synopsis: when your grades continue to tank in your econometrics class, your hopes for improvement are dependent on a long-awaited study session with your crush, jermajesty. but when studying together goes sideways, you’re left with the next best option: hopeful actor and older brother to jermajesty, jaafar jackson.
word count: 9k (she's longgg)
pairing: jaafar jackson x f!reader (pre-michael and grad school au 😼)
a/n: this is NOT going to become a threesome type of thing AT ALL🤣 just have to preface with that. also the way i was inspired to write this because of this tweet LMAO. enjoy! link to part two at the end :)
--
grades in grad school don’t really matter, right?
at least that’s what you tried to affirm to yourself as your professor handed you back your econometrics midterm.
you figured this course was the bane of every student at your institution’s existence. yet, as you grasped at the overly-saturated three-page midterm like a squeezy toy, your classmate’s voices echoed around you in celebration and glee.
the exam was weightless in mass but substantiated by the two numbers loosely packed together at the top right of the corner.
66.
you visualized yourself being at the bottom of a tunnel looking up, the shadow of the multiple regression model being cast down on you. taunting you. like your only chance of escape was finding the plausibility of a gauss-markov assumption.
you were starting to believe that this class being a requirement for an international law degree was a wicked joke that your institution was playing on you specifically to test your willpower.
as you continued to mentally plunge down your hole of self-deprecation, an all too familiar voice brought you back to your senses.
“how’d you do?”
by the time your ears had processed who the voice belonging to, you couldn’t control the way your mouth fell agape just a smidge. your eyes widened in mental preparation for the only man who could distract from your perpetual academic doom.
jermajesty jackson.
calling him a friend would definitely be an overstatement. yet for ephemeral moments such as this one, where his hazel eyes glanced at your own for a few seconds, it felt safe to at least label the dynamic as something more than colleagues.
in an environment like this one, where every subpar grade felt like a punch to the gut, having a small classroom crush only felt fitting. not just to get through drawn-out lectures on topics that had little to nothing to do with your professional interests, but for the simple pleasure of having a life outside of econometric theories.
you’d publicly gawked at the 6’0 curly-headed daydream of a man for months now, with your program only starting in august. you’d had two classes with him since then, always managing to snag the seat closest to him that, over a few weeks, eventually became yours. yet, even into the new semester, you could never speak to him in more than 30-minute increments. both because of your diminishing willpower under his gaze and your conflicting schedules.
“you good?” you heard the resonant voice interrupting your whirlpool of thoughts once again.
“w-what?” your eyes widened in realization that you left him in silence for at least a solid minute. you awkwardly shuffled in your seat to look him in the eyes, hoping to grasp at whatever composure you had left.
“i asked how you did on the test?”
uncontrollably, your eyes fell to his lips when he spoke. every time. like you were in a trance that you didn’t want to be unhypnotized from. you prayed he didn’t notice.
you sighed dramatically, hoping to hide the blush growing on your cheeks. you hid your head in your hands as you prepared to admit another defeat. “ughhh not good.” you gulped before mumbling your grade, “i got a 66.”
an uneasy pause followed coupled with the shifting of his feet underneath the desk. he cleared his throat before lowering his head to get closer to you.
“hey, that’s not completely awful,” jermajesty quietly replied, not wanting to air out your grade to the entire class. you didn’t even feel the punch to the gut of being reminded of the academic circumstances when he spoke to you like this. gentle, like he genuinely was worried that you were stressed about this.
your hands fell to reveal your deadpan expression, eliciting a hearty chuckle from him. you could never verbalize how much that warmed your chest to hear. yet, if your physical response to it was anything to go by, it was like color being brought to a black-and-white film.
a beat of silence passed between the two of you as the echoes of your classmate’s conversations surrounded you.
“what about you?” you broke the silence.
a shy smile took over his face as he pulled the test closer to his side of the desk. your eyes narrowed in suspicion and bewilderment at his sly movements. you inched forward slightly to analyze him.
“i don’t want to say,” he shyly admitted.
your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. was he being…humble? or was he also embarrassed by being below the class percentile?
you knew that he was above average in the class, always managing to score increasingly well on these exams while you sat on the verge of barely passing and complete academic implosion.
this 66 had actually been one of your better grades, if you could stomach that fact.
you sarcastically crossed your arms on top of your chest. “jermajesty, what did you get on the damn test?”
he playfully rolled his eyes, now pushing the test against the top of his desk in your direction. he quickly distracted himself by fidgeting with the eraser top of the mechanical pencil on his desk. you quickly took the exam into your palms, your eyes scanning the page for a grade before it appeared in the top-right corner.
90.
your jaw dropped. no way he was keeping this from you while you were wallowing away in your own academic despair. your eyes jumped from the top of his paper to meet his eyes, reaching a flow state of vacillation between the arduous exam and his chestnut eyes.
“now how the hell were you able to do that?” you began, your eyes still skimming over the contents of the first page. significantly fewer red markings, you noticed. “and why were you going to hide this from me? this is amazing jer!”
in your astonishment, you threw out a nickname only reserved for his close friends and family. you mentally face-palmed at the realization, hoping he didn’t notice. your hands fisted around the corners of the paper slightly, begging that he didn’t catch on. you really had to get better at hiding these feelings for real.
“i just, didn’t want to make you feel worse for-“ he paused, scanning over your face before adding salt to the wound. “-your grade.”
he scratched at the back of his neck in anticipation of another wincing expression from you. despite the second verbal reminder today that you were actually below par in this class, your cheeks warmed. not him caring about your feelings…
in a sheer attempt at keeping composure, your face morphed into fabricated shock that he insinuated you would be jealous at his accomplishments. “me? i would never do that.”
he paused, eyes narrowing at you while waiting for you to own up to your short-temperament.
“aight fine,” you admitted, which earned you another laugh from the sexy, econometrics prodigy. “but for real, this is really impressive.”
“thanks,” he muttered, now feeling suddenly shy about his grade. he leaned to his side to pack up his backpack upon realizing that the professor had wrapped up class for the day. at least you were spared from another lesson after mourning your failed exam.
you continued to eye both exams side by side, further examining the deficit in red markings that had become almost blinding to you. you couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself at the fact that he was so sheepish to admit that he didn’t need a curve to do well in the class.
he was so cute.
letting out a hushed sigh, you followed suit and packed your own bag. you didn’t spare the exam from your harsh movements as it crumpled upon entry. you secretly wish you could set it ablaze in front of the school in the middle of the night, laughing maniacally while adding more exams and assignments from this dumbass class into the pit.
“i really need to lock in for this class, it’s actually beating my ass,” you mindlessly quipped, zipping the last compartment of your backpack.
“honestly same,” jermajesty started. “this grade ain’t gonna matter when the final comes around.”
you both simultaneously stood from your desks, pushing the seats back underneath it. you followed behind him as you both eventually made your way out of the classroom, with him holding the door open for you.
what a gentleman, you internally swooned.
you muttered a quick thanks as you quickened your pace, now side by side. you internally ruminated over any way that you could guide the conversation away from an impending awkward silence. you chose to relish in the misery of the previous topic.
“i know that professors always say that studying with other people can really help. but i always either end up getting too distracted or feeling so confused that i forget what class we’re studying for.”
jermajesty let out a hearty chuckle at your confession. again, at the expense of your own sanity, you felt your cheeks warm at his response. you both rounded the corner before arriving at the elevator a few seconds later.
“well, maybe you’re just studying with the wrong people,” he offered, pressing the button to go down. he slid back to the spot right next to you, eyes trained ahead on the elevator doors.
“yeah?” you chuckled, looking up at him from where he stood. he nodded, a soft smile formed on his lips as he kept his eyes trained ahead. “you’re probably right. either nia vents about needing a prequel to sinners or alyssa drags out theories that have nothing to do with the lesson.”
jermajesty’s shoulders shook in laughter. you tore your eyes away from him and refocused on the wall in front of you, hearing the elevator trekking to your floor beyond the doors.
the elevator closest to you beeped loudly, signaling the doors were to open. after a moment, the doors opened and you both stepped inside, jermajesty following your lead and eventually making his way to your side once again.
“well shit, my friends aren’t any better,” he began, eyes once again trained on the closed doors ahead. “we can’t even study an hour without someone choosing to stream the cavs game over reviewing panel data models.”
you cackled, your shoulders slightly hunched over at the thought of jermajesty eyebrows deep into a textbook while his friends surrounded him in distraction. you looked up at him to find him staring at you with a slightly puzzled expression, his own laughter quickly subsiding. you looked away and cleared your throat to compensate for the awkwardness.
calm yourself girl, damn.
a beat passed of a now uneasy silence. in your periphery, jermajesty slipped his hand into his pocket and whipped out his phone.
quick, think of another way to pass the silence.
“at this rate it’s giving we should just study together,” you joked, pausing immediately after the words escaped you. what you meant to be a playful quip at your unreliable study sessions with your friends made you realize just how idiotic your suggestion was.
why the fuck did you say that?
you and jermajesty…together. alone. studying mathematical model specification. while he’d mellow in time series analysis charts, you’d hopelessly mull over the way his dark curls cascaded down his forehead at the perfect angle. you’d be running a personal audit of the curvature of his lips, running an internal risk assessment of how plausible it’d be for your friendship to morph into a relationship by the end of the night.
this was outrageous. you were exceptionally overthinking this. of course you were, it was him for crying out loud. you couldn’t be normal about him even if you were paid by your school to do so.
your mental spiral was interrupted by the soft murmur of the charming man at your side. “that’s not a bad idea actually.”
wait… what?
you looked up at him again, eyes blown wide at his words. he still mindlessly scrolled on his phone, completely oblivious to the state of bewilderment he left you in with those six words. you glanced slightly above his head to the elevator floor indicator. you were almost at the ground floor.
quick! think of how to ask if he’s serious without sounding like a goof…
“are you for real?”
well, that wasn’t smooth at all.
your eyes were still pinned to the side of his head. his eyes didn’t budge from his screen.
he didn’t speak for a few seconds, seemingly lost in whatever post he’d stumbled upon on his phone. your hands were practically clammy while you waited for any sign of interest from him in this conversation.
you tried to regain his attention in this incredibly dire conversation. “jermajesty-"
“yeah, i’m down. meet me at my place saturday. i’ll text you,” he offered, now looking up from his phone to give you a small smile like a man making a business deal.
after a few seconds, the elevator dinged and the doors opened hastily. a crowd of students had appeared at the entrance, teemingly waiting for you both to exit. jermajesty stepped ahead of you without looking up from his phone. you didn’t follow behind him, instead opting to remain in the elevator as you went through full-fledged shock.
he didn’t wait for a response nor notice that you were no longer walking beside him.
you didn’t — no, couldn’t, conjure up a response to what had just happened. your mouth fell open slightly at the casual plan that was just created.
the swarm of students pushed past you onto the elevator as you stayed stuck at the entrance.
there’s no way this is happening…
—
if you knocked on the back of a door with the palm of your hand, did that come off as casual?
two whole minutes have passed of you deliberating how to deliver the most nonchalant, unassuming knock to his door. jermajesty’s door.
to his apartment.
that you were about to enter. to study.
you’re pretty sure you could count every millimeter of the door’s length given how long you’ve perused it. seconds passed by where anxiously glancing over it’s sheeny reflection, turned into a one-on-one pep talk with yourself against its mahogany backdrop.
you were entirely too anxious for such a casual couple-hour hangout. perhaps it was seeing jermajesty in such a personal environment stripped away from the sterile lighting of a classroom. or maybe it was seeing him in something entirely too casual yet bewitching that made you fear that you’d drool all over your grid sheets.
aside from cordial interactions and exam debriefs, you’d never spent alone time with him before. real time alone. where conversations could drift to personal anecdotes about his family and his life before grad school.
excluding the overall privacy of a one-on-one session together, you’d hoped your white cropped-tube top and black maxi skirt would be appealing enough to keep his eyes on you. or, at the very least, ogle at you for a second longer than usual. if not the fit, than the way your dark curls were slicked back into a shiny half-up half-down look.
you sucked in a deep breath, holding it in your throat and closing your eyes. you could handle this. you could be chill. just knock on the damn door.
by the time you opened your eyes and raised your hand to finally knock, you heard his voice echo from the other side of the door. almost as if he was getting closer to it…
shit.
you took a few steps back, hoping to come off like you just arrived. the footsteps and voices got increasingly louder as you fixed a few curls and awkwardly fixed the placement of your feet.
the door opened quickly to reveal jermajesty with his head turned away from you, seemingly not noticing your presence. “yeah i’m just gonna throw this out and be-"
he cut himself off, eyes widening to find you standing there with a clumsy smile adorning your face. “hey?’ he asked in an inquisitive tone. “how long have you been standing there?”
“oh me? i uh-" you started, your face contorting into fake contemplation. “i just got here.”
you looked over his figure, noting the garbage bag in his left hand and his phone in the other. he wore a comfortable-looking grey sweatsuit with his curls slightly loose. how sexy and domestic he looked, you thought to yourself.
by the time you’d drawn your eyes back to his own, you caught the final few seconds of him raking over your own body. perfect.
“well um-" he looked behind him back into the apartment. “i’m just gonna go throw this out downstairs. but please feel free to go in and get comfortable. we’re sitting at the dining table to study.”
before you could mutter a response, he skipped his way down the stairs to where the garbage shoot supposedly was.
wait…we?
as quickly as you’d processed his words, you heard voices echoing from inside the apartment. you wiped your hand nervously on the front of your skirt, hoping to making sense of the situation.
weren’t you supposed to be the only person here? did he have family staying over or something?
as curiosity ached at the back of your mind, you naturally led yourself into the space, afraid of being caught outside once more.
you shut the door softly behind you, gently sliding your shoes off and leaving them and your backpack at the side of the entrance.
you took in your surroundings, taking in the deeply-saturated interior that jermajesty had in his apartment. next to the entrance of the apartment was a small living room, decorated with a large midnight black couch and table. a large buffet lamp stood in the corner and produced a comfortable yellow hue over the space, illuminating the walls covered in old r&b and jazz vinyls.
as a vinyl collector yourself, the sight could’ve brought a tear to your eyes if you were anywhere else. the walls were both heartwarming from the musical homage and gratifying that your crush was also a music fanatic just like you. you never want to give a man credit, but it was actually a nice setup that he had. it was a place that you could see yourself getting comfortable in very soon.
you wondered what the rest of the apartment looked like…
you inched forward into the living room to get a closer look at the vinyls. leaning against the arm of the couch, you took in the vast display of colors and artists.
underground, theolonious monk.
the first family of soul, the five stairsteps.
in a romantic mood, sarah vaughan.
mr. soul, sam cooke…SAM COOKE?!
your heart softened immediately. it was like a record player had begun spinning in your mind, your ears immediately being clouded with the melodic, silky voice of “i wish you love.” memories instantaneously flooded your mind of your parents crooning in the kitchen while you and your sister watched in adoration. in hope for a love like theirs.
not your man is fine AND has good taste.
as you brought your fingertips to lightly graze over the plastic of the vinyl cover, you were broken from your euphonious trance by the sound of laughter coming from another room. the laughter of a woman.
what the hell is going on? who the hell is here?
you quickly gathered yourself, pushing off the arm of the couch and centering yourself on your feet. you hastily made your way to the entrance again to retrieve your backpack, now trekking down the dimmed hallway to find the source of the noise.
you were too distracted to notice the walls adorned with classic paintings and canvases of wildflowers and misty lakes. you probably would’ve appreciated it more if you weren’t so lost in thought.
by the time you got to the end of what felt like a perpetual tube, your eyes fell to the tabletop covered in scattered notebooks and mathematical utensils. you noticed the numerous doodled pages of what could only be keynesian theories and differential calculus.
you scanned over the notebooks before landing on a manicured hand with a pink mechanical pencil attached. your eyes widened slightly at that before looking up further and being met by the eyes of the woman whose hand it was attached to.
you failed to notice the unbearable silence that took over the room when you entered. it was only a few seconds later that you looked around and registered the over five pairs of eyes looking back at you in confusion.
your mouth opened as if to speak, but you could only let out sputtered breaths. by the time you actually managed to form a coherent thought, you felt a presence come up behind you, effectively taking all 10 eyes off of you.
“hey guys,“ you heard jermajesty from behind you.
he quickly introduced you to everyone before reciting their names back to you for familiarity. from what you could retain, jada held the pink pencil, anna and maria sat to her left, and one of the guys was named raymond.
but you were barely listening. in fact, you were dumbfounded.
because what you had thought was an exclusive study date was somehow quintupled, unbeknownst to you. the seats that should’ve been filled by two bodies were occupied by multiple. the laughter that was supposed to be shared by you two now reverberated off the walls by multiple voices. the surrounding table was filled with forgotten sweaters and strewn papers when it should’ve been occupied by two distinctly different study setups.
to say you were disappointed would definitely be an embellishment to an already disconcerting and atrocious situation.
you murmured a quick “nice to meet you guys” before their attention was quickly refocused back on each other. you turned back to look at jermajesty, hushedly speaking below your breath.
