Not softly.

Not gently.

With finality.

Like a queen sealing a chamber before judgment.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

Jack stared at the wall, jaw locked so hard pain flared along his face. “I said leave.”

“I heard what you said.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because you are on drugs, traumatized, and acting stupid, so I’m weighing your request accordingly.”

A laugh tried to climb out of him and died somewhere behind his ribs, turning into something uglier, something wet and furious and too close to a sob.

“Jamila.”

“No,” she said, and he heard her coming closer, heard the careful drag of the visitor’s chair, heard the rustle of her coat as she sat beside him but did not touch him yet, because even furious, even terrified, she loved him with enough intelligence to know that some wounds needed permission before hands could come near them. “No, you don’t get to use that voice on me, Jack Abbott, not after you made me threaten Curtis in front of half this damn floor.”

He closed his eyes, and despite everything, despite the pain gnawing through him, despite the shame coiled low and poisonous in his stomach, his mouth moved with the ghost of a smile.

“I told you that in confidence.”

“And I held it in confidence,” she replied, calm as a priestess tending temple fire, “until confidence became less important than access.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That is marriage.”

This time the sound that escaped him was almost laughter, small and broken and painful, but laughter still, and Jamila heard it the way a farmer heard the first rain strike dry land, the way sailors heard gulls after months of nothing but sea, the way Persephone must have heard spring waiting beneath the frozen earth.

“There you are,” she murmured.

The tenderness in those three words undid him more than the teasing had, and he clenched his eyes tighter because he could feel himself slipping, feel the armor cracking, feel the terrible need in him rising like tide under a full moon, dragging him toward her when every frightened part of him wanted to stay stranded on the shore.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Jamila was quiet for a moment, and then he felt her lean forward, not touching, only near enough that the space between them warmed with her presence.

“Like what?”

He swallowed, and the words tasted like blood and humiliation. “Like you feel sorry for me.”

The silence that followed was so complete he heard the monitor beside him, heard the soft mechanical proof that his heart was still doing its work despite the fact that he would have sworn it had fallen apart somewhere in the field with the rest of him.

Then Jamila laughed once, softly, but there was no humor in it.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, and the sorrow in her voice was not pity but grief sharpened by love. “You arrogant, hardheaded man.”

His eyes opened despite himself.

He turned just enough to see her.

She was sitting beside him with her coat still on, hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale from the effort of not reaching for him before he was ready, and her face was wet now, though her posture remained straight, regal, unbroken, as if Hera had learned to cry without surrendering the throne.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” she said, each word quiet and deliberate, the way she spoke when she wanted him to hear her beneath his own noise. “I am sorry this happened to you, and I am sorry you are hurting, and I am sorry war took something from you that it had no right to touch, but I do not feel sorry for you like you are less than the man I married.”

His throat tightened so violently he almost could not breathe.

“You haven’t seen all of it.”

“I have seen you.”

“No,” he said, sharper now, because panic had teeth and it bit first. “You’ve seen the room, you’ve seen the monitors, you’ve seen enough to make a speech, but you have not seen all of it, Jamila.”

Her eyes did flicker then, briefly, toward the sheet.

Jack saw it and hated himself for watching.

He braced for the flinch.

It never came.

Her gaze returned to his face, steady as moonlight over dark fields.

“Then I will see it when you’re ready,” she said.

“And if I’m never ready?”

“Then I will still be your wife while you are not ready.”

He stared at her.

Something in his chest gave way, not fully, not enough to free him, but enough for the pressure to hurt differently.

“You say that now.”

Jamila’s eyebrows rose, and the room changed temperature.

“I’m sorry?”

He knew that tone.

Any other day, any other room, any other universe, he would have apologized immediately for invoking it, because Jamila’s I’m sorry? had ended arguments, corrected waiters, humbled insurance representatives, and once made his commanding officer reconsider a sentence he had technically been allowed to finish.

But he was hurt, and fear made him cruel in the way wounded animals became cruel, not because they wanted to bite the hand reaching for them but because they had forgotten any other way to stop the pain from being seen.

“You say that now,” he repeated, voice rough and low. “While it’s fresh, while everybody’s calling me brave, while you’re relieved I’m not dead, but months from now, when I’m angry and difficult and can’t do half the things I used to, when you’re tired of helping me, when you wake up and remember you married a man who came back in pieces—”

“Careful,” she said.

The word cracked through the room like lightning over open sea.

Jack stopped.

Jamila leaned forward, and now there was fire in her eyes, bright and old and righteous, the kind that had once sent goddesses into battle and turned mortal women into legends men were smart enough to fear.

“You can be angry,” she said. “You can be devastated, you can be terrified, you can grieve what you lost, you can curse God, the army, the doctors, the whole damn sky if you need to, and I will sit here and hear every ugly part of it because I love you, but you do not get to put words in my mouth so you can abandon yourself before you think I have the chance to do it.”

Jack looked away, but her voice followed him like tide around rock.

“You do not get to decide that my love is shallow just because your fear is loud.”

His eyes burned.

“And you do not get to call my husband a man who came back in pieces like the rest of him is not lying right in front of me breathing, stubborn, rude, and apparently still committed to hurting my feelings before breakfast.”

A broken sound left him then, half laugh and half sob, and he turned his face away harder, as if the wall could offer mercy she would not.

Jamila’s voice softened.

“There he is again.”

“Stop saying that,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Jamila.”

“No, because you keep disappearing on me right in front of my face, and I’m going to keep calling you back until you remember where you are.”

He shut his eyes, and in the darkness behind them he saw the blast again, saw earth and fire, saw the sky, saw hands, saw red, saw the impossible distance between the man he had been and the man he was terrified he had become.

“I don’t know where I am,” he admitted, so quietly it almost disappeared beneath the monitor.

Jamila’s breath caught.

For the first time since she entered the room, the queenly composure cracked clean through.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered.

And that was what did it.

Not the threats, not the jokes, not the fierce correction, not even the vow that she was still his wife, but that soft, old, intimate endearment slipping out of her like a hand reaching into the dark, the same voice she used when he came home exhausted, when fever made him restless, when grief sat too heavy on his shoulders, when he pretended he did not need care because needing care made him feel too human.

His face crumpled before he could stop it.

He turned toward her as much as his body allowed, the movement sending a white flash of pain through him, but he did not care, because suddenly she was standing, suddenly she was there, and when her hands came to him at last they came carefully, one to his cheek and one to the back of his head, gentle around every bruise, every wire, every place the doctors had marked and measured.

“I’m here,” she said, bending over him until her forehead touched his, until the scent of her skin cut through antiseptic and medicine and war, warm and familiar and impossibly alive. “I’m right here.”

Jack made a sound he would never be able to describe, something dragged from the bottom of him, from the place men buried terror and called it discipline, and Jamila held his face as his tears came with no dignity at all.

He hated it.

He needed it.

He had never needed anything more.

“I wanted you,” he confessed, the words breaking against her fingers. “I wanted you so bad, Mila.”

“I know.”

“But I couldn’t—” His breath hitched, and he gripped the sheet because he could not grip her too hard, would not make his pain a cage around her. “I couldn’t let you see me.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d—”

“Don’t say leave,” she whispered, her own tears slipping now, falling onto the blanket between them like rain over scorched earth. “Do not give that word a shape in this room.”

He swallowed it down.

The silence held them.

Then, after a long moment, he breathed, “I thought you’d look at me and wish I hadn’t come back like this.”

Jamila went utterly still.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Still in the way the sea went still before a storm decided whether to spare the shore or swallow it.

When she spoke, her voice trembled with so much love it was almost unbearable.

“Jack, I thanked God you came back before I knew what came back with you.”

His eyes opened.

She was looking directly at him, tears on her cheeks, mouth firm, gaze unflinching, and in that moment she looked less like a woman made of flesh and more like something conjured from every faithful thing in creation, lighthouse and hearth flame, harvest moon and summer rain, Penelope at the loom and Aphrodite rising from the sea with the kind of beauty that made men foolish enough to believe the gods were kind.

“I thanked God when they told me you were alive,” she said. “I thanked God when I got on the plane, and I thanked God in the car, and I thanked God in that hallway while Curtis was fighting for his life and his marriage, because whatever war took, whatever it changed, whatever it left us to learn, it failed to take you from me.”

Jack stared at her.

His whole body shook once, hard enough to hurt.

Jamila kissed his forehead, then his temple, then the bridge of his nose, each kiss careful and reverent, each one landing like a star being placed back into a ruined sky.

“You are not inferior,” she whispered against his skin. “You are not less my husband. You are not less a man. You are not a burden I am politely accepting because I once made vows in a pretty dress. You are Jack Abbot, who took me ring shopping on the second date like a lunatic, who cannot season chicken unless supervised, who keeps putting things on the wrong side of the bathroom sink, who thinks I don’t notice when he stares at me, who loves like he’s trying to build a cathedral with his bare hands, and I am not leaving you in this bed, in this grief, or in your own head.”

A weak, shattered laugh escaped him. “I can season chicken.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Mila.”

“Not the point, but still true.”

He laughed again, and it hurt so much he winced, and Jamila immediately shifted, concern flashing over her face.

“Careful,” she murmured.

“You made me laugh.”

“You needed to.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re also dramatic.”

His mouth trembled.

She saw that too.

She always saw.

“Come here,” she said, though he could not, not really, so she came to him instead, sitting on the edge of the bed where the nurses would probably fuss later, gathering as much of him as the wires and bandages allowed, and Jack leaned into her like a man collapsing against the only wall left standing after an earthquake.

Her hand found his hair.

Of course it did.

Even there, even then, before rosemary oil and gray curls and a sleeping child in the next room, her fingers slipped into his hair and began that slow, soothing motion against his scalp, the one that made his breathing change, the one that made something in him unclench no matter how stubbornly he resisted it.

He closed his eyes.

For the first time since the blast, the room did not feel like an underworld.

It felt like a threshold.

Not safe, not yet, not healed, not whole in the easy way people used the word when they wanted suffering to become inspirational quickly, but possible.