“hey, i thought that we-“
“why don’t you take a seat next to jada?” he quickly cut you off, gesturing to the empty seat next to the girl with the perfectly manicured fingertips. his face was contorted into the fabricated generosity that a cashier gave to a customer in the last ten minutes of a shift.
he was being pulled by one of the guys whose name you couldn’t recall before you could utter a response.
you didn’t know what you were more disgruntled by: the audacity to cut you off, the presumption that you wanted to sit beside anyone other than him, or the sheer gall of the situation entirely.
you were quick to realize that you were now the only person standing awkwardly at the entrance of the room. you hastily found yourself maneuvering through the overloaded room and slipping into the empty spot next to jada. you threw her a timid smile before leaning over to retrieve your notebooks from your bag.
you felt tears brimming at your waterline faster than you could control it. the midterm exam came quickly to view at the depths of your bag, but you weren’t ready to pull it out just yet. you opened different sections of the bag now, looking for any distraction to keep from crying in front of all of these people.
the voices around you quickly muffled into an audible haze that only left you overstimulated and desolate. you swiftly tried to plan out your escape.
could you blame it on a sudden sickness? maybe you could text nia and she could call frantically saying she had a date-related emergency?
or… you could thug it out and actually learn something from the cram session. maybe staying wouldn’t be the worst thing? if you didn’t do it to develop a more intimate dynamic with jermajesty, then you’d do it for yourself. at least to improve your score by a few points…
—
an hour had already passed, and you didn’t know what was worse: the study-side discourse having little to nothing to do with classical economics or the drawn-out disappointment of jermjaesty’s betrayal.
you barely uttered a word to him the entire hour you'd been there. shit, you hadn’t even spoken up more than five times to the table at large as you perused your midterm for the third time tonight. you soon realized there was nothing you could’ve learned during this session that you couldn’t have absorbed through a quick khan academy debrief.
this “study date” was growing to feel more and more useless as the conversations drifted from love island debates to shit-talking professors whose classes you’d never even heard of. there was nothing more that you craved in this very moment than a tub of jeni’s birthday cake ice cream and your own solitude. privacy to wallow in your own self-despair and mortification at your wishful thinking.
your delusion.
because why would jermajesty ever want you? it was a fanatical desire that only teetered on the cusp of reality when he looked at you for a second longer than normal. a figment of your imagination that was only temporarily actualized when he’d scan your body beyond your face and make you feel like you were all that mattered to him.
yet, just like all previous interactions before today, it ended there. where everything felt and was, in fact, normal and platonic.
because that’s all it could ever be.
the thought felt harrowing but strangely reassuring in the way that felt uncomfortable but familiar. like the heavy hesitation sitting in your chest when you know its time to outgrow someone, but the strange comfort of knowing that they’re still physically present.
even though they’re not emotionally yours.
see! these were thoughts you should be mulling over in your own bed. not in the discomfort of strangers in conversation that held no significance for you.
that thought alone was enough to convince you to leave.
at least temporarily.
you cleared your throat. “i’m gonna go to the bathroom.”
you heard a few mumbled “ok’s” and hmm’s” of acknowledgment. you looked to jermajesty to see that he gave you a quick nod before returning to whatever conversation he was previously in.
he couldn’t even show you to the bathroom? wow…
you bit back a scoff while getting up from your seat and softly tucking it back underneath the dining room table. you quickly maneuvered through the crowded space before finding yourself in the very hallway that you had paced through just an hour before.
you walked further down the dimlit corridor in hopes of finding any room to seclude yourself in. after a few seconds of aimless strolling, you found a door left ajar that you could only deem the bathroom. that or jermajesty’s room that you would’ve ransacked in any other instance.
with the speed of light, you slid past the gap and into the bathroom, locking yourself in like a bird in a cage. you flicked the switch and looked in the reflection, only being met with a sorrowful, drained expression that somehow belonged to you.
your eyes were hooded, and your lips were slightly chapped from how long you spent gnawing on them like a pacifier. the hairs on the top of your head were slightly frayed while your blush had faded in a way that only you could’ve noticed.
this bathroom was the best escape plan you could’ve conjured up all day.
you quickly got to reapplying your lip gloss, then a touch of concealer, and then finally a splash of water to the top of your head to restore the “sleek” look that had fled the scene.
after a few minutes, you glanced over your reflection once again. definitely better. but you know what would do the trick? going home.
you sighed, the feeling of despondency once again consuming your body like paper being submerged by water. your eyes quickly scanned over the countertop to find the minimalist spread of basic toiletries sprawled across it.
so… did someone else live here with him? was it a girl?
were you about to scream? completely ravage the bathroom and shatter the mirror to finish it off? maniacally laugh at your own misery? you didn’t know which option sounded more appealing.
in fact, the best and unspoken option still remained… going home.
you sarcastically chuckled to yourself before reaching for the doorknob and heading out.
girl, you’re really over your head with this one, you thought to yourself. how could you even think-
you unintentionally cut yourself off by the aggressive slamming of the back of the door against something.
or someone.
you heard a loud groan from the other side of the door. frantically, you ran to the opposite side of the apparently man-defeating wooden door. you were met with someone crouched over and groaning while grabbing at his head as if he’d been uppercut across the forehead.
“oh god!” you quietly shrieked, awkwardly leaning over him while trying to evaluate the damage and where you could help. “oh god, oh god, oh god,” you continued to lament out loud to yourself.
“yo, are you good?” you heard jermajesty yell from down the hallway, not even bothering to come check on the person.
“yeah,” the person beneath you shouted back, startling you just slightly at the depth of his voice. he didn’t sound like any of the guys who were sitting at the table with you previously. from voice alone, you didn’t recognize him at all, actually.
a beat of silence passed between you, awkwardly peering down at the crouched-over individual who sporadically groaned.
“i’m sorry, i’m so sor-" you paused. the man stood up from where he was previously huddled in pain, now gazing down at you in incredulity. “sorry?”
the man’s face was partially illuminated by the bathroom light you forgot to switch off. instead of being greeted with a pained expression that matched the previous groans, you were met with a satirical grin.
“sorry? it almost sounds like you don’t feel bad for clubbing me upside the head with a door.”
your jaw fell open just a fraction as you scrambled for a response.
“i really am sorry, i just-" you uncontrollably let out a giggle at the way he was looking at you. “how the hell was i supposed to know you were there?”
a wider smile broke out on the mystery man’s lips that weirdly caused your previous melancholy to dissipate. just slightly.
“maybe try to avoid swinging it at full speed next time?” he quipped, which caused you to erupt into laughter again. “maybe we can try that?”
you nodded through the chuckles, calming yourself down from the belly laugh that ripped through you. “i think i’m gonna work on my reflexes, actually. just trying to perfect my prowess you know.”
“hmm,” he hummed in response, a comfortable silence settling as he scanned your face briefly before looking you in the eyes.
his lips quirked into a sly smile as he looked downward at you.
you swiftly glanced north of his eyes to the slight perspiration on his forehead, and your face fell at the result.
“oh my gosh, you’re bleeding,” your voice was laced with concern now.
he brought his own fingers to dab at the thin layer of blood now dripping from the gash on his forehead. he didn’t even have to look at his fingers to recognize the liquid now slowly oozing from the wound.
“you don’t have to work on your prowess, i think you pretty much nailed it,” he ribbed.
you felt guilt slowly seeping into your chest again. you started fiddling with your fingers anxiously as you quickly contemplated what you could do. “i’m sorry. i’m so sor-"
“it’s ok, i’m just teasing,” he reasoned, all humor lost from his tone. his sarcastic smirk was quickly replaced with something peaceful and delicate, like he was trying to assuage you of any blame.
“do you know if jermajesty has a first aid kit or something? i don’t want you to get an infection.”
“i don’t know what jerm has, but i know i got one,” he responded. he slid past you and made his way into the bathroom.
jerm? how did he know him like that?
puzzled, you decided to investigate further and follow after him past the murderous device of a door.
you entered the bathroom once again, carefully closing the door behind you and leaning on it like a lifeline. your hands were tucked behind your back as you watched the man sift through one of the cabinets beneath the sink.
now that you were seeing him in a better light, you realized that you didn’t know who this guy was. he definitely wasn’t at the table with you all before and he most likely didn’t go to your school either.
so, you just enclosed yourself in the bathroom with a complete stranger.
a very…good-looking stranger.
one who was draped in a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants but looked like he was prepared to stride on the red carpet if asked.
the man sifted through different items with the sort of familiarity that denoted he’d been here before. many times, probably. after a few seconds of rummaging through hair products and extra toiletries, he retrieved a white, unlabelled plastic box that you could only assume was a first aid kit.
he stood back to his full height, which, now that you got a good look at him, significantly towered over you. he had tanned skin that looked like he lived on the islands of fiji on a summer-time basis only. he also had dark curls that cascaded just to the middle of his forehead, with the exception of the space on the far right where he was now bleeding from.
because of you.
he promptly unclasped the edges of the box, grabbing at the antiseptic, loose cloth, and way more bandages than necessary for a small soon-to-be scab. he leaned forward against the counter to get a closer look at himself in the mirror. he started treating the wound with the kind of precision that could only be replicated after an in-depth review of the pitt.
yet, his hands still shook as he dabbed lightly and flinched with every poke of alcohol to his skin. he could barely make it through five seconds with alcohol-to-skin contact. you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as you watched him truly try his best for such an unserious wound while still acting as if he was awake during a surgery.
his eyes quickly shifted from focusing on his wound to your flushed cheeks as you failed to hide your amusement.
“is something funny to you about the injury that you caused?” he sassed, hand now hovering over his injury as he continued to look at you through the mirror.
you playfully rolled your eyes. “not the injury, but the one treating it. you’re acting like you’re performing a life-altering operation on yourself.”
he scoffed in response. “what, you think you can do better?”
“i mean, i used to work as a teacher. i’ve had my fair share of injuries that i’ve learned to treat,” you paused, eyes narrowing sarcastically on his reflection before continuing. “skillfully.”
the man took a step back away from the mirror and redirected his attention towards you. “is that so?”
you confidently nodded.
he held the soaked cloth in your direction with expectant eyes. “you should use those skillful treatments and patch me up then.”
a laugh escaped your lips at the assumption that you were just going to follow his request. so why did you find yourself already swiping the cloth from his palm into your hand and inching closer to him to help?
the man was already leaning back against the countertop, lowering himself for your comfort. a teasing smile sat on his lips as he closed his eyes, almost bracing himself for the stinging sensation to return to his skin.
despite the teasing nature of it all, you took your role rather seriously. instead of immediately using the antiseptic cloth, you took another piece from the kit and soaked it in water, gently dabbing it against his warm skin. his eyes opened at the lack of twinging pain to his forehead.
“relax, i know what i’m doing,” you eased, now replacing the cloth soaked in water with the one doused in antiseptic. “now, take a deep breath.”
he seemed to believe you, immediately following your command and closing his eyes once again. you brought the antiseptic-soaked wipe to the wound, which caused him to hiss beneath you. after letting it sit for a moment, you removed it and immediately reached for the petroleum jelly that sat neatly tucked away in the kit.
his eyes remained closed as you backed away from him temporarily to take a swab of it on a new, clean piece of cloth. you returned to dab it softly on the outskirts of the now dry remnants of blood.
you unknowingly entered a flow state of administering treatment for the wound smaller than your pinky finger. you subconsciously began humming a familiar tune to yourself as you thoroughly smeared petroleum jelly across the wound.
you reached into the kit for the final piece of the puzzle: a bandaid. after unwrapping it from the packaging, you lightly placed it on top of the wound, now sealing the wound off from your inspecting eyes.
“all done,” you replied, absentmindedly now switching to clean up the litter on the surrounding countertop. in your periphery, you watched his eyes open slowly, adjusting to his surroundings again.
you were now side-by-side as he turned in place to face the mirror and examine the work you’d done on the surface of his skin. you continued to clean up the remnants of the “operation” unable to look at him in the reflection.
the only sound filling the space was the quiet rustle of bandaid wrappers and loose bottletops. after a few seconds of comfortable silence enveloping the space, he quietly interjected. “was that sam cooke?”
you paused your movements. “huh?”
“the song you were humming”
you glanced up from the countertop to meet his inquisitive eyes in the reflection of the mirror. you nodded before a subtle, mischievous grin settled on your lips. “you know which song?”
without missing a beat, he responded. “smoke rings.”
well damn.
he must’ve caught the slight faltering of your face by the way a triumphant smile took over his face. “don’t test me about my sam cooke knowledge, because i’ll always prevail.”
you playfully scoffed, taking a step back to fully take in his newly displayed confidence. “is that so?”
“try me.”
now this was going to be interesting. you squinted your eyes in preparation for the bathroom-sponsored sam cooke contest. you crossed your arms on your chest as you thought about how to approach this.
you began reciting lyrics in a plain voice, not wanting to sing and give it away. well, not wanting to sing and embarrass yourself…
you wanted to start easy. “at first, i thought it was an infatuation but-"
“you send me. next.”
you paused before thinking of the next lyric to throw at him. “you’re the apple of my eye, you’re cherry pie. and oh-“
“are you kidding? nothing can change this love.”
your eyes narrowed further as you thought of another song. something that could really stump him.
“you’ve left me to dream all alone, too real is this feeling of make believe,” you interrupted yourself, evaluating the bafflement on his face. you tried to throw him a bone now, adding a hum to your words. “too real when i feel what my heart can conceal, oh yes i’m the…”
you watched his face contort from confusion to embarrassing realization, a prideful smile taking over you as you knew he recognized the song last minute.
you continued the lyrics, a jubilant expression on your face as he begrudgingly followed suit. “i’m the great-”
“pretender,” he finished, playfully rolling his eyes when he sensed you were about to gloat.
you cackled to yourself in triumph as an embarrassed smile took over his lips. his head fell in faux shame as he let you take your moment to brag through longer-than-needed fits of laughter. he readjusted himself along the outskirt of the countertop, now facing the wall. he poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek to hold back from laughing at your hysterics.
“so i remain the ultimate sam cooke fan, ha!” you gloated in his face, playfully poking your finger to the side of his arm. damn, it was solid.
you nestled yourself comfortably on the ridge of the countertop, your body now facing the direction of the bathroom wall. your arms were pressed against one another, slightly. you felt the man beside you tilt his head in your direction before speaking up again.
“oh so that’s what this was? and here i was thinking we were just getting to know each other,” he smirked, arms crossed along what you could only assume was solid chest. your eyes drifted quickly before you felt a heat creep along the apple of your cheeks.
you didn’t know what to say, instead choosing to sit in the silence and warmth radiating from your bashfulness and his body next to yours. it was in that silence that a striking revelation dawned on you.
you didn’t even need to look at your phone to know that you’d spent a protracted amount of time in the restroom with the soothing presence of this stranger. instead of basking in the superfluity of unwanted company at the dining table, you were here. recounting sam cooke classics and patching unintended injuries to the man who looked like he could pass for a high-class model.
rather than gawking at jermajesty with the kind of attention that should honestly be redirected to quantifying economic phenomena, you were here.
was it bad that you enjoyed the last — however long you’d been enclosed in the washroom — with this complete stranger, as opposed to the company sitting just down the hallway? or rather, was it completely awful that you preferred this unconventional setting and singular conversation with this man as opposed to time spent with your own crush?
the sudden epiphany brought you more consolation than you’d wanted to admit to yourself. so instead of deconstructing your emotions, you chose to do what you did best. suppress them.
you broke the comfortable silence that had consumed you both once again. you looked up at him, taking in the glistening features on the side of his face. “so, who are you anyway?”
he guffawed at your bluntness. “is that how you normally ask people to introduce themselves to you?”
“hm, it’s something new i’m trying,” you teased.
he paused for dramatic effect, now gazing down at you and inching closer by a hair. your shoulders were practically bumping against each other at the proximity. “that’s a bold interrogation tactic against the owner of this apartment.”
you felt your breath catch in your throat.
he… what?
before you could trail down another set of internal questioning and befuddlement, he continued. “but, since you asked me so nicely. i’m jaa-"
as you sat in a much-anticipated eagerness, the comfortable ambiance was soon disrupted. he was quickly cut off by the click of the bathroom door opening. you both jumped slightly at the unexpected intrusion. when you quickly tore your gaze away from the man, you were greeted by a much too-frazzled-looking jermajesty whose usually defined curls were tussled beyond recognition. before he could get a word out, he ceased all movements, locked in place with nothing but his expressive eyes to indicate how he was feeling.
his eyes bounced off your own before taking in the view at large. you nestled a little too close for his comfort next to the last person he was expecting. the corners of your lips pulled upwards for the first time all night, at least to his knowledge.
“bro, what the hell are you doing?!” jermajesty interrogated the man to your right. his attention was seemingly lost from you altogether, and now on getting to the bottom of why you both were suspiciously locked in such a confined space.
confined in a space so close together…
“my bad, we were just-"
“just what? i’ve been calling you for the last ten minutes and you’re locked in here with my classmate?”
ouch. not even friend? way to kick my ass when i’m already down in the dirt.