Jamila did that.

She did not erase the dark.

She stood in it with him until his eyes adjusted.

“I’m scared,” he said into her coat, the admission muffled and stripped bare.

Her fingers paused only for a second before continuing.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Then we’ll learn.”

“I might hate myself for a while.”

“Then I will love you loud enough for both of us until you remember how.”

He broke again then, quietly this time, not the first violent collapse but a softer grief, the kind that came when a man realized he did not have to perform bravery in order to be kept.

Jamila held him through it.

She held him as machines blinked and hummed, as footsteps moved outside, as the sky beyond the window darkened from blue to violet to the deep black of space, and somewhere above them, unseen behind hospital glass and city light, the stars burned on with their ancient indifference, not knowing that in one small room below, a man had thought himself abandoned by every version of the future and a woman had walked in with a threat on her tongue and devotion in her hands.

After a long while, when his breathing had steadied and exhaustion pulled at him like undertow, Jack opened his eyes and found her still watching him.

Not pitying.

Watching.

Guarding.

Loving.

“You really threatened Curtis?” he murmured.

Jamila’s mouth curved, and there she was again, his girl beneath the grief, sharp as ever, soft only where it mattered most.

“I gave him options.”

“You threatened his marriage.”

“I encouraged transparency.”

“You are terrifying.”

“I am your wife.”

His eyes filled again, though this time the tears did not feel quite as much like defeat.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Her expression gentled.

“Yeah.”

He turned his face into her palm and kissed it, barely, because even that small movement cost him, but he needed the contact like a sailor needed the North Star, like earth needed rain, like the moon needed darkness to be seen.

“I love you,” he said.

Jamila’s thumb moved over his cheek, catching the tear there before it reached his jaw.

“I know.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re supposed to say it back.”

“I flew here, threatened a man with adultery exposure, bullied my way past hospital staff, and sat on this bed after you told me to leave, but yes, Jack, for clarity, I love you too.”

He laughed, hoarse and broken and alive.

Jamila smiled through her tears.

And now, twenty years later, with their son sleeping in the next room and the house wrapped in that particular blue-black quiet that only came after midnight, Jack stared at his wife with reverence, with all the love the world had ever managed to make and then some borrowed from the stars, his gray curls still damp from the oil she had worked into them with patient fingers, rosemary and cloves and some mysterious blend of herbs she had been mixing since the first year she knew him, because apparently Jamila Vermont-Abbot had decided at twenty years old that war, medicine, time, stress, and genetics could take many things from her husband, but they were not taking his hair if she had breath in her body and castor oil in her cabinet.

Twenty-three years of her hands in his hair, twenty-three years of her skin against his, twenty-three years of waking beside her and coming home to her and watching seasons pass across her face like sunlight over open water, and still Jack could not get enough of her, because how could he, when every year had only made her more impossible to survive, when age had not dulled her but deepened her, when she had become richer and warmer and more dangerous with time, like land after rain, like wine sealed in dark glass, like the moon growing full over a restless sea.

She sat between his legs on the edge of their bed, her own bonnet forgotten beside her, her hands glistening faintly from the oil she had just rubbed into his scalp, her house dress loose around her body and one shoulder slipping low enough to make him question every respectable thought he had ever pretended to possess. The lamp on her bedside table cast a honeyed glow over her brown skin, softening the line of her cheek, catching the small silver thread near her temple that she kept pretending was not there, and Jack, who had stitched arteries, delivered babies, survived war zones, and stood over more operating tables than he cared to count, found himself undone by the simple sight of his wife wiping oil from her fingers with a towel.

“Boy, you keep starin’ at me, I’mma have to call somebody.”

Her voice was low so she would not wake Miles, but the warning still carried enough heat and humor to make Jack’s mouth curve, because twenty years of marriage had taught him that Jamila’s threats were often love notes wearing church shoes and an attitude.

“Who you calling?” he asked, his voice rough with tiredness and something softer, something that had been following her around the room all night like tide following the moon.

“Somebody with authority.”

“I’m an attending physician.”

“You are a man sitting on my bed looking at me like you’ve lost your mind.”

“I lost it in 2003.”

Jamila paused with the towel in her hand, her brows rising as she gave him the look, the one that had humbled interns, contractors, bad customer service representatives, and Jack Abbot himself at least twice a week for over two decades.

“You think you’re cute.”

“No,” he said, leaning back on his hands, watching her as though she were still twenty years old beneath jewelry store lights, still laughing with one dimple showing while he quietly planned a lifetime around her ring size. “I think you’re cute.”

“Mmhm.”

“I think you’re beautiful too, but you get suspicious when I lead with that.”

“That’s because you only start talking like that when you want something.”

Jack’s smile turned slow.

“Jamila, I always want something from you.”

She tossed the towel at his chest, and he caught it with one hand, laughing under his breath as she tried to look offended and failed so badly that her mouth betrayed her at the corner.

“See, that right there,” she whispered, pointing at him. “That’s why I don’t let you oil your own scalp anymore, because you get too comfortable when I’m nice to you.”

“You never let me oil my own scalp because you said I don’t massage properly.”

“You don’t.”

“I follow instructions.”

“You follow medical instructions,” she said, standing to put the bottle back on the dresser, hips moving with the unhurried confidence of a woman who had long ago learned that her husband was weak and had made peace with using it against him. “Hair is different.”

Jack watched her cross the room, and the years collapsed inside him all at once, not disappearing, not being erased, but gathering into a single constellation of memory: Jamila at twenty with her face tilted toward a tray of rings, Jamila at twenty-five asleep beside his hospital textbooks with a laptop open on her knees, Jamila crying angry tears when he left for deployment and refusing to let him see her wipe them, Jamila learning the shape of his grief after he came home changed, Jamila helping him relearn parts of his own body with a tenderness that never once made him feel pitied, Jamila pregnant with Miles and cussing him out between contractions while he stood there half-doctor and half-terrified husband, Jamila holding their son for the first time with sweat on her brow and heaven in her eyes.

All of her lived in the woman before him now.

Every version.

Every year.

Every battle.

Every blessing.

“You know,” he said quietly, and something in his tone made her slow before she turned around, “I used to think loving you would get easier to explain the longer I did it.”

Jamila leaned back against the dresser, arms folding over her chest, her expression softening in spite of herself.

“And?”

“And I was wrong.”

The room seemed to shift around the confession, the shadows along the walls stretching like dark water, the moon beyond the curtains laying its silver hand over the floor as though Selene herself had paused her chariot to listen.

Jack sat forward, elbows on his knees, the lamplight catching in his full head of gray curls, the same curls she had saved with oils, patience, threats, and love, and he looked at her with such bare devotion that Jamila’s smile faded into something quieter.

“I understood it better when I was twenty-two,” he said, his voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping child down the hall, yet deep enough to settle into the room like thunder far over the sea. “Back then, it was simple because I didn’t know anything, so all I had was certainty, and that certainty was loud enough to make me brave, stupid enough to take you ring shopping on the second date, arrogant enough to swear to every god that would listen that you were going to be my wife.”

Jamila’s eyes warmed at that, because she remembered that boy, remembered the serious set of his jaw, remembered the ridiculous audacity of him opening her car door outside a jewelry store like the world had not lost its whole mind, remembered thinking he was insane and then, privately, dangerously, wondering why his insanity made her feel so seen.

“And now?” she asked.

Jack looked at her as if the answer cost him something beautiful.

“Now I know better, and somehow I’m worse.”

Her breath caught softly.

He stood then, slow because the day had been long and his body carried its histories in old scars and quiet aches, but there was still something deeply commanding about the way he moved toward her, not with the cockiness of a young man trying to impress but with the gravity of a husband who had crossed half a lifetime to stand in front of the same woman and still felt like he was approaching an altar.

“Now I know what loving you means,” he said, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep his eyes. “It means your bonnet on my pillow, your lotion on my side of the sink, your cold feet under my leg, your laptop cords everywhere, your tea going cold because you start arguing with the news, your mouth fussing at me while your hands are fixing whatever hurts, your voice in my ear when I’m too deep in my own head, your face across from me at breakfast, your rings on the dish by the bed, your hair in the shower drain, your fingerprints all over every part of my life.”

Jamila stared up at him, her arms loosening, her defenses lowering one by one like sails folding after a storm.

“And I still don’t know how to explain it,” he continued, softer now, his hand lifting to brush the silver-threaded curl near her temple with the kind of tenderness that made her heart turn over. “Because it isn’t one thing anymore, honey, it’s everything, it’s the whole damn sky, it’s land and sea and weather, it’s the moon pulling at water it never has to touch to move, it’s Demeter grieving the earth barren and bringing spring back when her girl returns, it’s Odysseus refusing immortality because a goddess could offer him eternity and still not be home.”

Jamila swallowed, and because she was Jamila, because she could be moved down to the bone and still refuse to let him fully win, she whispered, “You been reading again?”

Jack smiled, but his eyes stayed serious.

“Only because you told me twenty years ago that a man with no books in his house was a red flag.”

“I said that?”

“You did.”

“Well, I was right.”

“You usually are.”

“Usually?”

His hand settled at her waist, warm and familiar, respectful until she leaned into it, which she did, because twenty years of marriage had not made her immune to him any more than living beside the sea made a person immune to the sound of waves.

“Always,” he corrected.

“That’s better.”

He bent his head, not quite kissing her yet, just hovering close enough that the space between them became charged, alive, full of all the things they had been saying to each other for two decades without needing words.

Jamila’s hand rose to his hair again, her fingers slipping into the oiled curls at the nape of his neck, and Jack’s eyes closed for a second as if she had put him under some old spell, as if Circe herself had brewed nothing half as potent as his wife touching his scalp in a bedroom that smelled faintly of rosemary, cocoa butter, sleep, and home.

“You keep touching my hair like that,” he murmured, “and you’re going to have to call somebody for real.”

Jamila’s smile came back, slow and wicked enough to make him twenty-two again in all the worst ways.

“Boy, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are always serious.”

“Not always.”

“With me you are.”

He opened his eyes, and the yearning in them was not young anymore, not frantic or untested or hungry without wisdom, but grown and rooted and impossibly tender, like an old olive tree gripping the side of a cliff above the Aegean, weathered by salt and sun and still green with life.

“With you,” he said, “I learned what serious was.”

That shut her up.

Only for a moment, but Jack loved the moment because he had earned it across years, across bills and surgeries and grief and parenthood and arguments about counters and laundry and who moved whose things, across nights when they did not like each other very much but loved each other too deeply to leave the room without reaching back.

Jamila reached for him then, both hands sliding from his hair to his face, her thumbs moving over his cheeks with the same care she had given him when they were young, when he came home exhausted, when pain made him short-tempered, when fatherhood scared him, when the hospital took too much and left him quiet in the doorway.

“You still look at me like that,” she said, and her voice had gone smaller, not weak, never weak, but honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be without teasing around it. “After all this time.”

Jack turned his face and kissed the inside of her palm, lingering there as if the lines of her hand were scripture.

“I see you better now.”

Her eyes shone.

“Jack.”

“I do,” he said, because once the truth started in him there was no stopping it, not with her standing there soft and warm and beloved beneath his hands. “Back then, I saw the sun and thought that was all there was to worship, but now I know you’re the whole system, Jamila, you are morning and eclipse and harvest moon, you are coastline and deep water, you are the storm and the harbor after it, you are every season I have survived and every season I still want.”

She closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head like the words were too much and exactly enough.

“You cannot just say things like that to me at one in the morning.”

“I have to say them when Miles is asleep because he keeps interrupting me.”

At that, she laughed, pressing her forehead into his chest to muffle the sound, and Jack wrapped his arms around her immediately, holding her with that old instinct that had never left him, the one that said her body belonged safe against his not because he owned it but because he had spent half his life being trusted with the privilege of sheltering it.

They stood there in the quiet, swaying without music, though Jack had always thought their love made its own, something with low strings and brass and soft percussion, something composed of her laugh, his breathing, Miles turning over in the next room, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant hush of traffic, the moonlight on the floor.

“You need to sleep,” Jamila whispered against him.

“I know.”

“You worked all night.”

“I know.”

“You have clinic tomorrow afternoon.”

“I know.”

“And yet here you are, being dramatic in my face.”

Jack smiled into her hair.

“I missed you.”

“I was here.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, and the softness in her expression nearly undid him more thoroughly than any seduction could have.

“Come to bed then,” she said.

It was not grand.

It was not mythic.

It was not Shakespearean tragedy or Greek ruin or moon dragging oceans across the earth.

It was better.

It was Jamila turning down the lamp, Jamila tugging him toward the bed by two fingers hooked in his shirt, Jamila fussing at him to put a towel on the pillow because she had just oiled his scalp and she was not washing that pillowcase again, Jamila climbing beneath the covers with a sigh while he followed her as if he had been made for nothing else but finding his way back to her in the dark.

And when he settled beside her, when she tucked herself against him with the easy entitlement of a woman who had slept beside him for twenty years and still somehow fit like the final piece of creation sliding into place, Jack stared at the ceiling for a moment and felt the old vow rise in him again, not as desperate as it had been at twenty-two, not as feverish, not as startled by its own certainty, but deeper now, carved into him by time.

Jamila would be the love of his life.

She had been.

She was.

She would remain.

And when she pinched his side beneath the covers and muttered, “Stop thinking so loud,” Jack laughed quietly, kissed her forehead, and held her closer, grateful beyond language that the gods, the stars, the sea, or whatever ancient force had once pulled the sun and moon into eclipse had seen fit to leave him here, twenty years later, with rosemary oil in his hair, his son sleeping down the hall, and his whole universe breathing against his chest.

tags : @plan3tch1ld @mamasturn @neighbourscat ( lmk if you wanna be added or removed !)

[untilmynextstory]

masterlist: sugar on the rim | stripper!honey

occupational hazard, part i | 18+

summary: work has a way of following people home.

warnings: angst/argument, tense mood, smut (p in v), oral (m receiving), cumplay, BAZ, and canon typical violence/character behavior mentioned/alluded to/depicted

word count: 8k

notes: Ya'll this chapter took on a life of its own, which is why I decided to split it, as I feel the tone was changing from the first half, and a couple of other prompts that I have for these two are better suited to the second half. But I hope you enjoy this. I will try to get part ii out as soon as I can.

Andrew sighs as he sips his beer and listens to his younger brothers' bickering. He can't wait for the appeal of his relationship with Honey to fade in his two younger brothers' eyes, as, since the family dinner, he has been subjected to their presence more than when he lived a few doors down.

Honey finds it amusing because she always provides a fancy snack board before she runs errands or has a get-together with her friends. She does a whole routine of kissing him soundly before she leaves. He does not find his brothers' nosiness amusing because they poke and prod about things that are not their concern, especially as they drink all his beer, eat all his food, and leave messes as if they were toddlers. Come to think of it, he doesn’t think his brothers have developed mentally since they were toddlers.

“No way- is that Honey?” Craig's voice interrupts his musings about the deep cleaning he must do once they leave, as he and Deran crowd around a photo of Honey. He had been tempted to steal the photo of Honey in her Clara costume. Instead, he had asked Ms. Pearl if he could have a copy. She had gladly given him one, and it is now hung up on a shelf in the house.

Pope gets up from his seat and snatches the photo out of his brother's mammoth hands. He places it back in its correct spot at the perfect angle.

He ignores his brothers’ snickering. His features soften as he looks at the photo.

“Looks real cozy in here,” Deran drawls as he stands next to another gallery of pictures. These are the ones Honey requested of him. Pope didn't want photos of himself on the wall or to explain that, once he got past being a teenager, he wasn't in many pictures, aside from a few candid photos taken by surprise.

Plus, he had to grab a copy of the photos without Smurf's knowledge. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to try to bulldoze her way here. And he knows his mother is plotting something, as she has been too quiet about him and Honey since that family dinner.

He looks at the photos of himself as a kid with Julia. Her presence is even more pronounced in this home than in the one where she was raised.

Pope eyes his baby brother and raises his eyebrow, indicating that he should continue.

Deran looks at Craig before looking back at him. Pope mentally counts backward from 10, knowing that he will not like the direction this conversation takes.

Eventually, Craig speaks up. “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“Honey, being a stripper.” He clarifies.

Pope is silent as he processes the question. He honestly did not care about Honey's occupation as long as she was safe and happy. Besides, if she weren't a stripper, they wouldn't have met. And who was he to judge when he was a convicted bank robber and a career criminal?

“Why in the hell would I care?” He counters with.

“Well, you know those girls do stuff on the side,” Deran adds.

Pope scowls. “Did Smurf put you up to this?”

“No, no, no.” Both brothers deny it. Pope is skeptical, and he doesn't feel like tussling with his brothers for the truth, as it gets too hectic, and if Honey walks in, she's going to be pissed.

“Not that it is any of your business; Honey doesn't do that, and if she did, that is between her and me.” He states with finality that he won't talk about this anymore, or he will get pissed.

They drop it and then tell him about their latest surf with J and how they begrudgingly don't find him too bad.

As Pope does not extend the invitation to dinner, having had enough of his brothers, Craig leaves for parts unknown, but Deran lingers.

Pope doesn't say anything, knowing that Deran's pushing and prodding too much leads to clashes. Sometimes, when he looks at Deran, his posture is quiet and pensive, and he can spot the familiarity between them. He realizes the years between them, but he was the first person to hold him.

Billy had been useless as a man and a father. Smurf was Smurf. It was clear that Deran had been the most sensitive child. Even though he and Craig were two peas in a pod, he had been taking Deran to school. In the few activities he did, he made sure things were taken care of, as Smurf cared only about the image to a certain extent.

He helped Deran learn his letters and how to tie his shoes.

He helped raise him.

Deran fidgets with his cigarette.

“You staying for dinner?” Pope asks as he brings out the ingredients to make fettuccine Alfredo.

“You know, I'm glad you found someone,” Deran says. “I don't think I've ever seen you so…relaxed.”

Pope doesn't say anything as he fills the pot to cook the noodles. Deran has always been the one most in tune when he feels himself losing his grip on his surroundings.

“She grounds me,” he tells his brother.

“I like her,” Deran says a bit awkwardly. Pope looks up at him curiously. Pope can say, in some ways, he doesn’t care if his family likes Honey. Their opinion doesn't matter, considering their dysfunction.

Though the other half can't help but feel a flutter of acceptance or pride, knowing there is something of him his family likes. It means even more coming from his baby brother.

“That means a lot.”

Deran nods as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He resumes making dinner, and only a couple of minutes later, Honey walks through the door.

Honey isn't one for surfing. Just because she is a dancer doesn't mean it correlates to her ability to find her balance on a board.

Since the family dinner, Andrew's younger brothers have been around more, especially after she promised Craig she wouldn't deck him again. She knows most of it is to torment their older brother, as siblings do. As much as Andrew says he hates it, she knows he doesn't, as she often finds them watching TV while drinking beers or even helping him with a project he's working on around the house.

Though the brothers had persuaded Andrew to go surfing with them, despite Andrew's gentle offer to hang out with her and teach her to surf, she respectfully declined and instead decided to sunbathe, promising a swim later.

That is how she finds herself sunbathing next to J's girlfriend, Nicky, who is not someone she thought J would be with. Nicky is friendly and talkative. She feels guilty but thinks she is a little naive. However, she remembers being young, and it's clear there is a lot of lust involved in that relationship.

So she doesn’t mind that Nicky asks her a lot of questions, borderline indecent, about stripping. Honey wants to bristle at some of the questions, and it is clear the young girl has a fantasy about the lifestyle the Codys have gotten themselves entangled in.

Yet, eventually, Nicky becomes distracted by the sight of the boys surfing. Honey takes the quiet time to bask in the sun.