“we were just talking, jerm,” the man reasoned.
jermajesty scoffed at that, the pure annoyance seeping from him like a radiator. “i don’t really give a shit. we’re in the middle of studying and you’re having -" he paused, hands gesturing to the two of you bunched together on the countertop. “-whatever moment this is.”
despite the argument seemingly being about your absense from the table, jermajesty barely looked at you. seems to be a trend tonight.
you felt guilt and discomfort starting to rip through your chest. you hadn’t meant to cause any drama today. in fact, all you’d wanted was a study date to turn into a makeout session against the wall.
was that so crazy to ask?
however this moment, of all things, was the last thing you expected. yet, the most unexpected moments are the best, right?
the two men continued to bicker whilst you stood in the middle like three peas in an uncomfortably squished pod. you had to find an escape, quickly.
“i’m sorry, i’m just going to go,” you awkwardly interjected into the bickering, drawing an uncomfortable silence across the space. you didn’t wait for a response before you languidly pushed past jermajesty’s shoulder and into the dimly lit hallway for the third time tonight.
“now look what you did?” you heard the man from the bathroom shout out. you didn’t care though. you quickly paced down the hallway back into the dining room where everyone else remained.
you didn’t register the tense silence that had enveloped the dining room when you reentered. nor did you care. you hastily reached for your belongings left at the chair from before, slinging it over your arm and muttering a "bye" before speedily walking to the front door. you slipped into your shoes once again and slammed the door behind you a little too loudly for your comfort.
you didn’t waste a beat, skipping down the stairs to the exit point of the building, your chest heaving at the rush of being able to depart from that impending predicament.
what the hell just happened?
—
as is the case in grad school, you only had your econometrics class once a week.
what once felt like a blessing to have to sit in the uncomfortable neutrals of your lecture hall just once a week now felt like a curse. you wished you could skip this class for the rest of the semester; you really did. but you knew that your grade was suffering beyond repair at this point, and adding an absence on top of that would only exacerbate your predicament further.
it was now wednesday. four days since the failed study attempt. four days since your once oddly gratifying patch-up situation in the bathroom quickly turned into a screaming match. four days since you left jermajesty’s apartment with your head spinning and your feelings left in disarray.
four days since you were left to feel like a hopeless romantic with no prospective conjoined future together.
jermajesty had made no attempt to contact you since the weekend ordeal and your feelings for him were quickly morphing from adoration to hatred. you hoped that arriving ten minutes earlier than class time would give you enough time to prepare what you’d say to him, if he even remembered your presence at this point.
you dragged yourself into the classroom with a look of desperation and dreariness. maybe jermajesty wouldn’t be there today? if only your prayers could be answered so quickly. because as the seats came into view, the one person you dreaded seeing was already plastered to the seat like a moth to a flame.
he was early for once, weird…
the silence of the space was overwhelming in the way that being submerged under water felt. like the murmuring of the waves was only comforting until the leading soundtrack from jaws started to play in the distance, signaling your doom.
against your better judgement, you chose to sit in the same seat you always did, right next to him. you sucked in a deep breath before navigating your way through the desks and strewn seats before sinking into your own. your eyes were trained ahead in anticipation of an awkward silence and squeaking of the chair beneath your weight.
as soon as you sat down, you felt jermajesty’s attention immediately shift to you. great, this was happening faster than you’d hope.
he mumbled your name, hoping to get you to look at him. you refused until he said it again, this time more softly and laced with desperation.
you finally looked at him and were met with his wide-eyed worried expression. it panged at your heart, just a little bit. but then the feeling was akin to how you felt leaving his apartment in desolation, and your feelings of pity were immediately replaced with resentment.
“what do you want?” you jeered. the anger laced in your tone felt foreign to you. you’d never felt this level of indignation towards him ever.
“look, i am so sorry for how last saturday went,” he began, angling his body in his chair to fully face you. “that wasn’t supposed to happen. i didn’t mean to blow up like that. that wasn’t fair to you.”
was it bad that you liked how desperate he looked for your attention? maybe…
your jaw ticked in annoyance as you thought over how you’d respond. without thinking too deep, you responded. “and what about the group? i thought we were going to be studying together?”
you internally flicked yourself against the forehead for sounding so vulnerable in your confession.
“i’m also sorry for that,” he lamented, eyebrows furrowing further. “i told raymond that we’d be studying together and he somehow took that as an open invite and invited everyone else. it wasn’t cool and i should’ve told you before you got there.”
well, at least he was opening up to you. but still, you stood your ground in irritation and contempt.
you huffed in response, leaning to the other side of your chair to retrieve your notebook and pencil bag. you could tell he was watching your movements with razor-sharp focus, searching for any tell that you’d forgive him soon.
“i know that you’re upset, and rightfully so,” he started. “but i have something that’ll make it up to you, i swear.”
your ears perked at that. you abandoned your attempt at searching for your lost pen in the depths of your bag and sat up straight in your chair, eyes back on jermajesty’s pensive but hopeful gaze.
“saturday taught me that, for one, i need to get better at telling my friends no,” he paused, seeing a glint of a smile forming on your lips. the tiniest ounce of guilt was alleviated from his chest at your anger easing up, so he continued. “but i also learned that i’m not the best at explaining these hard ass concepts to other people. so i had an idea.”
you waited for him to continue talking as he brought his forearms to the top of the desk like he was a businessman explaining a proposal in depth. “what if my brother tutored you?”
your eyes widened at the suggestion as you stammered out a laugh of unadulterated shock. first off, how did he jump to such an unexpected and unrealistic conclusion? secondly, did he really not want to spend time with you at all that he had to pass you to a relative? thirdly, who the fuck is his brother?
“jermajesty, what are you-"
“wait, just hear me out,” he sat up further in his chair with a pleading look in his eyes. well alright then. “my brother used to be an econometrics tutor in undergrad. he’s really good at it and he says he remembers a lot of what we’re going over now. plus, after saturday he offered to help.”
you honestly didn’t know if laughing at his face in dismay would be the proper response or if just throwing out a “are you mad?” would suffice. to say you were left utterly dumbfounded would be a complete undersell of what was racking through your brain at the moment.
if jermajesty didn’t want to accompany you while studying, he could very well just say no. but he did seem to feel pretty guilty about how things ended on saturday. then again… who the hell is brother??
he softly called your name again to get your drifting thoughts back on him. “please let me make it up to you,” he inched closer to you with those pleading eyes once again. “please.”
and who were you to say no when he looked at you like you’d assembled the stars in the sky yourself? if you were certain about anything about yourself in this moment, it was that you didn’t have a backbone. because how you could give into his request at the drop of a dime while completely casting aside your own annoyance from before, you didn’t know.
against your shrinking resolution, you agreed. “fine,” you sighed, your heart warming ever so slightly at the way that his smile widened.
yet, a question still remained at the forefront of your mind. “but, who is your brother?”
jermajesty’s eyes quirked at your question, like it was the most obvious and unmistakable thing in the world. “uh jaafar, the guy from the bathroom? didn’t he tell you that?”
as quickly as your brain short-circuited, the door to the classroom opened and in came as many as eight students at once. jermajesty instantly became distracted by the noise brought in from the outside, his attention being redirected to the doorway. and for once, you were thankful that his inquisitive and mesmerizing eyes weren’t on you anymore.
because how the hell were you supposed to survive a tutoring session with the one man aside from jermajesty who had you blushing at your shared interests and intense, wandering gaze?
and why the hell did that same man have to be jermajesty’s brother?
--
READ PART TWO HERE
a/n: i hope you enjoyed. i have so many ideas for pt.2!
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
featuring: archangel!michael jackson x reader
synopsis: reader is doing a research project on angels for one of her finals. one night, her exhaustion takes over and she starts hallucinating—or so she thinks.
warnings: mentions of angels/divinity/religion. if you don't like any of that, please do not interact. besides that, none. this one is cute and funny but you might tear up.
a/n: might make this a series if y'all like it. cute happy fic bc our angel deserves our smiles. we miss you every day, angel face <3 (i edited that angel picture and started sobbing)
It had all started because of a terrible decision. Actually, calling it a terrible decision was an understatement. It was an awful decision.
It was the kind of decision that seemed brilliant and easy at two in the morning on a Saturday night, but catastrophic by Monday morning.
Specifically, it had started with you binge-watching Lucifer for the third time instead of studying for your finals. What was supposed to be one episode somehow turned into an entire weekend of celestial family drama.
So when your professor announced that the research project for your could be about any topic related to religion or mythology you immediately thought: Angels, easy stuff.
The only "easy stuff" was recognizing that you were an idiot.
Because, by the looks of it, the moment you stopped getting your information from a TV show—definitely modified for entertainment— and started reading real sources, angels became the most complicated beings to ever exist.
Every website contradicted the last one, some angels had swords, some looked majestic and others looked scary.
But it didn't end there. Oh no.
Your professor had told you to pick one angel to research. So who did you pick? Archangel Michael. Why? Because he shared a name with your favorite artist, Michael Jackson.
And oh boy, did that make everything worse.
One source claimed Michael carried scales, another said he carried a spear, and a third somehow concluded that he carried both.
In other words, you were losing your mind.
It got so bad that at one point you found yourself reading a thirty page academic paper about angels. You've never read a whole academic paper before for anything.
Your room was a mess and the paper was due in 12 hours. Books and notebooks were scattered everywhere—many of which you didn't even need. Pencils, pens, and even your Apple Pencil had disappeared into the chaos.
Scoffing, you grabbed your iPad and opened your music app. You tapped on your "King of My Life" playlist and hit play on "Human Nature."
You took a deep breath and took a glance at all the opened tabs on your laptop.
"That's not good." You whispered to yourself.
You started going through the tabs one by one, closing the ones you no longer needed as you adjusted your blue light glasses, chugged chugging what was left of your fourth and final Red Bull.
Your eyes hurt, your neck hurt, your ass hurt.
You checked your phone, the time read 3:00 a.m. Four empty Red Bull cans sat on your desk, your laptop was wheezing like it was on life support, and somehow, after six straight hours of researching angelology, your final paper still consisted mostly of theories about how shiny angels probably were.
Human Nature played in the back.
"Michael, tell Archangel Michael to come explain to me why he has seventeen different symbolic weapons? Like pick one dude."
Of course nothing happened because angels weren't real.
Two minutes later, someone cleared their throat.
You froze in your seat. Slowly, you turned around, grabbing a pencil—your only available weapon.
There was a man sitting in your bed.
A very sparkly man.
A very sparkly man wearing a white military-style jacket covered in gold embellishments.
A very sparkly man wearing a white military-style jacket covered in gold embellishments who looked exactly like Michael Jackson.
You stared and blinked.
He stared back and blinked.
"Well, I'm here." He smiled. "Oh hell nah." You grabbed your head. "I've finally snapped." He frowned. "That's rude."
Human Nature was still playing in the back.
"You're Michael Jackson." You pointed at him and looked at the big "Bad" poster you had in your room. Thankfully he hadn't noticed. "Technically." He nodded. "Technically?!" He gestured vaguely, as if that explained the whole situation. "Also Archangel Michael. Nice poster, by the way."
You looked at the empty cans then back at him.
"One of those was definitely expired."
Your gaze found his figure again, catching a glimpse of enormous wings unfolding behind him.
He wandered around your room, glancing at everything in sight. His thorough inspection lasted only a few seconds before he caught his foot on a pile of laundry and stumbled.
"God!"
The wings vanished. You stared. He stared. Neither of you acknowledged what had just happened.
"So..." you started. "You're telling me that the Archangel Michael looks exactly like Michael Jackson."
He shrugged.
"Do you know how many Michaels there are? We had to differentiate somehow." He paused for a moment. "And I don't look like Michael Jackson, I am Michael Jackson."
"No. Absolutely not. You're a hallucination." You pointed accusingly. "And I am officially going insane." You pointed the finger at yourself now.
He gasped.
A genuinely offended and dramatic gasp.
"I appear in your room in a burst of heavenly light, to try and help you, and THIS is the welcome I get?" He puts his hand to his chest. "You moonwalked out of my closet." You glared at him. "I made an entrance." He smiled, "You moonwalked out of my closet!" You moved your hands around. "But you noticed."
You buried your face in your hands before taking a deep breathe. "This is stress-induced psychosis."
Beat It started playing.
"I loved performing this song."
"I'm hallucinating."
"Okay."
"This isn't real."
"Okay."
You slowly looked up. He was gone. Or so you thought.
"Your closet needs more... bling bling" His voice coming from your closet. "Why are you going through my stuff?!" You got up from where you were sitting and walked toward the closet. "What's this? Oh, underwear. Nevermind" He laughed nervously.
You immediately threw a textbook at him, passing straight through and hitting the wall.
He looked offended.
"Hey! That was not nice. Be nice or I won't help." He pointed at you. "Stop touching my stuff." You crossed your arms.
With a dramatic twirl, he appeared beside your desk as though he'd been there all along. You hated that it looked cool.
"So, from what I understand, you wanted information." You hesitated. "Information?" He raised a brow. "For your paper." You eyed him suspiciously. "You know angel stuff?"
"Baby, I'm literally an angel." He let out a quiet laugh.
You slipped on your glasses, grabbed your laptop, and got to work. Twenty minutes later, you were taking notes directly from an actual archangel. Crazy, right?
"Wait, so the flaming sword thing is real?" You interrupted. "Yes." You typed. "What about the giant wheels covered in eyes?" He nodded. "Also real." You thought about your next question. "The endless choir singing holy music?" He laughed. "Oh, absolutely."
You typed with the speed and determination of a novelist chasing a deadline.
Hours passed, and your paper slowly went from an academic disaster into something that might actually earn a passing grade.
The sun began to rise.
"Well." He stood up. "Are you leaving?" You looked at him. "I have angel duties and you need to rest." He fixed the blanket that he had previously wrapped around your shoulders. "Right." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Thanks." He smiled back.
For a brief moment, you were able to truly see him. He was beautiful—radiant, powerful, almost overwhelming. At the end of the day, he was an angel.
"Will you be back?" You asked, a hint of hope in your voice. "Of course I will." He smiled, kissing your forehead softly. “See you, Red Bull girl.”
“See you, angel face.”
Five minutes later, he vanished in a flash of heavenly light.
You sat alone in the silence.
Eventually, your gaze dropped to your notes. Among pages and pages of detailed information, a final sentence had appeared—written in elegant gold handwriting.
Please cite your sources responsibly.
Below it:
Hee-hee.
Your professor later left a comment on your final paper.
"Demonstrates excellent use of research tools. The selected sources are interesting and relevant."
You got an A.
You never told anyone why or how. Mostly because nobody would believe your final grade was sponsored by Archangel Michael—who, in fact, was Archangel Michael Jackson.
But every now and then, when you're studying too late at night, you hear a distant voice from somewhere in your closet.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : mikey is falling hopelessly in love with the only woman on earth who treats him like an outlook calendar notification.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : personal assistant + office siren!reader, boss!michael, he’s getting lovesick, reader has absolutely no clue, heavy yearning, workplace romance, third person pov, slow burn, female reader.
There are very few people left in Michael Jackson’s life who interact with Michael before they interact with Michael Jackson. Fame has a peculiar way of flattening relationships into these predetermined roles. His beloved fans come to shows and meet and greets already convinced they know him. Executives approach him with sparkly, green dollar signs in their pupils and yeses on their tongue before Michael even speaks his proposal. Journalists and reporters adjust their attitudes depending on what headline they hoped to walk away with. Even the people closest to him unconsciously fall “in line” around the awe of his name, careful not to overstep, eager not to disappoint and constantly aware that he is someone extraordinary.
The room bends at his will before he ever asks it to.
Then? Then she arrives and treats him with the exact same professional courtesy she’d give to a judge in court.
It isn’t disrespectful, really. If anything, it’s just the opposite. She’s unfailingly polite, attentive and composed.. but she refuses to participate in the mythology everyone else has spent years preserving around him.
To her, he is Mister Jackson. Her employer. A man with an impossible schedule, an endless list of obligations, and responsibilities that require meticulous organization. His fame matters only insofar as it affects logistics, it determines how many security guards accompany him, how early they leave for venues, how many interviews fit into a day and how quickly a crowd can form outside a hotel. It doesn’t determine the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him or the amount of space she allows him into her life.
Perhaps that’s what unsettles him more than anything else? She doesn’t actively resist his celebrity as she declines to acknowledge it beyond what her job requires. She offers him neither awe nor intimidation, there’s no such thing as careful tiptoeing or exaggerated enthusiasm, or even concealed excitement over working beside Michael Jackson. She’s professional in a way that feels clinical and sterile and because of that, she becomes the only person in the room who never seems to want anything from him besides his cooperation.
(Name) enters his life shortly after his previous personal assistant quietly burned out under the demands of preparation for the Bad Tour nearly a year ago, yet another casualty of trying to keep pace with a career that has long since stopped resembling an ordinary life. Assisting Michael Jackson is less about managing a calendar and more about surviving a constant state of absolute chaos. Flights become rehearsals. Rehearsals become interviews. Interviews become recording sessions before dissolving into charity appearances, business meetings, wardrobe fittings, and promotional events that seem to materialize overnight. Somewhere beneath all of it exists a man expected to smile through exhaustion because the world rarely remembers that fame does not exempt someone from being human.