She smiles and waves to the Pope as she feels his eyes on her, then moves to continue tanning. She lies on her front and wants to untie the straps of her top, but she knows it will make Pope come out of the water.

And as much as she never cared for that type of possessiveness in a boyfriend before, she finds it is different with Pope. It's not about ownership with him; it's that he has so few of his things.

“Are you trying to have my brother rip someone's eyes out?”

Honey looks up to find Deran stabbing his board into the sand. “Men looking at me is my day job; I don’t think he minds that much.”

Deran gives her a look as if he can’t believe those words came out of her mouth. She rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses before she looks out to where his brothers are surfing with Adrian. Now, as a stripper, the skill she has perfected is reading people solely from body language.

And she doesn't understand how no one can see that Deran and Adrian have a thing going on. It is so obvious that she first assumed it was unspoken. She remembers almost slipping up to Andrew about it, as she thinks no one knows, maybe except Craig.

Deran takes out a cigarette. “You know you make him happy.”

Honey can't help but smile. “I try. He makes me happy, too.”

Deran laughs. “Never thought I would see Pope…settle down.”

As much as the words are said in love and comfort. She can't help but feel the pang of Andrew going through the world alone. The way his family had written him off as something that would just float aimlessly through the world.

“What about you? You close to settling down?”

Deran's blonde brows furrow.

Honey can't help but laugh as she nudges her head toward Adrian, who is watching Pope and Craig yell at each other.

Deran chokes on his cigarette. The blush covering his body makes him redder than the sun. “Wait…you think-”

She looks at Deran with a raised eyebrow. “You know I am a stripper, right? My job is reading body language.”

Deran goes quiet as he chews on his lip. “You didn't tell Pope, did you?”

“It's not mine to tell.” She tells him gently. “But you don't need to hide that from me or him.”

“It's not him I'm worried about.”

And there was the undercurrent that all the boys had to look out for, Smurf.

Honey admires her figure in the mirror. Her outfit tonight was that of a police officer with the toy handcuffs on her hips. She knows that her tips will be doubled that night.

Despite her love of dancing, she admits that a nice perk of having Andrew as a boyfriend is that his need to pay for everything lets her cut back on her hours.

It also allows her to spend more time with Ms. Pearl and at the Center, especially since Ms. Pearl is looking into revamping the studio.

Besides, her boss has already been nipping at her heels, saying that if she is retiring, he needs a date so they can throw a goodbye party.

Yet Honey knows she has a few more good years of dancing left before she passes the torch.

Smiling in the mirror, she steps onto the stage and begins her routine. She had been wanting to get Andrew a new set of boxing gloves with a bag for her house.

The club seems packed tonight, and her dance requests have kept her primarily off the floor. It is during a lull in dancing that she goes to the bar for a glass of lemon water and a glass of Cherry Coke.

She thinks she may call Andy to pick her up earlier tonight. She smiles at the thought of her boyfriend.

“Sweetheart, you'd better be careful of that smile. A man might get the wrong idea.”

“If men had the right ideas in this place, I wouldn't have a job.”

The man cackles before he takes a sip of his beer. “I guess you ain't wrong about that.”

Honey takes a sip of her Coke.

“You’ve been here long?” The man asks her.

Honey turns to get a better look at the man, to see if she can place him or even recognize him.

He is older, like most of the clientele that comes through the door. A ragged flannel covers his frame, and she spots old, withered tattoos. He has a face she doesn’t recognize. And she hates to say it, but her club is a little more upscale, and he would stick out if this were his usual attire.

“I came in before I got locked up. Didn’t see you before. Got out, people speak your praises.”

“I guess I should be flattered.”

The man smiles. “It seems deserving. I would be wary of the girlfriends.”

Honey almost snorts. “You’d be surprised how I don’t get confronted by girlfriends.”

“Vin,” he introduces. “You might see me around; I can’t afford a dance, but the fucking steak here is phenomenal.”

Honey releases a true laugh. She pushes a $10 bill to the bartender. “Top shelf for him.”

“Oh, sweetheart -”

“It’s on me, Vin.”

Pope thinks the downside of having a sociable girlfriend is her active social calendar. He is lucky she doesn't mind him playing the role of chaperone or hanging around. Honey never makes him feel awkward when his stares get too intense or when he needs to be within a certain distance from her.

She adjusts easily to him and embraces it. However, he knows that his presence won't always be welcome, and it's better to slide Honey some money when he drops her off when she hangs with the girls.

It leaves him with idle hands as he looks to move around in Honey's absence. He tries his best to avoid his mother's house. He is fine letting Baz be the favored son. And he still hasn't gotten over them conspiring against him by sneaking drugs into his food.

And considering the lack of jobs due to his mother withholding, he isn't going to grovel at her feet. He knows she is pissed about his relationship with Honey. She hates that she can't find a wedge to put between them, or, worse, a way to control Honey as she attempts to control Cath.

And unlike Baz, he doesn't care about trying to force Honey to cultivate a relationship with Smurf.

Pope, for once, doesn't care to be in his mother's good graces. Besides, unlike his dipshit brothers, he didn't blow through his money. Ever since Smurf began cutting him and Julia in, he has learned how to save and invest. Even with him spoiling Honey, they would be good for a couple of years.

Pope checks the time as he debates how to kill time in his day. He takes a bite of his burger when a voice he did not want to hear again interrupts his peaceful, quiet lunch.

“You know, that shit's terrible for you. Humans aren't built to digest cheese and shit. Lactose.”

Pope turns from his warm meal to the older man who crowds the restaurant's fencing.

“Are you following me?”

“You don't return my calls. Had to track you down. Moved on from Catherine?”

Pope clenches his jaw. Vin knew what Honey looked like. Worse, Pope didn’t even realize he was being followed, putting Honey in danger.

Vin continues on, “Imagine my surprise when I heard someone cut a hole in the wall of a strip mall in San Marcos and jacked a safe from a landscaping business.”

Pope bristles, “I got your cut.”

“We were supposed to do that job together.”

Pope wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I never agreed to that. I'll find something for us to do together. I just haven't been able to find the right thing.”

Vin whistles. “Well, you're in luck 'cause I'm full of ideas.”

Pope fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Like what?”

“Last time I told you about a job, you jacked it. No, this one's solid. I've been casing it all week. You in? Or you need the okay from the family?”

Pope finishes his soda and stands up from the table. “Yeah, I'm in.”

Pope already regrets getting in the car as he looks at the sad building that holds United Metropolitan Bank. He thinks he has handled the Vin thing all wrong. He should have taken money from his personal stash and paid the man off for all his troubles.

“I'll take the teller. You take the guard. There's only one. He's about to collect Social Security,” Vin explains from the driver’s seat.

Pope fights the urge to roll his eyes. “It's the middle of the day.”

“That's the point. They close down for lunch. We go in as soon as they reopen. It'll just be the two employees.”

Now Pope thinks Vin has been lying about his own history of robberies. “Have you ever hit a bank? You can't just go in with guns.” Pope eyes their surroundings. “How many cameras?”

“Four,” Vin answers confidently. “One on the door, one behind the teller, and two in the main room. We're gonna wear ski masks. When we get in, black out the rest.”

Pope leans forward toward the lamppost. “Except we're already on camera. There's one… two right here in the parking lot. The first thing the cops will do is pull the tapes. No. I'll find us a job. This isn't it.”

“Yeah?” Vin retorts. “See, it's hard to believe a guy when he's lied about everything else. Catherine's not your wife, for example. You thought I wouldn't find out? Maybe you just thought I'd never get out, so you promised me shit you couldn't deliver. What do you think your brother will say about you jacking off to his girl for the past three years? Although that new hot piece of ass you have…”

Pope inhales sharply and, instead of throttling Vin in his car, he reminds himself of the cameras and that Vin isn’t worth the parole violation. “ You do what you want. I ain't going back to prison for you or anybody. Stay the fuck away from my girl.”

Andrew has been tense since she came back from her day with her friends. She knows that sometimes if something has upset Andrew, it will take him time to tell her what has bothered him. So she only kissed him, and he responded, before she got ready for the party Craig had invited them to.

She knows Andrew does not care for any of the parties his family throws. If she wasn’t able to attend, she knew he would find a corner, sip a beer or soda, and wait until she was free. If she came, they would only stay for an hour or two before going home.

However, this party is a little different: without Smurf’s presence, the boys are simply enjoying themselves. They aren’t showing off with daredevil stunts or being loud and obnoxious for Smurf’s attention. And with Adrian being at the party, she finds herself drinking and talking with him as Andrew lingers, keeping her within his sight.

However, she isn’t blind to the tension between Adrian and Deran, especially since Deran is all over some girl. And it seems Adrian has reached his limit with Deran giving his attention elsewhere, and tells her that he is going to head out.

She finds Pope hanging out at the tiki bar, looking miserable. She tries not to laugh at how miserable he looks, but she can’t help it as she giggles and crowds him. His arms automatically wrap around her as he makes room for her between his thighs.

“You want to head inside?” She questions breathlessly.

Pope’s brows furrow at her boldness. Her hands creep beneath his T-shirt, causing his muscles to constrict. The battle is easily won as he stands up from his seat. His grip is tight on her wrist as he moves through the house. In anticipation, she almost misses the destination as he leads her to his mom’s room. With J in the house, she knows that Pope’s room had been given to his nephew, leaving no room for the oldest Cody.

He quickly opens the door, ushers her into the room, then closes it. She barely gives him time to turn around before her lips are on his. She hums as she tastes the orange juice he had been sipping. One thing she noticed was that he rarely drinks when they are out together, when she decides to throw some back with friends or his brothers.

Walking backward, she guides him to the bed. Usually, she would prefer to have him on his back as she crawls on top of him. However, she knows something is weighing on him. As she feels the bed against the back of her calves, she reluctantly separates their lips.

His eyes are dark as he pants against her lips. She can still feel the unnamed tension curling around him.

She doesn't break eye contact as she shimmies out of her jean shorts. She doesn't get further as Andrew stops her: “Leave them on.”

She knows it is because, even in the confines of Smurf's room, privacy is an illusion.

She obeys before moving, crawls onto the bed, and turns to face him.

The bass of the music vibrates the house as Andrew sheds his shirt easily. She clenches at the sight, as he has been working out more lately. His muscles are becoming more defined, his figure more bulky.

He undoes his belt enough to give himself slack to ease the pressure on his growing bulge.

Honey bites her lip in anticipation and to further egg on her boyfriend. She sits up fully as she unties her bikini top.

She shivers as the central air causes her nipples to harden more.

It causes Andrew to move quickly as he crowds her. His lips seize her own as his tongue dominates hers. She moans at the feeling of her chest brushing against his warmth. She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He doesn’t hesitate to slide into her warmth.

And it seems he is more frustrated than she thought, as he gives her no reprieve while his thrusts grow sharper. The impact has her sliding further up on the bed. She wouldn’t be surprised if the noise she is making leaks out into the party. Yet, even with whatever is bothering him that has him chasing his release, he doesn’t forget about her as his thick fingers slide between them.

Her breath shudders as she tightens around him, her release so close. “Andy…” she whines.

He grunts before he untangles her legs around his waist and leans and lifts them into a wide V position. She almost screams as he thrusts sharply back into her. She knows the tip of him is kissing her cervix. Her hands fist the duvet as she tries her best to meet Andrew’s thrust. She is sure that if she could keep her eyes open, she would see the outline of him in her tummy.

“Honey.”

Her eyes snap open as she looks at her boyfriend.

“Where do you want it?”

As much as Honey would rather have him finish inside, she doesn’t want to walk around dripping of him.

“Where do you want it?” She throws back.

Andrew’s brows furrow, and he doesn’t answer her as he becomes focused on where they join. Then he takes her by surprise when he slaps her on her clit followed by a brutal thrust that causes her back to arch and spasm as she tries to catch her breath. He prolongs the euphoria until the point it borders on overstimulation.

“Andy, it is too much,” she whines as she can feel the mess she has made between them, and she taps his wrists 3 times, a signal that it is too much, as she feels woozy.

But then Andrew is pulling out, and he pumps his leaking cock, spilling on her stomach and chest. He isn’t all that mindful of ensuring it doesn’t leak onto the covers. He moves a little farther forward, and Honey finds herself pulled along. It doesn’t take her long to understand what he wants. She stretches her lips over his cock, and she sucks and sucks as she milks him until he is spent.

Once she is done, she falls back onto the messy bedding. Andrew is still caging her as he eyes how he painted her body. She watches with hooded eyes as he takes a hand and trails down the mess until he reaches down to where she is wet and sticky and pushes his finger back into her with his cum.

Despite her sensitivity, her walls still flutter in anticipation of the intrusion, but Andrew seems to be done with his mission as he removes his fingers and moves to the side, the side with the window exposing the room, to give her a semblance of privacy.

“You want to take a picture?” She asks cheekily. Andrew doesn’t look impressed by her question, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You would do that?”

“People already pay to see my tits, babe,” she tells him without shame.

Andrew hums, and she guesses he is already thinking about investing in a camera just for these activities.

“You feeling okay?” She asks.

“I feel better now. You ready to head out?”

Honey doesn’t press but nods her head and looks at his cooling cum on her body. “Let me get cleaned up. As much as I love your cum, Andy, it’s not fun dealing with dried.”

Andrew huffs and moves to lie on his back as he tucks himself back into his pants. Honey gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower to freshen up.

Padding into the bathroom, she huffs. She really doesn’t want to smell like Smurf’s body wash and vows that when they get home, she'll take another shower. She tries to be as quick as possible while scrubbing the mess off her skin. She doesn’t think she has been in there for more than five minutes when she turns off the water and hears voices.

She can hear the tail end of Andrew saying something, “…Baz wants something, he gets it. Doesn't matter what happens to anyone else. Catherine.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Julia.”

“Smurf kicked her out- that's my fault?” She hears Baz retort incredulously.

“If you hadn't…”

“If I hadn't what?” Baz presses. “You think I killed her, don't you?”

The bedroom is encased in silence, and Honey decides to open the door. Julia isn’t a name she hears often, even in her own home. It is as if Julia never existed. Both of the men’s eyes flicker towards her. “Is there a problem?”

Baz scoffs at her presence. Despite being with Andrew, she never spends more than a couple of minutes with the adopted Cody. They both don’t go out of their way to interact, which she thinks is for everyone's best.

Baz doesn’t answer her; instead, he turns his focus back on Andrew as he points at him, “You played it wrong. I loved your sister.”

“She was supposed to be your sister, too,” Andrew responds.

Baz doesn’t say anything as he turns and leaves the bedroom, slamming the door. Andrew has moved to sitting at the edge of the bed. His form is no longer loose but rigid with tension.

“What’s going on, Andrew?”

He runs his hand through his growing hair as he stands. “You ready to go home?”

“Andrew.”

“Not here, alright,” he responds, frustrated. His tone is firm, and he has never taken it with her. She must make a face as he immediately tries to rectify it, his face softening as he reaches out to her. Instead, Honey steps back, and now she really wonders about the history that haunts this house's walls.

“I’m going to stay. You can go home,” she responds.

“Honey…”

She ignores him as she leaves the bedroom and makes her way back to the party. She ignores the eyes of Baz, who follows her as she spots Deran sitting with Craig, and decides she is going to hang out with them for the rest of the night. Is it petty, maybe, but she doesn’t care as Craig slides her a shot of Fireball.

Honey thinks she may have gone a little overboard in taking her frustration out on Andrew by accepting every shot that Deran and Craig passed her way. Thankfully, Honey makes sure she doesn’t lose all her inhibitions, and she thinks Deran and Craig wouldn’t let her anyway, especially with Andrew lurking in the background. And she knows it is the only reason nothing really stupid happens, since everyone knows she is “Pope’s girl”. Eventually, the party dies down, and she is back in Andrew’s arms, sleepily.

The house is quiet when her eyes snap open due to her bladder screaming at her; she needs to pee. Squinting, she makes out that she is in the living room and that the pillow she has been lying on is Andrew’s chest. She is not surprised to find him still up watching a nature documentary on mute.

“You okay?”

Honey moves up and realizes he must have changed her into one of his oversized shirts. “I need to pee,” she mumbles. The arm that was around her moves, and he helps her off the couch. She doesn’t even mind that he follows her not only to the bathroom but inside it.

“How are you feeling?” He asks softly.

“Surprisingly, not hungover,” she comments over the splatter of her pee.

He doesn’t say anything else as she wipes herself and goes to the sink to wash her hands. Considering the taste in her mouth from the alcohol, she grabs the toothpaste and uses her finger to rub it in her mouth.

Andrew watches her intently. If she wasn’t used to his staring problem, she might have been unnerved. Yet she rinses her mouth and washes her hands again before turning and leaning against the countertop, folding her arms across her chest.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks her.

“No, I’m just…irritated.” She tells him the truth. “What happened today?”

“We are all just tense about an upcoming job,” he answers.

Honey wishes she could believe him. Maybe a couple of weeks ago, she would have believed him and dropped it. Being with Andrew, growing up in Oceanside, and being on the periphery of the crowd some of the boys were involved in, all knew they were unconventional and not legal. The fact that Andrew got locked up for a bank robbery confirmed what most turned a blind eye to.

Andrew had told her exactly who he was and what his family does. With that, she told him that she didn’t expect him to tell her everything, but if he did, she would listen. She knows for a fact that he had done one job with Deran and J. A fact she didn’t know how to take, as J seemed to be innocent of this life, but it wasn’t her place to question it.

He had been complaining about a job that Baz was heading. He didn’t give her more details than just the complaint about his brother’s work ethic. He had told her that it was a big job, a lot of risk that Baz was putting them in. The only thing that eased her worries was his steadfast belief that he was not going back to prison for anyone.

So maybe she would have believed him. It wasn’t lost on her that there was a simmering tension between him and Baz. She wasn’t sure if he loved Baz as much as he seemed to hate him.

And even if she wanted to write it off, they were getting into a tiff because of the tension and stress of their upcoming job; it didn’t change where the conversation turned.

“And what does Julia have to do with the job?”

Andrew recoils as if she slapped him. And like any time there is even a tiny bit of acknowledgment of Julia, the air in the room evaporates.

He would disclose little pieces about his twin, enough that she feels more like a myth than a person. She never pressed for more. Never demanded it. Yet, now she is only aware of the things not said.

“It's old shit.”

Honey hums. If this were a couple of months ago, she would have let an answer like this slide.

“Do you think he killed her?”

He doesn't answer her. Instead, the stare directed at her passes over her shoulder. “It's complicated.”

Honey scoffs. She moves away from the sink. “I'm going back to bed.”

“Honey,” He reaches out to grab her wrist. She stops and looks at him. “I love you.”

A part of her softens, but it isn't enough to counter the irritation coursing through her veins. “I love you too.”

She opens the door and makes her way back to the living room. She grabs the afghan that is typically laid across the couch. She doesn't bother waiting for Andrew to get settled as she wraps herself securely.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices he falters as he stands in the doorway. He eventually walks down. She doesn't make room for him to cuddle with her, and she isn't going to give him the opportunity. Instead, he sits down by her head before pressing play on his documentary. His fingers are tentative as he begins to rub and scratch at her sculpt. She lets out only a sigh, and her eyes flutter shut.

There is a weird tension in the house. Honey knows it is because of her. The morning after the party, she woke to find Andrew cleaning outside. She debated going out there to help him, but the omissions he was making kept her inside. Instead, she began making breakfast. It ended up just being her, Andrew, and J having a quiet breakfast. Honey had made it a point to get to know J a bit better. Between all the Cody boys, she saw him the least. Most of the time, she was told he was hanging out with his girlfriend.

Yet, as she eyes the boy, she can't help see the traces of Andrew in him. Knowing that Julia and Andrew were twins, she wonders how much of each twin lives in him. How much Julia haunts the family through her only son.