Most people last a few months and some don’t even manage that. And she lasts a week before everyone realizes they no longer have to worry.
She isn’t hired because she’s charming—charm doesn’t keep an international tour running. And she isn’t hired because she’s beautiful, though she undeniably is. Beauty can get you far in life, but even that can’t reorganize three countries’ worth of travel plans before lunch. She’s hired because competence, when refined to its absolute limit, begins resembling something intimidating. Because within days she has memorized everyone’s names, corrected scheduling conflicts that had gone unnoticed for weeks, reorganized filing systems no one else bothered to touch, and somehow untangled years of accumulated administrative clutter without announcing she’d done any of it. Problems disappear around her because she solves them before anyone else realizes they’ve become problems at all.
The thing about (Name) is that she never rushes. And that becomes one of the most fascinating things about her.
Everyone else in Michael’s orbit exists in a perpetual sprint. Managers are answering phones while crossing hotel lobbies and publicists apologize mid stride as they chase photographers down hallways. Security is constantly frazzled, scanning and redirecting. Every day seems to unfold with an underlying sense that everyone is already five minutes behind. And she alone seems immune to that urgency, walking the same pace regardless of whether she’s crossing an airport terminal or backstage at Wembley Stadium. (Name) is granted the luxury because she’s already accounted for the unexpected. She planned for delays before they happened and built room for mistakes into the schedule before anyone had the opportunity to make them. Watching her move through chaos without ever becoming chaotic herself is strangely mesmerizing. She’s always the stillest object in every room she enters.
The title never changes—his title, I mean.
“Mister Jackson.”
Always.
At first, he assumes it’s habit. Then he assumes maybe she’s nervous. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and one afternoon he smiles real shy at her in the limo, and tells her she can call him Michael. God, he wants to hear how his name sounds coming from those pretty plump lips. Most people fucking leap at invitations like that, to be addressed by a first name is intimacy, however small. It’s permission to cross a line. (Name) “accepted” the sentiment with genuine appreciation, thanked him politely, but then.. continued referring to him as Mister Jackson before the conversation has even ended. There wasn’t a trace of stubbornness in her tone, her response was so matter of fact that it leaves him without anything to argue against.
Slowly, he realizes it isn’t habit at all, it’s discipline.
Professional boundaries, to her, are not flexible depending on who occupies the other side of them. If she addresses executives formally, she’s address him formally. If she protects her private life from coworkers, she’ll protect it from him. She doesn’t create exceptions just because someone is famous, charismatic, or no matter how kind.
That consistency is precisely what makes her so difficult to understand. Michael has spent his life wondering whether people see him or merely the image they’ve built around him. She does something stranger. She sees him exactly as he is, acknowledges every practical reality of his life and still refuses to let that change the structure of their relationship.
Ironically, being treated exactly like everyone else is what makes him feel the most singled out.
Michael finds himself in a relationship where his fame grants him absolutely no advantage. His success can’t impress her because she’s already accounted for it. His kindness doesn’t soften the boundaries she’s spent years constructing. His charm earns him nothing beyond the same polite smile she’d offer anyone else. There is nothing to perform because she refuses to become a part of his audience. And maybe that’s what fascinates him most. She’s the first person in a very long time who seems completely uninterested in the version of Michael Jackson the world has created, leaving him with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling question.
If she doesn't care who Michael Jackson is, then what would it actually take for her to care about Michael?
It baffles him.
He’s spent his entire adult life asking people to relax around him, only to discover the one woman who actually refuses to blur the line. She doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t linger after conversations have ended. She doesn’t seek his approval or his attention. She completes her work, reminds him to eat, hands him the folder, and disappears until she’s needed again.
The funny thing is that she’s perhaps the most attentive person in his life.
(Name) notices when he’s exhausted before he does, quietly removing interviews from his afternoon if rehearsals run long. She remembers which tea helps his throat after recording sessions, which hotels have mattresses he sleeps best on, which fabrics irritate his skin, which reporters tend to ask invasive questions. She knows his routines better than most people who claim to know him personally, yet never behaves as though that knowledge grants her intimacy.
For her, care is practical. It exists in solutions rather than sentiment.
She shields him from the unnecessary stress. Producers who overstep suddenly find themselves speaking to her instead and pushy photographers somehow lose backstage access. Meetings that would have drained his energy mysteriously disappear from his schedule. (Name) doesn’t ask if he needs protecting, she simply protects him because it’s part of doing her job correctly.
The people around Michael eventually begin consulting her before consulting him.
If she says he needs another hour of rest, they believe her. If she says he’s unavailable, they don't argue. If she says the conversation is over, it's over. She never raises her voice, her authority comes from her competence rather than volume or her attitude.
Her.. appearance only deepens the contradiction. At work she exclusively favors fitted pencil skirts, silk blouses, classy blazers, pointed six inch heels, dainty jewelry, and a french tip. Everything about her makes the people around stop and look. She is undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that feels inviting. It’s the kind of beauty that suggests distance rather than attention. Men often approach expecting charm and leave vaguely intimidated and insecure after realizing they’ve learned absolutely nothing about her.
Michael finds himself staring more often than he’d ever admit. It isn’t merely that she’s beautiful, and again, she unquestionably is. It’s the composure she carries with her, the way she seems completely untouched by the crazy that follows him everywhere. She smooths a page in her planner with elegant fingers, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking conversation, adjusts the sleeves of her blazer before stepping into a meeting meant to fire someone. Even under the harsh lights of rehearsal studios or after fourteen hour workdays, she somehow remains.. perfect. He catches himself watching her when she isn’t looking, studying the effortless grace with which she moves through crowded hallways, wondering how someone can appear so perfectly composed while everyone else is barely holding themselves together. The realization that she’s become the first thing he looks for whenever he enters a room arrives long before he’s willing to admit what it means.
It becomes something of an obsession for him. And it’s not like she’s playing hard to get. There’s no game to participate in because she’s put up a wall so completely that it barely feels like rejection. It simply exists.
And Michael, for the first time in years, finds himself chasing someone who has absolutely no interest in being chased.
Seven o’clock had become her hour.
No one had assigned it to her, but somewhere over the last several months, she’d developed a habit of arriving at his hotel suite at precisely seven every morning with the day’s itinerary tucked neatly beneath one arm, a fresh folder of revised schedules in the other, and the information to keep the next sixteen hours from collapsing into complete disorder. She was never late.l, not even by a minute. Michael had even started waking a little earlier because of it, though he’d sooner admit to forgetting his own lyrics than confess that to anyone.
She knocked twice before letting herself in.
“Good morning, Mister Jackson.”
“Good morning, (Name).” He greets, eyes lingering on her figure.
She crossed the suite, heels clicking against marble with the same pace she did everything else, setting the folder on the dining table before unclasping the leather strap of her watch to adjust the time by a minute. He’s watched her do it enough times to know she always synchronized it with the hotel’s clock. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d noticed in the first place, only that somewhere along the way he’d begun collecting tiny observations about her the way other people collected photographs.
She slipped her glasses from her handbag and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. They only ever appeared when paperwork was involved: contracts, schedules, expense reports. The rest of the day they remained tucked away as though reading was the only occasion that justified wearing them. He wondered if she didn’t care for wearing them the same way he would later in his life. It was another detail he’d silently committed to memory, alongside dozens of others she likely had no idea he’d noticed. The way she tied her hair tighter on days she anticipated difficult meetings. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever someone was running late. The cup of coffee she’d make every morning only to forget about until it had gone cold, drinking it anyway because she refused to waste it. The careful way she aligned every stack of papers with two precise taps against the edge of the table before handing them over.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he knew an embarrassing amount about a woman who had never voluntarily told him a single thing about herself.
“...Following rehearsal, CBS requested an additional fifteen minutes for promotional photographs. I’ve declined on your behalf and rescheduled them for Thursday. Quincy would like to see you after lunch regarding vocal arrangements. Security has adjusted tomorrow’s departure by twenty minutes due to expected crowds.”
Michael heard every word and he processed almost none of them. Instead, he watched her straighten the paperwork with those familiar taps before sliding the folder toward him.
“..The revised contracts are on top. I’ve highlighted the sections requiring signatures.”
He nodded as she closed her planner with a soft snap before removing her glasses and folding them neatly back into their case.
“Your car will be downstairs in twelve minutes, Mister Jackson.” Gathering the remaining paperwork against her chest, she turned toward the door.
He watched her leave. Or rather, he intended to.
“...! Have breakfast with me.” The words left his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them.
(Name) paused and looked back over her shoulder. There wasn’t surprise on her face, nor discomfort. Only the same attentive professionalism she brought to every conversation.
“I’m sorry?”
“Breakfast,” He repeated, suddenly aware of how strange the request sounded now that it existed outside his head. “You’ve.. got a few minutes, haven’t you?”
He wasn’t asking her on a date. At least, that wasn’t how he’d intended it.
Michael simply wanted twenty uninterrupted minutes where she wasn’t reading through tomorrow’s schedule or reminding him about contracts that needed signing. Twenty minutes where she wasn’t acting as his assistant and he wasn’t being managed as her employer. He wanted to know what she talked about when there wasn’t a planner in her hands. What made her laugh. Whether she preferred tea or coffee when she actually had the time to enjoy either.
(Name) didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already eaten.”
The answer was so immediate, so natural, that he couldn’t even be disappointed by the words themselves. Whether she’d actually eaten that morning was almost beside the point. He knew instinctively that if she hadn’t eaten, the answer still would’ve been the same. Breakfast with her employer existed outside the boundaries she’d drawn for herself, and she protected those boundaries with the same consistency she protected everything else in her life.
“I hope you enjoy yours, Mister Jackson.” She offered him the same polite smile she always did before quietly excusing herself from the suite.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, almost conspicuously, silent.
Michael stared at the untouched breakfast waiting on the dining table before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath. It wasn’t disappointment that settled over him so much as embarrassment. He’d allowed himself to believe that perhaps she might make an exception because he was.. him.
Right.
Of course not.
To her, he wasn’t Michael.
He was Mister Jackson.
And Mister Jackson had a car waiting downstairs in twelve minutes..
(Name) pulled the suite door shut behind her with the same care she seemed to apply to everything else, the soft click swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of the hotel corridor. The folder remained tucked securely against her chest as she glanced down at her watch, mentally recalculating the morning.
Twelve minutes until departure. Three before she needed to confirm the motorcade was in position. Five to stop by security. Two to remind wardrobe about the revised fitting after rehearsal.
Her mind resumed its familiar rhythm almost effortlessly. And yet.. her pace slowed, if only slightly.
“Have breakfast with me.”
The request replayed itself with surprising persistence. It hadn’t sounded flirtatious. Not overtly, she thinks. Really, he’d seemed hesitant.
That, more than anything else, was unusual.
Michael was many things, but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Shy, certainly. Soft-spoken. Gentle to a fault. Yet when he wanted something professionally, he simply asked for it. There had been something oddly tentative in the way he’d said it, as though he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised her.
She frowned imperceptibly.
Sharing breakfast with him wouldn’t have been inappropriate in itself. They’d eaten at the same tables countless times during tour, award shows, and production meetings. Entire teams did. But that wasn't what he’d asked, was it?
Michael asked her.
Just the two of them.
The distinction mattered. She hadn’t believed he’d intended anything improper, she genuinely didn’t. Michael Jackson had never once given her reason to question his character, and she trusted him far too much to leap to conclusions over a single invitation.
But personal invitations had a way of quietly eroding professional boundaries.
Not all at once.
An exception here.
Another there.
Lunch became conversation. Conversation became familiarity. Familiarity became assumptions neither person had intended to make. (Name) seen it happen in other workplaces often enough to recognize the first loose thread before anyone else noticed the seam unraveling.
It was better not to tug at it. Besides, she’s already established her boundaries nearly a year ago.
He was Mister Jackson. She was his assistant.
The relationship functioned as well as it did because neither of them expected it to be anything else. Still.. as she stepped into the elevator, she caught herself wondering what had prompted the question in the first place.
Had he simply wanted company?
Had something happened she hadn’t noticed?
Had he skipped dinner the night before and assumed she had as well?
(Name) replayed the conversation in her head, searching for some practical explanation she’d overlooked.
There always was one. But by the time the elevator reached the lobby, she decided there probably wasn’t anything more to think about.
He’d asked.
She’d declined.
The morning continued.
And somewhere upstairs entirely unbeknownst to her, Michael was sitting alone with an untouched breakfast, while she was still trying to determine what logistical reason could possibly have inspired such an uncharacteristically personal question. Neither of them realized they had walked away from the same conversation thinking about it for entirely different reasons.
synopsis: when your grades continue to tank in your econometrics class, your hopes for improvement are dependent on a long-awaited study session with your crush, jermajesty. but when studying together goes sideways, you’re left with the next best option: hopeful actor and older brother to jermajesty, jaafar jackson.
word count: 12k (i couldn't help myself)
c/w: some smut themes at the end (MDNI!)
pairing: jaafar jackson x f!reader (pre-michael and grad school au)
READ PART ONE HERE
study sessions are a one to two hour period of time dedicated to reviewing study guides and bridging gaps between incomprehension and clarity. they’re high stakes in term of score and performance improvement, low stakes in terms of interaction between tutor and tutee.
it’s as basic as that.
no strings attached, no emotional weight assigned to frivolous economic theories and mathematical calculations. your only grade-altering task of the evening: sit like a sponge and soak in every and all content pertaining to the keynesian model and subsequent theories. the key performance indicator? your grades on the next quizzes and tests.
so why is it that for the last two weeks since you agreed to this trivial study session, you’ve conjured up every possible scenario of what could possibly go wrong?
what if you were un-tutorable? what if econometrics is so out of left field for you that you’d leave the session even more dumbfounded than when you entered? what if you’re genuinely so far gone in the subject that jaafar and the entire jackson family alerted every tabloid of your ineptitude?
these were all relevant and valid worries, you explained to yourself. yet, a more tenuous and unspeakable apprehension still lingered in the forefront of your mind.
what if jaafar found you stupid? what if he looked at you differently? what if that fragile, inconsequential space of time in his bathroom was to be fractured by your very stupidity in economic theory?
or what if that moment in the bathroom was more consequential than you deemed it or wanted it to be? and worse, if it did leave a noteworthy impression on you both, what if your idiocy today left whatever friendship you could build with him in peril?
a part of you recognized that it wasn’t that serious. another part of you also realized that you shouldn’t be as worried about your crush’s brother as much as the crush in question. so why did it bug you so much that his opinion of you can change in a measly amount of time?
all of these thoughts and inhibitions circled your mind like a whirlpool in the middle of an tumultuous river. yet, you knew it was too late to turn back now. not just because going back on your word with jermajesty felt like taking three steps backward, but because you’re already staring back at your reflection of the all-too-familiar mahogany backdrop of the jackson’s door.
you tried your best to dress cute casual once again; something that showed it wasn’t your first day on earth but not that you were overdoing it either. if your green button bell sleeve top and faded black jeans were anything to go by, you could easily be going for a brisk walk in the park after this.
see? casual!
you secretly hoped jermajesty would be home so you’d have more of an excuse to be close to him. to replace those feelings of past disdain with something more amicable and romantic. at the same time, his absence would clear your mind to take in more information about ols formulas instead of romantic scenarios.
yeah, let’s hope he’s not here to watch you make a completely joke of yourself.
as opposed to the last time you were here where you waited to be caught at the door like a deer in headlights, you knocked immediately. your attempt at sublimating your anxiety with fabricated confidence could only get you so far; your hands immediately became clammy and you settled for your self-soothing arm rubs.
by the time you heard soft footsteps padding towards the door, you’re sure you sweated your way through the back of your shirt. but the click of the door opening in front of you was enough to snap you back into your imminent reality.
he door widened just enough to display a very domestic-looking jaafar. his outfit was actually inverted this time, with him in a black loose shirt and grey wide-leg joggers. you suddenly felt thirsty, not sure whether to attribute it to the humidity outside or how his shirt clung to his arms just right.
goodness lord.
“hey,” he smiled widely, his arm hidden behind the large expanse of the doorframe. “you’re right on time.”
you weren’t sure what about the brief interaction did it for you, but you felt your anxiety subside just slightly. “well, i didn’t want to catch you off guard and accidentally hit you in the head again,” you joked.
he laughed, loudly. and strangely, that brought you a piece of comfort too. you giggled at how funny he found that joke. wow, could you actually be yourself today?
“yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” he replied, his eyes landing back on you.
“yeah,” you breathed out, your laughs now fading out into a comfortable silence. you fiddled with a loose string on the bottom of your backpack as you held his gaze.
a few seconds of staring at each other passed before he interjected. “um, come on in, i just finished setting up our study area.”
a study area? how cute is he?
he stepped aside from his place by the door, ushering you in and pointing to the living room. you left your shoes at the entrance of the door and maneuvered you way through the familiar hallway. you quickly found yourself engulfed in the warm light of the lamp in the corner. almost magnetically, you found yourself planting your feet directly in front of the wall of vinyls once again.
instead of glancing over all of them in their musical glory, your eyes were fixated on one in particular.
sam cooke.
because not only did the sight of it trigger the “willow weep for me” instrumental to noodle through your mind, but also because of the new memories attached. the frivolous knowledge quiz of sam cooke trivia, the patching up of a dinky wound, the shoulders brushing against each other.
you gulped to recenter yourself. wow, your body started to warm at the thought of that. but before your body could heat like a sauna, you heard a voice interject into your thoughts.
“i brought some water,” jaafar offered. your eyes redirected from the brilliant purple of the vinyl to his hands that carefully grasped the two glasses of water.
it’s almost like he knew you were profusely sweating like a marathon sprinter.
you uttered a small “thanks” as you watched him place the glasses on the table, and that’s when you finally took in the study session set up. the desk was decorated with grid sheets of paper, marked-up study guides, calculators, mathematical utensils, and pencils.
“jaafar, you didn’t have to do all this,” you sighed, now feeling the guilt seep through your veins at the thought of him putting so much effort into tonight.
he dropped to his knees by the table to reorganize a few strewn sheets of paper before his eyes found you, a comforting smile adorned on his lips. “don’t even worry, jerm mentioned that you needed to review a lot so i think this will be really helpful.”
you felt a pit form in your stomach at the thought of them talking about you. or was it at the fact that jermajesty thought you were stupid as shit and had to warn his brother about it?
“damn, i’m that cooked huh?” you replied, arms crossed on your chest like a weapon of self-defense and soothing all in one.
he shook his head in laughter as he got back on his feet and inched his way closer to you. “no no. he knows i like to tutor people,” he began. “so if it makes you feel better, you’re doing me a favor.”
“right,” you playfully scoffed, now turning your body to the direction of the wall once again. the iconic record reflected back at you like a comforting reminder of your childhood. you mentally sifted through the various memories attached to it, automatically smiling in remembrance. your eyes naturally gravitated to the record on the wall like a magnetic force.
“you really like sam cooke don’t you?” he softly spoke up, now rising from his spot on the floor and stepping towards you. his body was angled in the same direction as the vinyl-saturated wall, eyes locked on the same record as you.
“that competition in the bathroom last week didn’t prove it to you?” you joked, turning your head to look up at him. a humored smile formed on his lips, his eyes still trained ahead. you were slightly in awe of how the light from the lamp captured his bronze skin perfectly.
he turned his head just slightly to meet your gaze, a look that you couldn’t pinpoint taking over his features. almost as though he was waiting for you to continue with your sentiments.
“yeah he’s uh-" you turned to look back at the purple vinyl, the passionate smile deepening on your face. “he’s got some good music.”
you could feel jaafar’s eyes darting between you and the wall. like he was analyzing the empty space between your words and the actual emotional significance the album had for you. instead of questioning you further, he decided to move on.
“i want to hear more about that later,” he started. “but for now, let’s start learning about interpretation of functional form.”
he was already moving away from the expansive wall to the floor. you internally rolled your eyes at the studying that you willingly agreed to. you found yourself sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, your right arm slightly brushing against his own.
after pulling your notebooks and past exams from your bag, you looked at him with a dreadful but willing look. he playfully bumped your shoulder to alleviate some of the stress he could already feel building within you.
“let’s do it.”
—
“so you’re saying that when the production possibilities curve is bowing out, that it’s a decreasing opportunity cost?”
the grip you had on your mechanical pencil was enough to crush a block of wood in half. the last ninety minutes of study time consisted of you receiving a question, perusing the answer choices internally, answering incorrectly, and groaning for three consecutive minutes.
it was a repetitive pattern of shock at your own incompetence as well as self-humiliation at displaying this incapability in front of jaafar.
“no,” his face grimaced, anticipating your disdain. “it’s actually the opposite.”
“ughh,” you groaned so loudly that you heard it reverberate off the walls. “this is pointless.”
you let your head fall into your hands like the sheer weight of it was too much to bear. funny, considering how you had retained almost nothing in your brain from the last hour and a half.
you felt jaafar’s shoulders shake in laughter beside you. at least he wasn’t as miserable as you are right now.
“let’s take a break,” he offered, already standing to his feet beside you. he took the now two empty glasses from the desk to fill them.
“jaafar, i can’t take a break! i’ve learned almost nothing and my next exam is in less than a month,” you complained, peeling your head from your hands and looking up at him. “i need to learn everything right now.”
he looked humored by your unyielding nature, sparing you no pity. “a break never hurt anyone, and you really look like you need one right now.”
at that, he left you to sit by yourself on the ground as he retrieved more water for the two of you. you let yourself fall back slightly against the exterior of the couch, your head falling back on the dark brown cushion.
you closed your eyes, steady breaths escaping you as you waited for him to return to continue this vile study session. you didn’t even want to scroll on your phone; the thought of escaping your “econometrics zone” instilled more fear in you than the exam itself.
you heard the padding of jaafar’s feet against the carpeted floors, followed by him gently placing the glasses on the table. the carpet dipped beneath you just slightly as he reassumed his place by your side on the floor.
a few seconds passed where nothing was said. just the silent wisp of the air conditioning above your heads and measured breaths escaping you both.
“so,” he interjected into the silence. “what is it about sam cooke?”
your eyes remained closed, but you couldn’t fight the smile that his question drew. “he’s the king of soul, i think that’s a reason in and of itself, right?”
“well, that’s debatable.”
your eyes shot open at that. you dramatically turned your head in his direction at the insult. “i’m sorry?” you scoffed.
his hands shot up in faux defense. “not by me, i mean the vinyls should speak for themselves,” he laughed. “but you know, some people would say he’s just some jazz singer from the 50s.”
your eyes narrowed at that, drawing a laugh from the reinstated tutor. “sooo?” you were stumped by his questioning.
“so aside from the musical trailblazing and southern-style serenades, what about him really stuck with you?”
for such a trivial question, you felt that there was a real sincerity in his curiosity. if his tone was anything to go by, he seemed genuinely invested in what you had to say. like he really wanted to know what made you interested in things.
things that you both shared in common.
your heart stirred at the thought of it.
“you want the real answer or you want-”
“now why the hell would i want anything else?” he interrupted, a laugh erupting from you at his haste.
“well,” you shifted positions, your head now in the palm of your hand with your arm resting on the couch as you turned your body to face him. “it’s not even the lyrics for me, it’s the passion that he sings with.”
jaafar now mimicked your position, facing you with the side of his head in the palm of his left hand. his knees brushed yours just slightly, but you tried your best to ignore it.
“he sings so sentimentally but with such resolution, like he is certain about how he feels. yet, his muse has the power to change the trajectory of his entire day with a single ‘hi.’”
jaafar chuckled at that.
“his voice is just so magnetic and so rich. he just captures emotions so well, it’s something that was so unprecedented and remarkable for his time that, honestly, he raised the bar too high for us because i’ve never heard anyone like him ever again.”
“that’s true,” he remarked.
“my parents used to play “night beat” for me at least five times a week, i swear i could recognize every song if you played that shit backward. and to be honest i-"
you cut yourself off. you felt your cheeks flush at the realization that you’ve been talking for eons at this point.
his face contorted in confusion. “what?”
you fiddled with the loose string on the carpet, wishing nothing more than to cave into yourself and dissipate into thin air. “i’ve been yapping for like ten minutes now,” you dryly laughed.
“i was listening, though,” he quickly responded. “so night beat is your favorite album, not mr. cooke?”
your eyes darted up from the carpet to his warm, inviting eyes. the gentle smile adorned on his face coupled with his ardent gaze was so alluring that it was almost dangerous. with features like that, he could genuinely get you to shovel shit if he asked.
damn girl why are you mentally salivating? literally relax.
“i uh-,” you dragged your finger across the outskirts of your bottom lip. “i’d say that’s my favorite album of all time.”
he only nodded, a signal for you to continue.
you adjusted in your spot on the floor, automatically inching closer to him. “i love it so much that i’ve been trying to get the limited-edition signed copy of the album for like ten years now.”
“no way,” he replied. “where the hell are they hiding it?”
it was only then that you noticed how he subtly inched closer to you, both your elbows now brushing against each other. your eyes quickly drifted to where your skin met, not wanting him to notice.
not wanting him to pull away.
“there’s only like 100 units of it worldwide; he really didn’t like signing shit,” you joshed. “it’s super rare, unfortunately.”
“hmm,” he hummed in response. you held eye contact for a few seconds before eventually glancing back down at the carpet. “you know what else is rare?”
“what’s that?”
“the algebraic properties of ols estimates,” he now turned his body to face the table once again. “can you tell me what they are?”
you groaned, your head falling back on the couch cushion once again. “jaafarrrrr.”
“i know, i know,” he tried to reason, yet you didn’t budge from your sunken position. “but like you said, the exam is in less than a month and i want you to feel as prepared as possible for it.”
your head lifted at his reassurance, and again you were met with that look that you still couldn’t describe. attentiveness? consideration? interest?
“come on, you got this,” he soothed, eyes determined and encouraging. “remember the problem with the financial return on investment?”
you only rolled your eyes in acknowledgment, a dramatic huff escaping you.
he pointed to another problem from the exam sheet and pointed to it. “this one is similar to it. walk me through that one.”
you gave another theatrical eye roll, breaking down the concept to the best of your ability. “if we have to calculate the financial return on education, we have to use the…” you hesitated. “…linear regression model?”
to your surprise, he gestured for you to keep going. “uh huh, and after that?”
your eyes widened dramatically. were you…learning?
“um,” your eyebrows furrowed in intense thought. “we have to fill in the variable estimates for wage and education using a platform like stata.”
jaafar now sat up in his seat in anticipation. “right, and then?”
ok, now you were getting excited. “we look for the ols estimates with the zero conditional mean assumption?”
“exactly!” he opened your laptop for you. “so once you plug in the numbers from the table, you’ll get your baseline interpretation of these parameters.”
you opened your computer to the stata program and began entering the figures. after a few seconds of your laggy computer loading, your spreadsheet became filled with far-reaching calculations. your eyes refocused on the top row, with numbers that you hoped were correct for this problem.
“so because these values are lower than zero, the error term is completely uncorrelated with education and therefore,” you cringed in preparation. “causes an endogeneity problem?”
this is the most proud jaafar looked all night. “yes exactly, you got it right!”
you were sure that pigs couldn’t have squealed as loud as you just did. “no way!” you practically yelled, your voice once again echoing off the walls like an echo chamber. “i can’t believe this… am i?”
jaafar only watched with a proud smile like getting you to learn the significance of ols estimates was one of his highest crowning achievements. “an econometrics genius? i think so!”
he raised his right hand, expectantly waiting for a high five. you slapped it harder than you anticipated, the exhilaration of finally having learned something catching up to you. he only laughed at your novel joy at absorbing the material.
his hand unknowingly lingered a little longer against your own than you realized. it barely registered to you until you felt his fingers curling just barely around your own. like he was grasping at the fleeting contact.
but you were too caught up in the moment to care, pulling away after a few seconds and rescanning the problem to check if you were actually correct. once again, you were too distracted by momentary triumph to notice the way jaafar’s smile wavered at the loss of contact.
it’s funny how you didn’t want to snap out of the “econometrics zone” before, but jaafar being your distraction ended up being the answer to your problems…
—
after that night, you had four more study sessions with jaafar.
just concise two-to-three-hour blocks where the more you engaged in the granular detail of the econometrics field, the more you improved. jaafar made the sessions interactive for you: with every correct answer you’d provide, he’d allow you to play one of the vinyls embellished on the wall. you’d play “guess that song,” giving yourself only three seconds to guess correctly before your attention was redirected to self-regulation theory.
you learned more than you probably could’ve done in a traditional academic setting. you better understood the correlation of international trade policies and global conflicts on local labor markets and wages. treating the course like a psychological evaluation, you learned the incentives for certain economic and market choices as well as the immediate consequences for large and small countries.
you were shocked at how speedily you were navigating and absorbing the material. maybe studying with a real-life human and not khan academy youtube clips had its perks.
aside from academic content, you learned so much about yourself. your determination to learn, your ability to expand your economic knowledge base, and your unbelievably hard-headed nature to keep trying even when you were flustered beyond words.
but most shockingly of all, you got to know jaafar.
like reallllyyyy got to know him.
beyond the simplicity of the sam cooke commonality, you discovered that he adored his music for similar reasons to you. he described him as having “one of the sweetest voices in soul music,” pioneering the way for sweet, smooth yearning in today’s music. though “nothing could ever come close to him,” as jaafar said.
he didn’t hold older music in higher regard than today’s artists from a place of hubris, but from familial conditioning. his deep love for the five stairsteps and aretha franklin emerged from his parents’ continual record playing on weekends. that sarah vaughan’s music, without fail, played through the house before they had date nights. even his siblings held monthly singing contests that revolved around tracks from the temptations all the way to julie london.
even with this basic amount of information, there was still more that you craved to know.
and he, without fail, provided that to you.
you learned that he became an econometrics tutor because he longed for a career of stability that was driven by his own hard work, not by that of his family name. where many nepo babies either chose the same, pre-destined paths of their parents’ legacies or basked in the ability to do nothing, he preferred the opposite: getting a higher education and carving a name for himself.
out of all majors offered at his college, he thought econometrics was the one that would guarantee him a stable career. his calculated and diligent nature directly aligned with the quantitative model of the course, yet his thoughtfulness in understanding the “why” behind decision-making made him a good tutor and strong worker. yet, six years after graduating, he still remained unemployed. he was out of work while working side hustles to get to his ultimate goal in life.
“so,” you started, walking circles in the dimly lit living room. “econometrics, huh?”
jaafar laughed from his spot on the floor as he followed your movements. “it wasn’t my first choice, but it was enough for me at the time.”
“well, what would’ve been your first choice?”
jaafar fiddled with the pointed edges of one of your worksheets, suddenly finding himself more interested in reading about advanced empirical methods than this vulnerable topic.
you paused in the middle of the room at the realization. “jaafar?” you softly coaxed.
he looked up at you, except this time with a meek expression. your eyebrows knitted in confusion and anticipation at his response.
“i uh-“ he now shifted to playing with the back of his earlobe. “i wanted to be an actor.”
a timid smile decorated his lips as he continued. “i mean, i still want to be an actor but you know, i’m still looking for the right role. well, looking to be called for anything, i guess.”
you stepped toward his direction, finding your place right next to him on the charcoal-colored carpet. a section of the apartment that had become too comfortable for you for the few times you’d been there.
you brought your thighs to your chest, your head resting against your knees as you gazed at him. his eyes remained on you; like an irresistible pull to understand what you were thinking. but thankfully, the subdued lighting hid the way your cheeks flushed at the eye contact.
the apartment that was once filled with the simplistic chatter of econometrics and notable conversations was now fraught with easy silence.
“i think you’d be a really great actor,” you delicately interjected into the quiet.
“yeah?”
“yeah,” you lifted your head from your legs, your full attention on him. “i could see you in like a princess live-action or a fantasy movie.”
he laughed at your suggestions. “why, thank you. i think i’d make a great princess tiana.”
“jaafar!” you chuckled, playfully swatting at his shoulder, eliciting another laugh from him. “but seriously, what would you want to act in?”
he took a second to respond, like he was really contemplating his options.
“honestly, i could see myself in a biopic or something. i’d love to take on a role where i can really study someone and learn about the root drivers of their behavior and bring that to fruition on film.”
you let a few seconds pass. “i could see that too.”
his eyes found yours again, as well as that all-too-comforting and gentle smile that somehow managed to make your heart flutter.
the almost-meditative silence recaptured the room once again, nothing but the soft blow of the air vent taking up the space.
but without missing a beat, jaafar brought the humor back. “do you think i’d make a good charlotte la bouff, too?”
“jaafar!”
in the three weeks of tutoring sessions between the two of you, a comfortable familiarity had settled between the two of you. one where you expected random study questions every 30 minutes and were immediately rewarded with soul-searching classics on his classic record player. for every correct answer, you were offered heart-to-heart chats about his firsts and his favorites.
his first concert.
his first time moving homes and having to adjust to a new school.
his favorite home-cooked meals.
his first and favorite trip to colombia to meet his extended family.
things betewen you two were… easy, to say the least. enjoyable. comfortable. and after relentless study sessions and late nights together, the culmination of your concurrent efforts at studying content and discovering more of his personality finally paid off.
because after your third exam of the semester, where you gnawed on the width of your pencil for 40 minutes out of test-related anxiety, you finally received your grade.
88.
your eyes widened like a child squeezing down on a squishy stress toy. instead of your hands grasping at the sides of the paper to ground yourself after failure, you gripped at the test sheets in pure glee.
you couldn’t believe it! after all of the hours of incessant questions, there was something to show for it. something you could be proud of.
of course, the one day that you wanted to celebrate with jermajesty, he was absent. he texted you before class to let you know that he “wasn’t in the mood” to sit through another shitty class, which you understood. but by the grace of the universe, you wished he were here so you could thank him.
thank him for suggesting that you study with his gracious and shrewd older brother.
jaafar.
out of everyone in your life who had to learn about your academic comeback, it was him. you had to tell him the good news.
quickly.
once your professor dismissed you from your residual hell of a lecture, you happily packed your belongings into your backpack and skipped out of the class like a worker who’d just received their severance.
by the time you made it to his front door, you wasted no time in knocking through antsy smashes of your knuckles on the wood.