The peace of breakfast had been broken by Craig's complaint that no one had woken him up.

Andrew does take her home after cleaning up after breakfast. The car ride is quiet. She lets him ask her questions and answers them, but the ride is devoid of her small affections for him, like resting her head on his shoulder or holding his free hand.

Part of her believes it is her stubbornness, and she doesn't know why she is even mad.

Worse, the silence is affecting Andrew. He hovers and stares. And when he isn't, she finds him sitting in silence or worse, watching a blank TV screen.

He has been bringing her flowers and trinkets as gifts.

The worst had been when they had sex. It wasn't that she didn't want it. But the weight of him and the wall of lies she had to live around felt oppressive. She saw the flash of hurt that marred his features when she had pushed him back and turned to her knees.

It had felt so impersonal after she lay there leaking of him, they hadn't made a move to touch each other since.

And today, he had gently roused her from sleep to tell her that he had to head out early to work on a job. She mumbled something intangible but felt the press of his lips against her head before she went back to sleep.

With him gone, the house felt too quiet. Deciding to walk along the beach, she found her way to the Center, where she knew Ms. Pearl is.

She finds her in the office, looking at blueprints of the building, and quickly spots Andy's familiar scrawl on the pages.

“Now, what did I deserve to earn her presence today?” Ms. Pearl says, standing and giving her a hug.

Honey returns the hug and finds herself making it last longer.

Ms. Pearl notices, of course, when they pull away as she cups her face. “What's going on, child?”

Honey sighs. “I don't know.”

Ms. Pearl hums. “Take a seat. I'm assuming this is about that man of yours. He swung by yesterday; he was more rigid than usual.” She notes as she moves to sit in her office chair. Honey notices it is a new one and very familiar to the chairs Andrew was looking at, which provided the best lumbar support.

“It's my fault,” the young dancer admits. “I've been distant.”

“Why?”

“He tells me what he thinks I want to hear. He had been off the other day, and I thought everything was okay, but I overheard him and Baz get into it. I tried to pry, but he would answer around what I'm asking.”

“Babygirl, you realize that his mother taught them lies before anything. Not saying it excuses anything, but I don't think he knows honesty doesn't mean leaving. He learned that deception can make people stay.”

Honey scowls, “It's not even the jobs I am asking about. I respect what he does and doesn't tell me with those. It's everything else…”

“Like what?”

“His prison sentence, his brothers, and Julia.”

Ms. Pearl is quiet before she leans back in her chair. “You know she stayed with me once.”

Honey looks confused. “Julia.”

She nods. “You weren't here permanently yet. She was badly off. Your mom actually brought her here. Julia was hanging out with some girl, Angela…even your mom didn't care for her. She was pregnant…and strung out. Put her in a room and told her she could stay until she got back on her feet.”

“Did she stay?”

“She sure did. The girl just needed support. Angela stayed away, which probably helped. But she stayed for the rest of the pregnancy. Heck, people at the center threw her a baby shower.”

“What was she like?”

“She was a smart girl. Very smart. Good with numbers, I told her if she stayed clean, I would hire her here. Talked constantly about Andrew. She never called him Pope. Told her plenty of times to invite him over. She wouldn't do it.”

Ms. Pearl releases a heavy sigh. “She was lonely, though, and very sad until she had Joshua. They were here for about a couple of weeks before Barry Blackwell showed up. Then she was gone, and I never saw her again.”

“She went willingly?”

“She loved that boy, I assumed, or had to be the father. But I also know he didn't come over here of his own free will.”

Honey releases a bitter chuckle. It always came back to Smurf.

“Janine views love like a competition. She couldn't have Julia in the house threatening that. The only reason she told Barry to get her was to gain control over him and, probably, Andrew. If she really cared, she would never let her grandson be exposed to his mother's addiction. Never push Julia towards it.”

“Doesn't explain why he won’t say anything to me.”

“You can't be put in competition with his mother if the only thing there is is silence. And I can only imagine the sly comments Janine makes to him when you aren't around.”

Honey huffs.

“And frankly, the plainest answer is that men have their pride,” Ms. Pearl cackles.

Honey rolls her eyes, but a smile does break out on her lips. “I think I just overacted.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you gotta talk to him, sweetheart. Silence is a cruel type of violence in a relationship. Besides, that boy loves you. If I felt any different, I wouldn't be so welcoming, ya hear.”

“I just worry about the life I am willingly signing up for. I look at Cath and how Baz treats her…”

“Scared Andrew would do the same.”

“I'm scared I'll do it to him. Turn bitter, angry, resentful for something I signed up for and then disappointed in the result of it.”

“You know how that starts: the lack of talking,” the elder points out. “You both need to talk to each other. Words were never held of value for him. He was raised to be a tool, a weapon, to be used. That is how he shows his affection. You gotta help him understand the value of words.”

Honey nods, knowing that this talk with Andrew will be emotionally draining.

“Now since you're here, I want you two at my house for lunch on Sunday. No arguments.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Honey ends up staying with Ms. Pearl longer than she meant to. Ms. Pearl showed her the renovations and refurbishing Andrew was working on. Honey knows about most of it since she is here for dance class, and Andrew would show her himself or tell her about his project during dinner. However, Ms. Pearl revealed that she would like to offer a class to train teens to use tools, but she knows it would require paperwork and pose a liability risk.

Honey is surprised and, honestly, not sure whether Andrew would be open to it, as she knows this type of mind-numbing work is his safe space, given his need for perfection.

It's late enough that Andrew texts her asking if she and Ms. Pearl are okay. No doubt he has been checking her location. It's then that she realizes she'll be late for the club. Groaning, she says goodbye to Ms. Pearl and replies to his text.

Tonight, she will have to rummage through her chest for an outfit. She keeps simple outfits in there for emergencies like this.

She settles on a black bedazzled quad thong with a matching mesh top scattered with strategically placed rhinestones, paired with a matching choker.

There is a weird energy in the club that night. It feels more charged and intense. And she really did not feel like working the floor. However, she is taken by surprise when Steve Carmichael walks through the club. Her boss comes and grabs her as she leads him to the back room.

There Carmichael sits in all his glory. His legs spread as he smirks at her. Closing the door to the private room, she gives him her usual sultry smile as she makes her way to the pole.

“No pole, I want you right here.” His jeweled finger does a come-here gesture as his other hand holds a wad of cash.

“No foreplay tonight,” she comments as she slides onto his lap. Her arms wrap around his neck; she fights the wrinkle of her nose as his cologne is stronger than Andrew’s. She never noticed how the spicy note in his cologne made her want to sneeze.

But like most dances with Steve, it starts out slow and shy of touch and pressure. Sometimes she wonders why he chooses to spend his time here with her when she sees the girls hanging off his arm. She is sure he isn’t paying time for their company. And all of this is just an illusion.

She does her best not to question why men seek out the strip club. After all, their being here pays the bills, but men like Steve confuse her.

“I heard something interesting about you,” he murmurs as she turns and grinds down on him, causing him to hiss as she applies her backside to him.

“I’m sure you heard a lot of things,” she replies easily, in a breathless tone he prefers from her.

However, she is taken by surprise when he turns her back over. His hands grip her ass tightly as he ushers her forward. It’s on the tip of her tongue to scream for security, and she prays that there won’t be a mark, as Andrew will notice immediately.

Her spine stiffens as she places her hands on his chest, giving her space, “Steve.” It’s a warning, as the last thing she wants is to draw attention to him. She doesn’t want to deal with any drama tonight.

“I heard you were Pope Cody’s girl now.”

It feels like ice slides down her back at his tone; his detestation bleeds heavily. And the thing is, despite running around town with Andrew, no one has said or made any comments in public about her relationship with him.

Even the girls in the club don’t make any remarks. Her business has still been good, though she knows most of it is just guys saying they got a dance from her, and none of them would be bold enough to say that in front of Andrew.

And even if Steve is one of her best customers, she isn’t going to disclose anything about her personal life, especially now. She learned her lesson the hard way.

Living with Andrew and being around the Codys, if there was one thing that had sharpened around her, it was reading moods better than before. She knows Steve bringing this up will not lead anywhere good.

Honey breaks free of his hold, grabs the cash he had handed her, and presses it back to him. “You should leave.”

She doesn't bother to wait for an explanation from him. She simply walks out the door. Cliffy is there, and his presence is a comfort she didn't know that she needed.

Instead of heading back to the floor, she goes to the dressing room to get a moment to herself. Men grabbing and wanting things isn't anything new. Yet Steve's pointed remark that she's Pope's girl makes her wonder whether the two have somehow crossed paths. She wouldn't be surprised if Deran is familiar with Steve through Adrian.

Yet, she doesn't like the churning in her gut. Even after she told Steve that what had happened between them would not happen again, he never acted the way he did tonight. He accepted it, maybe with a bit of denial that she would eventually change her mind, but he never brought up the topic again. At least not so bluntly.

She decides to call it an early night and reaches for her phone to text Andy, asking him to pick her up tonight.

His response is instantaneous, even at 2 o’clock in the morning: he will be there in 15 minutes. Honey grabs her regular clothes and heads back to the bathroom to take a quick shower to kill time. She has just finished drying off when Andy texts her that he pulled up. Feeling refreshed, she makes her way outside. She vows that tomorrow she will talk to Andy and express what has been bugging her.

Stepping out into the cooling night air, she takes a greedy breath as she spots his truck sitting idle. She begins to make her way across the lot when she hears her name called.

She stiffens when she notices it is Steve.

“Steve, you need to leave.”

“Baby, I practically keep this place open. I am the reason you have a job.”

She curses when she sees the light from Andrew’s overhead light in his truck illuminate his interior. She does not hear the door slam, but she can hear his footsteps.

“Got nothing to say to that,” he goads.

“You have a problem?” And from the gruffness of his voice and the rigidity of his stance, Honey knows that this isn’t her Andy. This is Pope standing in front of her as he eyes Steve’s form.

And Steve’s smile turns sinister. “This must be the infamous Pope Cody,” Steve drawls as he straightens his spine.

Andrew doesn’t respond or cower, even with Steve towering over him. “Honey, get in the truck.” he doesn’t turn his gaze away from Steve.

“Andy -”

“Honey.” He repeats, and Honey wants to be stubborn and tell him to ignore it. Steve is just trying to gloat. But then Steve’s next words cause the air in the parking lot to evaporate.

“You know she likes that, right. I remember how she would tighten around me when I got a little rou-”

Steve doesn’t get to finish his words as Andrew swings. She hears a pop as Steve goes down to the cement. Then she watches in horror as Andrew hovers over the man. Honey runs and wraps her arms around his stomach.

“Andy, please, don’t. Let’s just leave,” she begs and weakly tries to drag him away. He lets her, and only then does she realize Andrew has knocked Steve out cold.

The car ride home is silent, and Honey finds herself chewing on her bottom lip. She prays that Steve won’t press charges; the last thing she wants is for Andrew to go back to jail. As soon as they walk through the front door, she immediately asks to see his hand.

There is a scrape, and it looks like a bruise is beginning to accompany the swelling. He is silent as he follows her into the kitchen, where she keeps an ice pack.

“Does it hurt?” She asks as she gently places it on the top of his hand after wrapping it in a towel.

He flexes his hand a couple of times before he looks up at her. “Who was he?”

“One of my regulars,” she answers him.

He pins her with his hazel eyes. She doesn’t shy away from his scrutiny. “You sleep with him?”

“Once, when I first started, like an idiot,” she tells him honestly.

“Only the once?”

“What are you asking me?”

“He didn't act like he had been with you once.”

Honey wants to laugh in disbelief. She expects this type of insinuation from his mom or even Baz, but never him. Even during her first dance, she had told him she doesn't do things off the menu.

“So we're having this conversation,” she says as she creates distance from him. “You think I'm cheating on you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You're implying it.” She counters.

He clenches his jaw as if he can't deny it. A part of her wonders how in the hell he could even think that she would cheat on him. It was only a couple of weeks ago that she admitted she wanted to have kids with him.

She tilts her head at him. “Let me ask you a question: how many times have you slept with Catherine?”

She watches as he recoils at her words. His eyes widen at her as if he can’t believe she is asking that question. After all, she had let whatever feelings he had for Cath lie unearthed between them. She didn’t see the need to bring it up as he was with her.

He clenches his jaw, and he flexes his bruised hand. “It was one time.”

“When?” She presses.

“Does it matter?” He fires back.

“You tell me,” she counters. After all, she knows that his feelings most likely had been relevant and current until he started coming around the club. She was there giving him attention that Cath would never give him. It’s that thought that makes her crumble.

He is reluctant to answer. “I think you should stay somewhere else for a couple of days.” She suggests.

Andrew’s form stiffens at her words. She watches as his face crumbles. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I think we just need a couple of days to breathe.”

[wannabespacesmuggler]

DO NOT DISTURB ➵ J. ABBOT

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Jack Abbot's relaxing day off takes a turn for the worse when he hears his phone ring. After all, his phone is on do not disturb and there's only one person that he's allowed to interrupt his peace — you. Even worse, your voice isn't the first thing he hears when he picks up.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Warnings: f!reader, violence against healthcare workers, language, mentions of bodily harm, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries sustained at the workplace, use of the word 'assault', Jack Abbot's dead wife mentioned, description of a drunk driving accident, Frank Langdon catches some strays, use of the nickname 'sweetheart', use of the nickname 'slugger', no use of y/n, mutual pining, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5.5k

Author's Note: Yo — so I'm still alive. I have been stuck in The Pitt for awhile now. This one has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for a hot second. I also have a Robby fic sitting in there that I desperately need to finish. Those two men have truly bewitched me. Anyways, hope y'all are ready to be stuck in The Pitt with me for the time being. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

“Motherfucker!”

You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black. 

Great. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast. 

You miss the night shift.

It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out. 

Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea. 

He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind. 

“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”

Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”

Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.

“You sound like Jack.”

You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments. 

“Have you talked to Jack recently?”

Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.

“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”

Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.

“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”

Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence. 

It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with. 

“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”

“Mhm.”

That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.

“A little help here?”

You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other. 

“What’s the story here?”

You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.

“Bar argument gone ugly.”

The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.

“Is that glass?”

Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face. 

“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”

You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs. 

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”

Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground. 

“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”

You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance. 

“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”

Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.

“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”

“Oh, shit.”

Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.

“We need some help in here! You good?”

Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.

“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.

“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”

Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.

“Woah, what can I do?”

Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.

“Give them a hand, will ya?”

Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon. 

“Absolutely not!”

You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision. 

Fuck, that hurt. 

You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back. 

“What the hell is going on in h—?”

Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.

“Knock it off before I knock you out.”

Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.

“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”

Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.

“How you doing, Slugger?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”

Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient. 

This day can’t get any worse. 

Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.

“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”

His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.

“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”

You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.

“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”

You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.

Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s  a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.

Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him. 

“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”

Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.

“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”

If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.

“Abbot.”

Of course he is.

“I can’t get a hold of him.”

Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning. 

“He’s gone fishing.”

Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.

“Abbot is fishing?”

“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”

Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.

Oh. 

The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders. 

“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”

Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.

“I think I can manage that.”

Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage. 

“Where is she?”

Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity. 

“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”

Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you. 

“Exam room 11.”

Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You are a horrible patient.”

“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”

Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.

“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”

Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.

“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”

Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.

“Langdon. Out. Now.”

Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries. 

“It looks worse than it is.”

It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch. 

“Do me a favor?”

You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.  

“How are you here?”

Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be fishing.”

His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.

“I got a call.”

“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”

“To everyone other than you.”

Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with. 

“But how… Perlah.”

Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell. 

“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”

Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again. 

“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”

Jack’s brow furrows at your words.

“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”

You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.

“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”

You almost smile at that.

“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”

You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.

“Two weeks is too long.”

“You’re not my boss, Jack.”

Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this. 

“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”

A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you. 

“Do what?”

Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.

“Get through the fucking night.”

A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.

“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”

Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart. 

“Why would you want that?”

“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”

Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.

“You don’t know where you stand with me?”

You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?

He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”

You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face. 

“You never said anything.”

Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.

“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”

You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.

“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”

You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.

“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”

Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows. 

“Him being here was unnecessary.”

You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.

“You were jealous.”

Jack rolls his eyes.

“I have no reason to be jealous.”

You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.

“What makes you so confident?”

“Because Langdon isn’t the one taking you home right now, is he?”

[untilmynextstory]

sugar on the rim masterlist | stripper!honey summary: pope didn't really want to go to a strip club for his birthday, but maybe it's not so bad when he receives a private dance by the headliner, Honey.

T-Shirt | 18 + It wasn't until last week that he realized that Honey dressed in themes differently from the other girls. She didn't wear traditional lace and bodysuits. Her attire was almost theatrical  - an experience. A part of him tried not to feel jealous at the thought of other men getting such an experience.

Closer Pope meets the woman who raised Honey.

In The Land Of Women | 18+ Pope contemplates the women in his life.

The Birds & the Bees | 18+

With no one to watch Lena on such short notice and not wanting Smurf more involved, Catherine asks Honey and Pope to babysit

sweet like honey masterlist

divider credit

[untilmynextstory]

masterlist: sugar on the rim | stripper!honey

The Birds & the Bees | 18+

summary: With no one to watch Lena on such short notice and not wanting Smurf more involved, Catherine asks Honey and Pope to babysit

warning: smut (p in v), smurf, family planning, swearing, sibling dynamics, canon-compliant, typical canon violence/character behaviors

Honey sighs as Andrew continues his slow thrusts. The bedroom is filled with the sun's orange hue and the slick, wet sound of their skin slapping.

It had been one of those special mornings where they both had slept in.

It's rare for Andrew to really lie in bed if they aren't fucking. Some days, she has to pout and beg just for him to lie down a little bit longer as she holds onto him like a koala.

She isn’t sure whether to classify her boyfriend as an early bird or a night owl. She knows he has been getting more sleep since he moved in with her permanently. He no longer spends the night at his mother’s at all. Even if he is coming home at 2 in the morning, he is coming home to her, even if he only shuts his eyes for 30 minutes before leaving again.

Still, it is rare for her to even be up and moving around while he is sleeping. It feels as if she even moves in her sleep; he is up and awake. So when she does wake, she typically has to call him back into bed, and he, of course, indulges her, especially when she throws him a pouty look.

Today, it was a goldmine for her, a quiet good morning, and a soft kiss had turned to lazy thrusts. Honey had never been so thankful that both she and Andrew preferred to sleep without clothes.

As she shifts her hips and tilts her up, her fingers curl into his hair at the nape of his neck as she turns boneless at his thrusting. She moans as she feels him deep in her belly as if he is kissing her cervix.

Andrew's lips trail from her neck until they meet her lips. And it's not really a kiss, just sharing each other's breath as she feels the coil in her stomach become tighter.

She mewls as he hooks her thigh over his forearm, the position causing him to slip even deeper in her. It's immediate that he looks down at the bulge that forms from his position.

The precipice of pleasure and pain it brings her causes her to leave crescent-shaped indents in his skin. He shows off marks with no shame as he roams through the streets shirtless.

And when he slips so deep in her, she sometimes wonders if her IUD will withstand the assault.

Yet, she knows what Andrew is hoping to achieve. If there is one thing she knows about her boyfriend, it is that he is highly observant and methodical. Her boyfriend hasn’t been vocal about his desire; however, they had both agreed that they would no longer use condoms and would be reliant on her IUD solely for the time being.

She notices the looks of longing as he watches her dance classes. Or when she is around some of the girls from the club who have little babies, the way he can't stop staring, and how his hand constantly rests on her stomach protectively, despite her womb being empty.

The thing is that she doesn't dissuade him from thinking this way.

A part of her is flattered; he thinks of her as the mother of any future children that he may want. It warms her that he wants to have children with her. Honey always wanted kids of her own. The problem with that was finding someone to make that happen with.