“coming,” you heard from beyond the hatches, belonging to the one person you were dying to see.
the door opened to reveal the domestic-looking jaafar that you’d progressivly gotten to know. it only dawned on you in that moment that you’d only seen him within the snug sanctuary of he and jermajesty’s apartment. and you were starting to secretly love that he was the one to greet and welcome you every time.
his eyes narrowed in confusion at your presence, but it was only quickly replaced with his usual warm smirk. “hey, i didn’t realize we had a study session i-"
he paused.
because the way that you were eagerly staring at him and bouncing on your feet like you couldn’t contain yourself was unexpected, to say the very least.
“uh, what’s up?” he followed up.
you pulled your test from behind your back, enthusiastically pushing it against his chest. he let out a laugh, retrieving it from your hands and squinting to see what could possibly have you this excited.
the minute his eyes discovered the two numbers inscribed at the top corner of the page, his eyes widened and his jaw went slack. his hands dropped but still holding onto it for tangible proof that his lessons meant something.
“you did it,” he uttered into thin air, like he was proving it to himself. “you really did it, y-you passed!”
“i did it, jaafar,” you nodded, biting back a wide-toothed smile.
in a split second, his hands were dropping the paper and grabbing at your lower back. within seconds, the solid ground beneath you had been stripped away as you were lifted from the ground into his tight embrace.
his incredibly warm, fresh forest pine scent engulfed you completely. you squealed at the sensation, trying your best to distract from the warmth that pooled in the bottom of your stomach. as quickly as he cradled you to his chest in merriment, you were put back down.
slightly dazed, you grasped at his shoulder as you tried to take it all in. or maybe that was just an excuse to hold onto him just a little while longer…
“i’m so proud of you,” he exclaimed, the widest smile you’ve ever seen him wear.
and to say that those five words didn’t affect you would have been a complete lie. because suddenly your smile subtly relaxed in gratification at the feeling that someone other than your siblings was proud of you.
that he was proud of you.
you could cry.
“thank you jaafar,” you grinned, suddenly overcome by an intense wave of emotions that you had yet to label.
“we should celebrate, you deserve it!” he offered.
you nodded, a little too eager than you would’ve liked. “i would love that, after this exam, we both deserve a break.”
“agreed.”
“maybe we can go to the park downtown? or maybe even the aquarium and-"
“yoo, who’s here?” you heard a voice break into the conversation.
you didn’t have to look back to know whose voice it was. you failed to catch the way that jaafar’s smile shrunk by a fraction at his brother’s interruption, while yours only widened.
jermajesty quickly rounded the corner and appeared at the doorway next to jaafar. “what’s going on?”
“well,” a sly smile snuck onto your face. “i was just spreading the good news that i-" you pointed to yourself dramatically. “-passed last week’s exam.”
his face quickly shifted from impassive to delighted. “oh my gosh! that’s great.”
“thank you jermajesty, i really can’t believe it,” you replied.
“well i can, i mean you’ve practically moved in with how long you’ve been studying for this with jaafar.” both you and jaafar laughed at the same time at the confession.
“yeah,” you sighed. “jaafar’s been too kind to me through all of this, i deadass need to start paying rent for how many nights i bothered him.”
“you weren’t a bother,” jaafar quickly cut in, this time no humor laced in his tone. you offered a gentle smile to him, one that screamed ‘you’re too nice to me!’ yet an awkward silence still subsumed the room, though your heart pattered against your chest like heavy rain against a windowsill.
jermajesty cleared his throat, akin to a knife cutting through the palpable tension. “so,” he started, eyes swiftly drifting between the two of you. “we should celebrate.”
“yeah, i was just telling jaafar that we should go somewhere. maybe the three of us could go to the par-"
“i was kind of thinking it could just be the two of us,” jermajesty quickly cut you off. “you know, to celebrate us nearly being done with the class.”
your eyes widened at the suggestion. why the fuck did he say that?
on a normal day, you’d kill for the chance to be alone with jermajesty. to really get the one-on-one time together that was only afforded to you in your imagination. i mean, it’s what you always wanted, right?
so why did the offer to hang out with him alone feel like a molten knife searing through your heart? the very idea of it felt abnormal; you’re sure this was not how you were supposed to feel after your crush offered to spend time with you. maybe it was the fact that he intentionally excluded the one other person you actually wanted to celebrate with…
jermajesty took a few steps closer to you, now leaving jaafar at the back end of the entrance. your eyes quickly wandered from jermajesty’s aniticipatory ones to those of jaafar’s behind him that were now clouded with something pensive and desolate.
you could tell that he was put off by jermajesty’s crude and intrusive proposition. you didn’t blame him. in fact, you hated it just as much. “well what if the three of us do something? i still think that-"
“no it’s fine,” jaafar quietly interrupted you from beyond the entryway. “we can celebrate another time.”
your eyebrows creased as you tried to plead with him through your eyes. a telepathic communication that you hoped jermajesty wouldn’t catch on to.
“jaafar,” you tried to reason.
but you were only met with an acquiescent smile. “really, it’s fine. we’ll do something next time.”
and with that, he retreated back down the dark hallway into what you could only assume to be his room. at jaafar’s disappearance, jermajesty seemingly brightened in the face.
huh… weird.
“so, what do you say? friday at seven? i can pick you up.”
and who were you to say no to the one man who single-handedly had you picking roses in your mind every single day?
“sure, i’d love to.”
—
what do you think is more expensive: grilled center-cut ribeye or australian barramundi?
these are questions you never thought you’d have to seek the answers to, considering they were so far out of your price range. hell, you didn’t even know what these meals even were before sitting down at the extravagantly embellished restaurant.
yet as you sat across the table from a very dapper-looking jermajesty, you found yourself in the predicament anyway. to be honest, dinner at this restaurant was way out of your typical celebratory practice. but when jermajesty suggested it to you to honor your most recent econometrics success, who were you to say no?
all he told you in preparation for tonight was to wear something nice, something elegant.
so you chose your best outfit: a milky white bell-sleeve crop top and gilded pleated maxi skirt.
but even in something that made you feel so beautiful, you felt severely underdressed. because opposite from you and the overly decorated table runners was jermajesty in a tailored fit black stretch suit. truthtfully, as handsome as he looked, he looked like he was running for local office.
you liked that he took the initiative to plan the night; it made you feel like he actually put thought into wanting to make it special for you. but is it bad that you would’ve rather had him ask what you would’ve preferred to do instead of tagging along with his idea of a “celebration?”
girl, whatever!
you’re finally getting the moment you’ve only daydreamed about for seven months. you’re gonna eat that ridiculously priced steak if it means more time with him.
opting for whatever jermajesty ordered, you swiftly listed your dishes of choice to the waiter before returning the menus to him. now was the moment of promised kinship without the interruption of unexpected study partners.
“so,” you began, your head falling to the palm of your hand, accompanied by your watchful gaze. “how was your week?”
jermajesty finished taking a swig of water from his glass before responding, eyes trained on the glass in his hands. “it was good, i feel like it was a productive week for me.”
“oh really? what did you do?”
he took in a breath, supposedly reflecting on the actual tasks that he was able to complete this week. “i finally finished my paper for my american government class, i applied to some jobs too, so hopefully something pulls through.”
“shit, in this job market, i hope that for you too,” you chided.
and the most charming laugh escaped the lips of the man you’d wanted to kiss for months now. for that, you swore that you’d make it your top priority to make him laugh for the rest of the night.
“nah you’re right,” he agreed. “but that’s why i gotta work twice as hard to get one. because grad school was just a way of keeping me out of the job market.”
“felt,” you concurred, reaching for your glass to distract yourself from the butterflies circling your stomach. “but what jobs are you looking for post-grad?”
“honestly anything, but some entry-level position anywhere would be nice. i’m just trying to build my resume so that i can use that communications degree from undergrad for somethin,” he answered.
“hmm,” you continued to suck on the lipstick-coated straw. “what would the ideal job be for you to use your communications degree?”
“look at you with all the questions,” he quipped. “you might be the one with the comms degree for real.”
“i’m just trying to make conversation!” you laughed, suddenly a little self-conscious about how much you were berating him like a police officer.
“no it’s fine, i like it.”
suddenly, the imminent feeling of self-deprecation completely dissolved into the obscenely wealthy air of the restaurant.
he continued, a knowing smile that he relieved you of your impending stress. “but honestly, i’d love to be a sports commentator. i already love the game, i feel like getting paid to dive into that further would be the perfect job for me.”
by the time he finished listing his favorite players of all time, the premium-style meals were served.
everything was delicious, the cost a little daunting, but scrumptious nonetheless. jermajesty continued spewing his nba knowledge and most-beloved sports commentators that he hoped he could emulate one day.
he then detailed the childhood memories of incessant basketball practices and late nights spent in the driveway of his home shooting layups in hopes of becoming the next magic johnson. it was heartwarming, truly, to hear that he had such a deep admiration for the game. you loved to hear him speak passionately like this.
and honestly, from the outside looking in, the evening was perfect. the food was divine, and shit, the company looked even better.
but you know what was severely lacking?
the actual dialogue needed to sustain a two-person conversation.
you loved learning more about him; it was like getting to connect the final pieces of a puzzle of him that you’d conjured up in your own mind.
but what about how a conversation is normally supposed to go? where was the back and forth? the intersecting conversation points that would spur into more discussions that had nothing to do with the original topic?
perhaps that was the disappointing part of developing a crush founded on nothing but your own imagination. you were bound to be somewhat unfulfilled by what you desired versus the damning reality that you were way off.
you’d hoped that this night would be different, that jermajesty would have more of a quizzical bone in his body. in your mind, you thought that he could’ve at least found you interesting enough to take you on a date and eventually learn more about you through it.
but it was in this moment, mid-chew through your overpriced steak, that you were again reminded that your imagination could never be reality. because throughout the entire dinner, he hadn’t asked you a single question.
it felt like you were inquiring more than responding, carrying the never-ending burden of genuine curiosity without being offered the opportunity to reciprocate in thoughtful responses. a more harrowing realization hit you as you went for another bite: that maybe jermajesty was, unfortunately for you, not what you expected him to be like.
so why did that revelation not stir as much anguish as you expected?
you were completely absorbed in your own mental deliberation of the night that you hadn’t noticed the overbearing silence consume the table. the only noise to be heard was the clattering of your utensils against the porcelain plates and the muffled chatter of those around you.
unfortunately for you, jermajesty noticed your silence immediately. that, and the way your eyes were trained on the remainder of the food on your plate like it was the most interesting part of the evening.
“i’ve been rambling all night, haven’t i?”
your eyes darted from the plate to him, eyes widening at the realization that your silence was an indication of your disdain.
“w-what?”
“you’ve barely spoken a word in the last few minutes, i just want to make sure i didn’t lose you.”
you suddenly felt bad, like really bad. “no no, i just-" you paused to think of a good excuse. “the food is just sooo good.”
his eyes narrowed in deliberation of your answer, trying to decide whether he believed you or not. he settled for the former, looking down at his almost-finished meal and taking another bite.
phew.
you internally wiped at the perspiration on your forehead as you felt yourself trailing down contemplation avenue once again.
but before you could ruminate on your worries once again, his voice interjected into your thoughts.
“tell me one of your fondest memories from when you were a kid.”
huh?
“i’m sorry, what?”
“well, i’ve been going on and on about myself for like an hour now. i want to know something about you. something that no one would really guess about you.”
you instantly felt guilt rip through you like a chainsaw. here you were spending so long pondering on how big of an ass he was for ignoring you when, in actuality, he was just leading up to it.
you were the biggest asshole ever.
“well, there are many fond memories to choose from, jermajesty,” you joked.
“well, pick your favorite one then.”
damn, now you really had to think. pick something interesting! you thought to yourself.
after a few moments of careful consideration and mentally sifting through memories that would be entertaining enough to share, you picked one.
“well,” you started. “my birthday always falls right after tax day, and because my dad is an accountant, he’s always super stressed and busy during the entire month of april. so of course, on my 13th birthday, as luck would have it, he was so busy that he actually forgot my birthday entirely.”
jermajesty leaned forward as you continued.
“he swore up and down that he didn’t forget and that he actually had a surprise for me all along. he ended up bringing me to the local arcade because he knew i loved it so much. but what he didn’t know was that a local band had rented it out to shoot one of their music videos, so we thought we couldn’t go in.”
“oh damn,” he added.
“to avoid an imminent crashout, he basically implored the arcade worker to let us in and just as we were about to give up, one of the lead members of the band came out and saw me crying. but by the grace of the universe, it ended up being one of my favorite bands — after romeo. and long story short, they ended up letting us in and actually giving us a place in the music video for like 0.5 seconds.”
jermajesty only guffawed at the absurdity of a plot twist that was your story. “no way, how the hell were you able to pull off getting into the video?”
through light-hearted chuckles, twirling your now lukewarm pasta with your fork. “honestly by fate. because how i got a free arcade pass and a music video feature from my favorite boy band, i don’t know.”
“that’s actually insane, i see why that’s a fond memory for you.”
“yeah,” you chuckled again, this time leaning down to take a bite.
a serene quiet enveloped the table, your attention now redirected to finishing the plate before being labeled a slow eater by yet another person in your life. as you basked in the comfortable ambiance, it soon became short-lived.
“wait,” jermajesty cut in. your eyes quickly darted from tablecloth to his own. “didn’t tax day just pass?”
shit…
“doesn’t that mean your birthday is like right around the corner?”
“uh…”
“when is your birthday?”
you were stumped. you didn’t want to lie; why would you need to if your soon-to-be husband should know when you were brought onto this earth?
yet, you would rather have taken the fork and jammed it through your cranium. if the number one birthday hater didn’t exist, then you were dead. because there was nothing more you despised than making a fuss out of something so frivolous as aging.
“it’s uhm…” you anxiously fiddled with the loose skin of your index finger, unable to look him in the eyes. “it’s next saturday,” you uttered.
suddenly, jermajesty was leaping out of his seat at the information that you would’ve rather kept private. his eyes were blown wide like he’d unintentionally taken a sniff of crack on the way here.
“are you serious?!” he knocked his forearms flat against the table like he was bracing for life-altering news. “why didn’t you say anything?”
“i really don’t like making a big deal of it, it’s not that serious-"
“are you kidding, this is a big deal!” he beamed, seemingly the happiest he’s been all night. “we have to celebrate!”
“oh, that’s not necessary. we really don’t have to-"
“don’t be coy,” he was already reaching for his phone. “we’re going to throw a party. we have to, especially now that you’re like a freaking econometrics wiz now.”
“well isn’t that what this dinner is for?” you pled, squeezing your hand into a fist beneath the table to keep from screaming. “jermajesty, i’m serious. i really don’t want to do anyt-"
“nonsense, i already texted some people. this is happening,” he jovially pointed at you. he went back to texting whomever the hell was on the receiving end of his messages. “it’s going to be great!”
your body instantly went rigid at the realization that he really wasn’t budging. scarecrows were less stiff than you were in this very moment.
as jermajesty’s attention was quickly refocused from unbearable birthday planning to his phone, you couldn’t deny the way your heart hammered in your chest like a bird attempting to escape a cage. you spent the next few minutes trying to convince yourself that this was a nice thing that jermajesty was doing for you; that all he wanted was to make you happy.
so why couldn’t you suppress the urge to yell from the balcony of this overly ostentatious restaurant that you, in fact, did not want to do this? that you didn’t want to be coerced into celebrating this mundane day just to keep the man across from you happy?
you really had to work on saying no to people…
—
it wasn’t that your aversion to celebrating your birthday stemmed from some traumatic experience in your childhood. in fact, nothing negative ever happened in your years of natural maturation that could’ve spurred this negativity.
you simply didn’t like over-the-top celebrations that inflated your ego and feelings of self-importance one moment and the next day, everything returned to normal. that, and the fact that you just simply felt like your birthday wasn’t worth all the havoc.
it was just a day. an ordinary day that didn’t need to be acknowledged so excessively.
yet, as you stood in the middle of the jackson living room in a tacky pink-and-black birthday cone surrounded by people you didn’t know, you were once again reminded of why you couldn’t stand this day.
the walls echoed with communal laughter and glasses clinking as people made toasts to wishes and goals that had nothing to do with you. the room was easily packed with at least 25 people, with only eight of them being people you could actually label as your friends.
the apartment was buzzing, and so were your nerves. the boombox that jermajesty swore up and down was needed for the vitality of the party bellowed out unnamable tracks that shook the fabric of the apartment entirely. you really tried to swallow your complaints for the sanctity of the party. but it was slowly eating at you like a boa constrictor with its prey.
you wanted to go home. because this “birthday party extravaganza,” as jermajesty described it, was too over-the-top, truly.
there were people drinking in the corner that teetered on the line of alcoholism, people on the other side of the room that were too busy taking selfies with one another to notice the others side-eyeing them, and then there were the gifts.
the excessive pile of gifts wrapped in various colors and materials that sat in the middle of the living room table, staring back at you. taunting you to open them, if you dared. you didn’t even know how you could have this many gifts to open if you didn’t know half of the people in the room.
shit, you won’t complain though…
everyone was conversing with one another, joyfully sipping on expensive champagnes, and basking in the comfort of one another’s company.
and then there was you.
desperately grasping at the loose ends of a drawn-out conversation with your best friend, nia, who jermajesty graciously decided to invite.
at least he did that.
“i’ll be right back,” you muttered to nia, already rising from your spot beside her on the couch. you heard a faint “hmm” in acknowledgment as you already stepped towards the kitchen.
bumping into a few inebriated partygoers whose names you never learned, you grabbed a can of sprite from the cooler. without wasting time, you strolled past the packed living room into the shadowy walls of the hallway. absent of any birthday party guests, you stood in the middle of the walkway, vegging out.
trying to recharge your social battery. attempting to cool down from the slick sweat that now clung to the insides of your thighs. fighting the urge to rip off this tacky birthday cone from your head and stroll through the front door into the drafty evening air.
you leaned against the bare wall with your head trained back, scrunching your eyes shut as you tried to regain your since-lost equanimity.
but unfortunately for you, every piece of tranquility you sought after tonight was immediately disrupted by a wandering, drunk individual. you heard the sauntering of feet against the carpeted floors, inching closer towards you like prey assessing imminent danger.
you sucked in a deep breath, mentally restoring your socializing stamina for yet another conversation.
“hey,” you heard from amongst the booming music and shuddering walls. your eyes popped open at the recognizable voice. the only voice that you hadn’t heard from all night.
“hey jaafar,” you grinned, your head peeling off the wall slowly.
he was dressed in crisp black slacks and a white t-shirt with black borders around the sleeves. his curls were defined and glistening from the dimly-lit overhead, suggesting he showered just a few hours earlier. and of course, the permanent smile of reassurance adorned on his face that you’d grown too comfortable seeking out in situations like this.
he shuffled to the wall right across from you, leaning back against it and gazing at you with the kind of telepathic check-in that only he could sense you needed.
“you having fun?”
he was met with a deadpan expression from you, akin to the ones you’d send him during your tutoring sessions where he knew you were frustrated.
he let out a laugh at that. “so… yes?”
you sighed melodramatically. “it’s not that i’m not having fun, it’s just-" you looked down the hall to the borderline alcoholics drifting past you in intoxicated bliss. “it’s just too much.”
he nodded in understanding, so you continued. “i mean, i’ve never been one to enjoy parties like this, let alone for myself. i mean i don’t even know these people and now i feel like i have the responsibility of entertaining them like they’re my personal clientele.”
“i know,” he softly concurred. “but you know what? you’re doing great.”
“really?” you sarcastically replied. “because i don’t know what’s worse: the overstimulation that this insanely short dress is causing me or the way that my social battery is positively drained for three weeks.”
jaafar only chuckled at your zany laments. “that bad, huh?”
“bad?” you sardonically scoffed. you swatted your hand into the air at his suggestion. “please, i’d say more…. unexpected.”
“well,” he straightened his posture just slightly. “if it’s any consolation, you look beautiful in your overstimulating dress.”
your cheeks heated profusely, your jaw going slack. you quickly pursed your lips to regain your composure. thank the lord for the low-lit illumination, or your crimson cheeks would’ve been on full display.
“thank you,” you shyly smiled as you looked to the ground for stability. you suddenly felt deeply enclosed in the confined halls, wanting nothing more than to cave into his warm, cedarwood scent.
a satisfied smile took over his expression. he readjusted his place against the wall, his arms uncomfortably crossed behind his back as he hopelessly grasped at the four-edged package. the walls still vibrated with a song from one of jermajesty’s party playlists, a comfortable ambiance now established between you and jaafar.
“oh, and another thing,” he loosened his grip on the item behind his back. your eyes refocused from the floor to him, wide-eyed and overwhelmingly shy. “if it makes you feel better, i’ve always found that gifts are always the best part of an uncomfortably overwhelming party. so-"
he brought his hands from behind his back to reveal to you the one thing you were not expecting. a sizable, neatly wrapped rectangular-shaped gift blanketed in hallmark gift paper. “-i hope this can relieve you of your guest-entertaining duties.”
you lightly grasped at the edges of the gift, taking it into the palms of your hands like a sacred object. it was a substantial size, something that you couldn’t even fathom him going through the trouble to get for you.
you brought the gift to your chest, hugging it like it was your most prized possession — even though you didn’t know what was wrapped underneath. yet, the fact that he thought to get you anything at all was enough to fill you with a sudden wave of exhilaration.
and something that really touched your heart. “jaafar, i-"
“and before you say i didn’t have to or that this is too much, don’t,” he chuckled. “i wanted to do this for you.”
you hugged the gift tighter against your chest, the unnerving desire to rip it open at the decorated corners. “thank you, jaafar, seriously. this is too kind.”
you leaned off the wall to hug him, to touch him, or anything to physically feel him. he matched your movements, looking to meet you halfway, only to be abruptly interrupted by a drunken yell.
the yell belonging to the only person who coincidentally always intruded on your one-on-ones with jaafar.
his brother.
“yoooo,” he howled from down the hallway, already shuffling to where you and jaafar stood. you could tell that he was at least tipsy with the way the shadow of his figure swayed dramatically. “what’s going on here?”
both you and jaafar retreated to your positions opposite each other along the wall at jermajesty’s antics, comparable to that of two kids getting caught sneaking out.
jermajesty stumbled until he was pressed against your side on the wall, his arm heavily draped over your shoulder. from his breath alone, you could smell the faint concoction of pink whitney and something stronger. well, at least someone was having fun.
“you having fun, ma?” he slurred into your ear, uncomfortably close to you.
“uh…” a nervous laugh escaped you as you watched jaafar take on the responsibility of stripping jermajesty off of you. jaafar sneaked his arm around his brother’s waist, maneuvering him off your side of the wall and next to him where he originally stood.
“hey hey, i was talking to her,” jermajesty groaned in his brother’s ear, eliciting an eye roll from jaafar.
“yeah yeah, i know. but maybe you should lay down,” he suggested.
“what? no! the party is just getting started,” jermajesty protested, his eyes darting between his brother and your own. his eyes quickly shifted lower to the gift in your hands, promptly jumping through mental hoops to articulate his words. “wait, why do you have a gift?”
you confusedly looked down at your hands before looking at jermajesty again. “oh, this isn’t from the table. it’s from jaafar-“
“we’re not opening gifts just yet, miss thing!” he leaned forward, booping you on the nose before taking the present from you into his own hands. you stifled a laugh at his newfound boldness, slightly discontented at the fact that he confiscated your gift.
“come with me, we’ll start opening all of the presents right now,” jermajesty was already escaping his brother’s loose grip and dragging you down the hallway.
you looked behind you to see jaafar begrudgingly trailing behind you both, uncomfortably scratching at the back of his head in second-hand embarrassment.
against your will, you were thrust into the middle of the living room as jermajesty chaotically gathered the guests around you and the pile of presents. the room quickly quieted as someone in the back muted the boombox and the conversations came to a standstill.
uncomfortable wasn’t even the word to describe your internalized agony. the number of eyes on you was enough to trigger someone’s trypophobia if they were in your place. you awkwardly glanced between everyone while fiddling with the ruffled edge of your pink dress.
“everyone!” jermajesty irrelevantly shouted into the now placid living room. he now inched towards you, accidentally stumbling over a pair of feet to stand next to you. “today is a very special person’s birthday, so let’s give her a hand.”
the room quickly became enveloped by the sound of rambunctious whistling and applause from people that you’d only smiled at in the halls of your school. you sheepishly smiled at everyone until your eyes locked on jaafar in the back of the expansive crowd, in which your smile deepened just a fraction.
a very tangible and noticeable fraction that caused jaafar’s to match your movements, his head ducking beneath your gaze. far enough for you to miss the way his cheeks reddened intensely.
as the claps quieted, jermajesty continued. “and because it’s this lovely girl’s birthday, we have to celebrate accordingly. so, it’s time to open gifts!”
a few spontaneous “woops” filled the room again as jermajesty leaned down, picking up the closest gift to you and placing it in your hands.
“jermajesty, i really don’t think i should-"
“come on, girl, open the gifts!”
well, that was a swift way to shut you up. you glanced to your right where nia sat beside you, only to be met with an encouraging smile. you swallowed a deep, controlled breath as you scanned the room once again. awaiting eyes stared back at you as you anxiously toyed with the loose flap of the gift in your hands.
“well, ok then,” you acquiesced.
the ensuing ten minutes included the high-pitched rustling of strewn gift wrappers and brief commentary by the gift-givers at your reactions. perfumes, accessories, and numerous gift cards were now spread across the table and reflected off the lamp light back at you.
there was no way that these people actually made such a strong effort to get you something. to actually make your day special, despite barely having known you.
it was an odd feeling. one of gratification and astonishment that this was actually happening to you.
aside from that, nia’s gift was very heartwarming to you: she got you a gold pendant with both your initials inscribed onto it. a friendship necklace that could last you years, she said. as everyone stared at you both lovingly, her hand cradling the back of your head as you both hugged, jermajesty was already ushering you to open the next gift.
which just so happened to be his.
“now open mine open mine,” he egged you on. you laughed at his enthusiasm as you now gripped at the larger-than-life box in your hand. you could feel his excitement as you unraveled yet another gift, now being met with a smooth, orange box that had a large “LV” embellished on the front.
you felt a pit form in your stomach. he didn’t actually…
as you lifted the lid of the exorbitant purchase, your jaw dropped. because wrapped beneath a crinkly thin paper cover was an authentic louis vuitton keepall bandoulière 50 bag.
you heard gasps from around you as you retrieved it from the packaging, your own breath hitching in your throat as you took in the extravagant bag.
“jermajesty, this is so-,” you began, suddenly very self-conscious. “beautiful.”
“i knew you’d like it,” he boasted, now embracing you in a full-form hug that hid your stunned face in the nape of his neck. his arms were a little lower than you were expected, which on a normal day, you would’ve reveled in.
but right now, in front of all of these people and accepting gifts that you had no business owning, you were… distressed.
the sweeping eyes on you were overbearing, the excess in gifts was guilt-inducing, and now the one person in the world whom you wanted to be yours was doing everything that you didn’t want.
a crammed birthday party, an overpriced display of… affection? if you could call it that? and the lack of emotional intimacy for any of these gestures to appear sincere to you.
it all felt fabricated, like it was all for show.
but you were raised better than to show how you were feeling. and even without proper manners, you wouldn’t want to hurt jermajesty after all of the effort he put into this. to making you happy.
so you braced yourself; you quickly rebuilt the facade that you felt was slowly cracking throughout the entirety of the evening. and you faked the smile that you’ve worked years to perfect, squeezing tighter around his torso like you were clinging to a swim floatie.
you retracted from his touch, now looking at him with a forced but hopefully reassuring grin. and he bought it, sending a quick wink your way before a triumphant smile took over him. you placed the bag down on the table next to the other gifts, scanning across the room to see everyone looking at you with hearts practically radiating at the two of you.
“well, i guess that’s all the gifts,” you effused, now interlocking your fingers against the center of your chest. “thank you all so much-"
“oh wait, you still have one more gift,” jermajesty interjected, now pushing forward a large, recognizable outline of a present to your chest. “this is from jaafar.”
“oh right,” you quietly laughed to yourself, already preparing to tear into the material.
“you uh, don’t have to open that,” you heard a meek voice break into the crinkling of gift wrapping paper beneath your fingers.
“huh?” jermajesty contested.
you looked up from the gift to see the crowd parting just slightly to reveal a slightly uneasy-looking jaafar. he took a few steps forward, still a hefty distance away from you and your gift-surrounded table.
“i said, you don’t have to open that right now,” jaafar itched at the back of his earlobe. a nervous tic of his that you picked up on early on.
“oh come on jaafar, it’s literally the last gift,” jermajesty contested.
“yeah, i don’t mind,” you concurred softly, your eyes wandering between his own in search of where his apprehension came from.
the eyes of the partygoers darted between your stupefied expression and the distraught curly-haired man. “fine,” jaafar conceded, retreating backward into the large abyss of drunk and possibly stoned individuals.
“go ahead,” jermajesty encouraged, now nudging your elbow lightly.
“uh, alright then,” you dryly laughed, now tearing into the gift that you’d been teased with all evening. after a few seconds of gauche unraveling and antsy feet taps, his gift was on full display to you.
and you were at a loss for words.
because it wasn’t a random lavish perfume or exorbitantly priced purse that came from a man who knew nothing about you.
it was a record.
scratch that, not a random record.
it was sam cooke. the limited edition signed night beat vinyl. the one that you’d scoured the internet for for damn near ten years now.
it was sitting in the palms of your hands. yours. like it was an effortless purchase that could’ve been copped way earlier and with less stress.
you couldn’t believe it. and you’re sure that no one around you could either, because they didn’t understand. you felt the interrogative eyes of your guests now staring at you and bouncing off one another in wonder and perplexity.
“what is that?” jermajesty asked, puzzled at your sudden silence.
“is that?” you heard nia on your side, now rising from her seat next to you and staring at the record in bafflement. “the sam cooke album that you-"
“yeah,” you answered, now suddenly hearing your heart thumping loudly against your ribcage.
because nia knew, of course she did. she was aware of how long you’d been after the very limited and rare signed copy of one of your favorite albums of all time. and now it was yours. because of him.
“i can’t believe he did that,” she sighed in adoration.
just as you looked up to locate the very man who single-handedly granted you your biggest wish, you heard the slam of a door beyond the circle of people. you squinted, trying your best to find him.
but he was gone amidst the large expanse of people. well actually, he was gone entirely.
it only clicked for you a few seconds later that the dramatic slamming of the door could’ve belonged to him. without thinking, you started to push past jermajesty and the miscellaneous feet belonging to newly formed acquaintances as you muttered hasty “excuse mes” along the way.
luckily, everyone knew what you were after. rather, who, you were after, and decided to move seamlessly to pave the way for you.
by the time you reached the mahogany door, you quickly slipped into your pink sandals and made your way out into the chilly air. you paid no mind to the quizzical “what is happening?” questions that jermajesty threw your way as you politely closed the door and briskly made your way down the apartment steps and started searching.
with nothing but your new record and a dream, you peered across the poorly lit street for any sign of him. but there was nothing but gnats and the buzzes of locusts surrounding you. you almost gave up and looked the other way before you caught a glimpse of someone in the distance fiddling with car keys beside a dark blue beamer.
him.
instinctively, you started lightly jogging in his direction, careful not to cause any damage to your long-awaited dream of a gift. “jaafar!” you whisperingly shouted. he quickly glanced up to see you approaching him, and just as fast, he looked away.
“jaafar, wait,” you pleaded, now only inches away from him. “where are you going?”
“out,” he curtly replied, abnormally blunt for your liking. his back was angled towards you as he continued to find the right key to unlock his car.
“why are you leaving?” you softly queried.
and at the frailty and slight insecurity laced in your tone, he seized all his movements entirely. he slowly turned to look at you, his eyes glazed over with an emotion that you couldn’t pinpoint.
“i’m sorry,” he fiddled with his earlobe once again. “i kind of just got overwhelmed back there, and i uh-" he gestured to the vinyl now carefully held in between your arm. “i thought you didn’t like it.”
your jaw dropped. was he for real?
“jaafar, are you serious?” you inched closer toward him. his eyes quickly averted to the concrete beneath your feet. “this is the best gift you could’ve ever gotten me…why would i not like it?”
he dryly laughed, his fingers now drifting to tug at his curls at the nape of his neck. “i don’t know, you got really quiet. and it looked like you were just trying not to hurt people’s feelings back there.”
he looked you in the eyes now. “i just didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.”
“jaafar,” you murmured, wanting nothing more than to give him a hug. “i was overwhelmed too, but this-" you motioned towards the record under your arm. “this is truly the best gift i have ever gotten in my entire life.”
his hardened expression was swiftly replaced by soft contentment and genuine relief, a gentle grin finding its way to his face.
it almost pained you to think that he thought you hated this.
that you temporarily hurt his feelings.
“oh jaafar,” you sighed, now stepping closer towards his chest. automatically, he wrapped his arms around you and the large vinyl in your arms, embracing you for the first time in your transient friendship.
it was so warm, so reassuring to be held by him like this. to be seen in this way that actually mattered to you. “thank you,” you murmured against his chest. his embrace only tightened around you in response.
his chin found its placed atop the base of your head, his arms rubbing soothingly against the center of your back. you swore you could fall asleep right there and then. you pulled back a marginal distance, just barely to catch the way that his eyes fluttered open at your stirring beneath him.
the way that the streetlight captured his bronze skin and unwavering gaze had your knees threatening to buckle. his eyes swept between your own before subtly glancing to your parted lips. a pool of warmth gathered in the pits of your stomach.