Yet, despite that want, she knows it is too soon to add children to the mix. As much as she loves Andrew, they haven't been together long, and given where she is in her life, financially and personally, she doesn't want to bring a child into the world now.

Though it doesn't stop her from fantasizing about a child with auburn curls or Andrew's familiar scowls of irritation. It's a thought that pushes her over the edge as she arches her back and tightens around Andrew. She almost misses the smirk on his lips before he places his thumb on her clit.

“Andy!” She whines as her back practically bows off the bed, and her release becomes messier as he keeps slamming into her.

Moving her legs off his forearm, Andrew leans down, making their chests touch. She whines from the overstimulation before he captures her lips in a messy kiss, and he groans as he spills into her. She wraps her arms around his neck as his body shudders with his release, burying his face in her neck. She can feel it overflowing where they connect. No doubt it is leaking onto their bedding.

Honey scratches his scalp with her nails as they take calming breaths. She knows it will be a few moments before either of them makes the effort to move.

Honey's eyes flutter closed as they bask in the quietness of the morning.

Eventually, Andrew begins to shift from her, and despite his gentleness, she can't help the hiss that leaves her when he pulls out of her. She knows even without having to open her eyes, he is watching his cum dribble out between her lips. He stops her from closing her legs. She knows what he wants.

“Baby, I'm too sensitive,” she tells him as she opens her eyes to peer at him.

Andrew looks up at her and decides to grant her some mercy as he moves off the bed.

“I'll get the shower ready,” he tells her.

Honey turns to her side, squeezing her legs to prevent further leakage. She watches as her boyfriend walks into the ensuite bathroom in all his morning glory to start the shower.

She thinks there isn't another way she'd rather start her morning.

Relaxing under the gazebo that Andy built, Honey is sitting in her backyard, gnawing in frustration at her attempt to learn how to knit. Honey decided a while ago that she wanted to learn some new crafts when she wasn’t dancing. She had thought it would be more relaxing than painting.

While Honey worked on her poor excuses of a blanket, Andrew had decided he didn't like her dining room table and wanted to build her a new one that wasn't imitation wood. So in between her poor attempts at knitting, she watches Andy's muscles flex and a sheen of sweat form on his body as he works shirtless.

She is seconds away from offering to lather more sunscreen on him when a familiar voice calls out her name.

Both she and Andrew turn to where Catherine stands outside her gate. As she stands, she sees Lena at her side, holding her mother's hand.

She knows things are awkward between Andrew and Catherine because Catherine immediately ran to Baz about their relationship, and whatever history between them hasn’t been resolved.

Andrew doesn't move from his work table as he takes in the scene. Honey places her knitting project on her seat as she walks to the gate. “Hey, everything okay?”

Catherine gives her a small smile. “I'm sorry, this is very last-minute, but would you be able to watch Lena for me?”

Honey furrows her brows as she opens her gate. “You don't need to apologize for that. I am more than happy to watch the little munchkin.”

Lena gives her a wide smile, looking at her mom for permission that she can walk through the gate. Catherine nods, and Lena makes a beeline for her uncle.

“I'm really sorry about this,” Cath says as she passes over a bookbag. “I can pay you…”

“Cath, you do not have to pay me even if we weren't practically family,” Honey says absentmindedly, not noticing the way the woman tenses.

“I don't know how late I will be. My boss is pretty pissed at me, so he will probably make me work until closing.”

“Is everything okay at work?” Honey asks. She knows Cath works at a bar. Honey has been there a time or two, but the clientele seemed more for men.

“Just after what Smurf did…my boss has his limits,” Catherine mutters bitterly.

Honey fights the confusion, trying to show on her face that she has no idea what she is referring to. Honey notes to question Andrew about it later. “Well, don't hesitate to ask for help, okay.”

“Thank you, Honey, I really appreciate it.”

Honey smiles and turns back to look at Lena, who is showing Pope a dance move they are learning in class. “Lena, do you want to say bye to your mom?”

The little girl abandons her twirl as she runs to hug her mom goodbye.

Honey is sure it was the day's excitement that had Lena bouncing with energy. She knows Lena is being watched specifically by Smurf and another babysitter. This was her first time being watched exclusively by her Uncle Pope and Honey.

Honey is aware that newness is a part of why she has so much energy. Although gorging on pizza and ice cream probably didn't help.

Eventually, little Lena does crash, and Andrew carries her to their bed while Honey makes herself comfortable on the couch. Cath texted that she had to stay until closing, and Honey assured her that it was fine for Lena to stay the night. Honey doesn’t even try to give energy, pondering why Baz isn’t able to watch his own daughter.

Andrew walks back into the living room and joins her on the couch. He immediately opens his arms for her to tuck herself into him. She burrows herself into his warm embrace and sighs in content. She almost purrs when Andrew begins massaging her sculpt.

“You're too good to me,” she comments blissfully.

Andrew's fingers go still as he seems to contemplate her words and doesn’t offer her a response.

“You know you are good with her.”

“Who? Lena?”

Honey nods her head against his chest. “She really enjoys your company.”

Andrew scoffs in disagreement. “She likes hanging out with you,” he rebuts.

“Andrew, she loves you. Before we got together, she would always tell me how you were the only uncle to play with her, and you actually would buy her things.”

She recalls the excitement Lena would feel when she went over to her Grandma, and her Uncle Pope would be there. He would play games with her, and she remembers the excitement of when he bought her a whole collection of chalk to draw with. She remembers Lena saying that she just had to see all the drawings she had made on Smurf’s sidewalk.

“She did?”

“I wouldn't lie to you, Andy. She said she likes it when you're around, as you don't yell like her Dad and other uncles.”

“She was a baby when I got locked up.”

“So?”

Andrew shakes his head. He doesn't continue his thoughts as he focuses on the TV.

Honey moves up and turns fully to face him. She extends her arm and places her hand behind him as she rubs her thumb across the back of his neck. “Do you want kids?”

His head snaps to look at her. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I think as your girl it is something I should know, don't ya think?”

Andrew looks into her eyes. “Do you?”

“Someday, I think I would like them. Although I have a feeling our kids would turn out to be little red-headed hellions.”

His face contorts into confusion as he seems to simply process her words. “You want kids with me?”

“Who else am I going to have them with?”

His eyes begin to turn glossy, but he looks away from her. Now, it's Honey's turn to frown, and she straddles his lap. Gently, she moves his head, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Andrew, this isn't playing house for me. I love you and want to be with you.”

The stoic Cody releases a shaky breath as he brings her into a bone-crushing bear hug, pressing his face against her chest. Honey comforts him the best she can as she presses a kiss on the crown of his head and strokes his shoulders.

Once he gains his composure, he looks up from her chest with the biggest puppy eyes, “I love you too.”

Honey can't help but giggle before kissing him on the nose. She also can't help herself and grind into him, which he immediately halts as his hands grip her hips. “Stop it, we can't with Lena.” A sea of red blooms across his cheeks.

Honey snickers and lets Andrew move her back to his side. With his hand at her waist, his thumb rubs back and forth on the exposed sliver of her skin.

However, Honey feels that the next words she says may bring the mood down. “Andy, what did Smurf do to Cath?”

He goes silent for a few seconds. She knows he is debating whether to tell her, or worse, which version to tell her.

“She made Cath think Lena got kidnapped.”

“What!”

“It’s Smurf,” he says as if that is enough of a reason or explanation.

“That is fucked up, Andy. Why would she do that?”

“Does there need to be a reason for the things she does?”

“Yes, the fuck there does,” Honey retorts. “Andy, I just told you that I wanted kids with you, and your mom does this to your brother!”

“It’s because she and Cath don’t get along.”

“No, it’s because she can’t control Cath,” Honey fires back.

Andrew clenches his jaw. “It’s because she’s testing Baz and Cath. Seeing who can control Baz more, her or Cath.”

“Well, that is comforting. When should I expect the same power play regarding you?”

“You won’t because you don’t try to control me, and I won’t let her.”

Honey sighs as she really doesn’t know what to say. She knows Smurf isn’t the best mother or person. Following Andrew’s cues, she keeps her interactions with Smurf to a minimum. Yet, it is only a matter of time before Smurf begins to test her boundaries.

Honey isn’t stupid. Craig doesn’t have anyone who makes him question the influence his mom has over his life. Smurf is almost like his dealer, making sure he lasts long enough for a quick hit before crawling back home.

Deran is the baby of the family. She is aware of his push-and-pull with Smurf. Deran openly chafes against the strings Smurf tries to tie him to. But Smurf doesn’t have to fight with another person about Deran, not that she is aware of, at least. If anything, the only competition Smurf has with Deran is his loyalty to his brothers. She knows that he and Craig are two peas in a pod. She didn’t have to know them personally to know that fact. But she also knows that when Deran is done performing for others, it is Andrew that he relaxes with.

She is used to Deran seeking refuge at her home. She wishes she could say she was surprised when he bought a few gaming systems specifically for her place. Andrew could only handle so many video games, while she would force Deran to play Wii games with her. But she isn’t blind to the fact that when Deran needs to let his guard down, he does it only around Andrew.

Yet, between Baz and Andrew. She isn’t sure how to read them. Sometimes, she doesn’t know how much influence Andrew allows Smurf to have over him. From what she can piece together, Baz wants to be Smurf. He wants to lead and take over. He does things for his own benefit to seek the matriarch's approval.

Yet, with her boyfriend, she isn’t sure. She knows how he is here with her, but she doesn’t know how he is when it's just him with his family. She can’t decipher how he maneuvers and how much of it is a performance versus authentic.

The only thing she knows is that it erodes pieces of him, the role his family assigns him, as if he were some rabid dog that needs to be put on a leash.

“Hey.”

Honey snaps her eyes up and looks at Andrew. He reaches to grab her hand. “It’s you and me. She won’t come between our family.”

A part of Honey feels unsure, but she believes him as she knows that he means it.

companion pieces: t-shirt, closer, in the land of women