“i just wanted to make you happy,” he breathed out, now just centimeters away from your mouth. his eyes were trained on your lips now with laser sharp focus, like there was nothing more important in the world.
“jaafar,” you sighed again, clinging to his name like a verbal safety rope. your eyes were fixated on the plush curvature of his lips, wanting nothing more than to taste him. in the twinkling of eye, there was nothing left to cling to as he closed the distance between you both with the soft peck of his lips.
it was hasty and gentle, like the hesitance was more from fear of making you uncomfortable than his own anxiety. he retracted just as quickly, eyes frantically searching yours for permission or forgiveness.
but thankfully, the soft nod you gave him was all he needed.
he swiftly reconnected his lips with yours, this time deepening it immediately. the mild pressure against your mouth was enough for you to bring your unoccupied arm to the nape of his neck, bringing him closer to you. his hands instantly lowered from your mid-back to your waist, drawing you closer to him than you physically thought was possible.
it was honestly too natural how this felt. the loose but territorial grip on your waist, the hot, sputtered breaths against you like he was slowly but surely losing his control. the kiss was warm and slightly reckless, eliciting a soft gasp from you. jaafar made sure to take advantage of your brief surprise to slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening it further.
you were completely breathless, not that you were complaining. you had no idea how desperately you waited for this moment until it happened. the trifling but rewarding study sessions, the multitude of conversations, the prolonged eye contact.
this was everything to you both.
jaafar brought one of his hands from your lower waist to your cheek, cradling you like you were something sacred. the hesitation from before was quickly replaced with his eager desire to make out with you for hours.
and as fleeting as that the thought was, you felt it. rapidly hardening against the fabric of his jeans onto the plushness of your exposed skin.
“jaafar, w-wait,” you pulled back, trying your best to catch your breath. your hand fell from his neck to the center of his chest, restabilizing yourself.
his eyes desperately scanned your face in search of what he did wrong. “i-is everything ok?”
you’d never seen him this frazzled, and strangely it only deepened your desire to reconnect your lips again.
“no no, this is perfect,” you grinned, watching a smile make its way back to his face. “i just don’t want to rush this.”
jaafar’s hand on your waist found its way to your palm against his chest, engulfing it under his warm touch. “i’ve waited for this for so long,” he sincerely admitted, catching you slightly off guard.
“oh yeah?” you smirked.
“yeah,” his eyes were on your lips again. “but you’re right, i want to do this right.”
he brought both of his hands to cradle your face in his hands as you lowered your own hand to hug at his waist.
“let’s go on a date,” he pridefully stated, a wide-toothed smile formed on his face.
in which you and jaafar reconnect after years of distance, and realize how much was left unsaid.
+ how much you both would benefit from your own advice...
ch. 01 ch. 02 ch. 03 ch. 04 ch. 05
── °˖✦
tags: jaafar x reader, best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers (slight squint), no use of y/n, humor, slowburn asf, yearn asf, they both just need to kiss & then go to therapy, reader has a strong personality!
please mind the tags, as well as allow me grace <3 i have never uploaded anything on tumblr, i have been a #wattpadwarrior turned ao3 fanatic, this interface is new to me.
DISCLAIMERS: This is not an accurate portrayal of anyone depicted in the story. I do not know these people. It's strictly a work of fiction.
PAIRING: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader.
GENRES: Angst (a surprise to no one.)
SUMMARY: For ten years of his life, Michael Jackson has known and loved her. An on / off again relationship which a year ago lead him waiting an the altar to commit his life to another. In what felt like forever in the shaky life he had built for himself, he finally felt stability. It's 1992 and the demand for kids was a huge deal breaker for him. The couple wasted no time in trying, but after a year of failed attempts, they worried something might be wrong. Doctors confirmed his worst fears when they announced his wife to be infertile. Desperate for children of his own, Michael jumped the gun by asking a friend to carry his child only two weeks after the diagnosis. When he brings this conversation up to his wife, emotions run high and he might have just lost the best thing that ever happened to him.
WARNINGS: Angst, infertility, heavy argument, swearing. (I think that's it.)
WORD COUNT: 8.6k (My attempt at short. Sorry.)
Mourning something you'd never had proved itself to be an impossible cruelty. The kind that tormented the soul deep into the night and refused to give back the part of yourself you hadn't realised you'd lost until you suddenly found yourself grieving it so deeply, time slips away.
In some ways, it felt like trying to catch snow in your bare hads only to have it melt the moment the icy substance makes contact with your warm flesh.
Realistically, she knew it was okay to feel the intense loss that she'd encountered fourteen days ago, but there was something in the back of her mind telling her she didn't have the right. It wasn't like something had been taken from her. She never had it to begin with.
But that's the thing about hope, it clings to your body like an uninvited shadow and makes a fool out of optimism.
The hours seemed to drag along. While her days hadn't really changed in the grand scheme of things, it now felt like the lights had been dimmed, as though the sun was taunting her from outside the world she lived. Things she thought she knew suddenly made no sense, plans she had made fell flat and in an instant, the future she'd envisioned for herself no longer existed.
Motherhood wouldn't have been the only factor in life she'd define herself with, but God, had she wanted it. The thought of growing her baby, keeping it safe within herself until it was ready to show the world the beauty it would bring had been her dream for so long, she couldn't have imagined a life where it didn't happen.
Years prior, when she was only a child heself, she was that little girl, the one who would carefully carry a baby doll around in her arms at all times and care for it as though it was real. Older generations would look at her and smile, giving a condescending, "aww, she'll be a great mom when she's old enough."
At the time, it felt harmless. Now when she thought about it, her insides ached with a pain she had never known existed.
She wanted to be a mother so bad, it physically hurt.
When she started dating Michael, back in 1982, she's never imagined life would turn out this way.
For a start, she hadn't known his fame would sky rocket the way it had. She'd known him to be talented and expected great things, but being the most famous person to exist, second to Jesus Christ himself, felt like a huge reach, but it was true.
His name rang across the globe. He didn't just have fans, he had subjects, people who were willing to do anything and everything for him just to spend a moment in his company.
Their realtionship was deep and complex. They understood one another in ways others didn't. She saw beyond the fame and got down to the man behind the curtain. He saw a women who had so much to offer the world and encouraged her to spread her wings. The first few years of knowing each other, things had been turbulent. Their paths intertwined and then veered off path, only to circle back around until they found each other once again.
A delicate balance of on and off until a year an a half ago when Micharl had decided he couldn't do it anymore. So scared of losing her and despising the idea of living a life without her, he had gotten down on one knee in the flower gardens of Neverland and asked her to take his surname and become his wife. No more breaks, no more, "when the time is right."
They'd gotten married shortly after and it had been the best decision she had ever made. Loving Michael came easily. He was everything she every wanted. Kind, driven, loyal, but above all else, he loved children just as much as she did. So when he requested they start trying for a baby on their honeymoon, she'd immediately agreed, eager to begin a family with the man she loved.
Envisioning a child with his eyes and smile, there was nothing she craved more. She hadn't even flinched when he droned on and on about the huge family he wanted. She wanted it too and for a while, it felt as though that dream was in reach.
The then waiting came.
One week. A month. Two. Six. A year.
Something wasn't right. It didn't matter what they did, how many times he had buried himself her, what position they laid in or what old wives tales they tried, every single test came back negative and with each negative result they recieved, a piece of her heart broke along with it.
Unable to live without answers, they'd both taken the medical route, subjecting themselves to rigorous testing for any fertility issues and holding one another at night, whispering soft echoes of reassurances to each others ears to rid themselves of any negative thoughts before the results came through.
Then it dropped.
The bomb that dismantled her from the inside out.
Asked to return back to the medical facility, the couple held hands as they were told the cause of their problems. Michael was perfectly okay. On paper, he could and should be able to do his part in crafting life.
She was the issue.
The words sank in at an alarming rate, so much so that even a fortnight later, she would still recite them in her darkest nightmares.
"Missus Jackson, your infertility issues appear to be linked to several factors." The doctor has spoken in a cool, matter of fact tone. "The scans suggest polycystic ovary syndrome, this is something that can disrupt ovulation, and there is evidence of scarring in one fallopian tube from a past infection. We also found small uterine fibroid that may also be affecting implantation."
The world fell silent in that moment, the air that had once been warm and inviting suddenly fell into a icy chill. If it wasn't for Michael's hand clutching desperately onto her own, she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't have broken into a thousand tiny shards.
The doctor had continued to talk, but after that diagnosis, nothing else sank in. She caught the back end off the conversation before they left.
Basically, they could keep trying, but with everything stacked against her, it was incredibly unlikely she would ever be able to conceive children of her own.
Returning home that night had been particularly odd.
For a while, neither of them said a word. Then, seemingly out of no where, the silence had been broken by a deverstaing roar of tears.
Michael sat on the sofa, sobbing a deverstatingly painful cry into her lap, clinging onto her like he would lose her if he'd dare to let go. The hope of the future they both thought they'd have was suddenly so different and so she comforted him through the tears, unable to process the news herself as she sat there completely numb.
In bed that night, he held her tight, like he was terrified at any moment someone would rip her from is grasp or as though his love alone could somehow change their fate and they'd wake up the next day to hear from the doctor that they'd mixed up the results and she actually could carry children.
Obviously, that hadn't happen.
When they woke up the next morning, the same outcome greeted them.
Two weeks later and not much had changed.
They hadn't spoken about it. Not really.
Moments of sadness lingered, where they would look at each other on occasion and remember the crux of their problems. Neither knew how to address it, so they simply didn't.
Standing in the full length mirror of her closet, looking back at the reflection that reminded her so much of a women who was once blinded with a sense of hopefullness, now she only saw a void. A faux expression forced upon her face so no one could see the cracks beneath.
She hadn't told anyone. No one other than Michael and he's supported her. So much of their lives had been sensationalised by the greedy media. This couldn't be something they let slip. Not right now.
Closing the clasp on the dainty gold necklace around her throat, she had failed to notice the bedroom door opening. Completely in her own world as she flattened the metallic pendant against her collarbones, she was only alerted to another presence in the room when she heard the familiar dip of the mattress springs.
In the mirror, tired eyes lifted to the sight behind her. Michael, already dressed in some fine collared shirt, the gold and red detailing against the dark obsidian of the base material giving him a regale elegance she would find pretentious in any other man, yet for him fit perfectly.
Their eyes met and he offered her a small, soft smile, the kind that told her everything would be okay and like always, she felt compelled to believe it.
They'd gotten his far, hadn't they?
His knees parted, arms held wide and with a small crook of his fingers, he requested her presence.
"Baby, come here." He spoke, less like a demand and more like a plea. "I want to talk to you about something."
With no reason to object, she gave one last glance at her reflection, sighing at the dull sight that greeted her and then crossed the carpeted floor towards him.
Michael didn't hesitate one bit. The moment she stepped into his orbit, his arms fell around her waist and tugged her closer until her hands fell against his shoulder. They hadn't been intimate since the news, but the affectionate way he looked up towards her as her gaze flickered down hadn't changed.
"Is everything okay?" She asked, not all too worried when he was looking at her that way.
Embarking on his Dangerous world tour in less than a month, her assumptions quickly fell to the technicalities that regarded such planning.
While true he loved his fans, Michael absolutely detested touring and it was no secret to those that surrounded him.
After the Bad tour reached it's conclusion, he'd been insistent that he would never tour again. It wss too much. The travel, the sleepless nights, the energy and perfomances. Not to mention fans fainting every night, the lack of stability and perfectionist in him screaming in his mind when one simple thing didn't go right.
He couldn't subject himself to that again.
Then one day, he decided he absolutely would.
Not for himself, but to raise money for disadvantaged children.
Every cent he earned from the Dangerous world tour would go straight into his Heal The World foundation to help people across the globe.
Naturally, her mind ran to that. With the opening night fast approaching, she assumed his nerves had started to surface and with an gently stroke of her fingers against his broad shoulders, she attempted to sooth his aching muscles.
"You can tell me anything." She assured after a moments silence.
Brown doe eyes fell towards the plush carpet before he dared look back at her and when he did, his hold on her waist tightened a fraction.
"I've been speaking to Debbie Rowe." He began, noting the confusion on her face. "You know, she said she'd be willing to help."
Head tilted downward, she strained to hear his voice. The more he spoke, the less things made sense. Brows pinched together, mouth opened in a subtle act of perplexity.
She knew the name. She'd met the women. But what the hell did she have to do with touring?
"Debbie Rowe..." she spoke, her words lingering in the air around them. "your nurse?"
"Yeah."
"Willing to help with what exactly?"
His gaze softened, his fingers leaving smoothing patterns beneath the knitt, blue sweater she'd stolen from his closet earlier than morning.
"You know... our problem."
His eyes widened a fraction and thought it was a blink and you'll miss it moment, she noticed the way his gaze subtlety dropped to her stomach making this whole conversation much clearer than any words he used.
A wave of nausea washed over her and immediately her own hands fell from his body.
This wasn't a simple conversation. This was torture on a level she had never imagined he would subject her to.
"What do you mean? You've been talking to your nurse about this?" Hardly able to believe the words that left his mouth, she stepped back and as she did, his touch fell from her waist, leaving only coldness where his hands had been.
His face fell, lips curved downwards into a frown the second she rejected his grasp, like he had physically burnt her skin with the palm of his hands.
"I mean, she's a friend too and I was just looking for someone to talk to, you know?" His words fast in pace, in a quick attempt at rationalising what he'd uttered. "Air out my frustrations and-"
"Your frustrations?" She cut him off, scoffing at the lack of empathy in which he chose to show.
"Yeah... you know, about the whole... infertility thing."
A firey ring of anger bubbled in her stomach, rising up as his words settled around her. Suddenly, any fraction of rationality escaped her mind and pure outrage took its place.
It felt like an insult, like he was mad at her for something she had no control over.
"You're frustrated I'm infertile?"
The venomous way she spat the words hit him square in the heart and his eyes widened once again, mouth dropped with words he wanted to say but failed to reach his tongue.
Michael had realised the error in the way he approached the conversation, he never had been good at explaining himself, but it was too late now. They were in too deep and he needed to get this off his chest.
"I didn't mean it like that. I meant it like... I'm sad."
Any other time he used that excruciatingly deverstating tone, she would have bucked and rushed right over to console him. She'd only ever wanted things to work out for them, but now she felt the cracks in the ice they stood on starting to form and it was only time before they were plunged into the frigid depths below.
She laughed, actually laughed out loud, but there was no humour in the sound as it reverberated off the walls of their home.
"You were sad." She repeated, rolling her eyes like she was amused by the situation. "So what? You're trying to find some miracle cure here?"
"No." Running a large hand over his face, Michael tried hard to stay calm. "But Debbie... she'd be willing to have my kids."
"What?" She exploded, eyes narrowed in disbelief, her entire body frozen in shock.
"Not how your thinking! No! Nothing like that. Never!" Michael rushed to his feet, hands falling to her upper arms, seemingly almost repulsed by the insinuation. "You know, through a doctors office. She'd be a surrogate."
She wanted to scream until her voice gave out. She wanted to throw herself on the floor like a stubborn toddler, kicking and screaming until she got her own way.
How could he have done this to her?
Breathing heavy, her vision began to cloud through the sheen of tears she swallowed back.
This couldn't be happening.
He looked at her with so much hope in his eyes, willing her to answer so they could start the process and he could finally have everything he wanted. His body so close to her usually only providing her with comfort, but now his presence repulsed her.
Time was relative, but she thought that even he would realise how much of a sore spot this would be for her.
"It's been only been two weeks..."
Her voice soft quite, she hadn't known if he'd heard. The only sound she could hear was the fast pace thumping of her pluse in her ears. His touch lingered, but she no longer felt any peace with it.
"What?"
"Two weeks ago, I found out I can't have children." She uttered in debelif, shaking her head like she still couldn't believe it and stepping back once again, only to watch as his arms fell to his sides.
"Baby-"
Michael tried to reach for her again, but she recoiled, talking over him and trying hard not to sob over his stupid decisions.
"I haven't even processed it properly yet." Voice weak, as though the conversation was physically draining the energy from her with ever word spoke.
"I know."
"I haven't told my family."
"I know." He repeated.
Each 'I know' doing little to sooth the terrible ache rushing through her body.
"...and you're already planning happy families with another women."
The realisation hit her like a bullet to the back. So cruel and sudden, she practically stumbled on her from the impact.
She didn't care that they wouldn't be intimate in order to conceive. She cared that he hadn't even taken her into consideration before asking another women he was seemingly too close with, to carry the children that up until a fortnight ago, she thought would be hers.
"That's not true!" Michael's voice raised, rushed with an effort to assure her that wasn't even close to what he wanted. He loved her. "We'd still be together."
"Together?" She laughed, running a frustrated hand through her hair and huffing in irritation as strands tangled around the diamond of her engagement ring.
"Yes."
"While another women is pregnant with your child."
"It won't change anything." His answer automatically, like he'd already planned this conversation.
For the first time since he dropped the bomb on her, she forced her eyes to meet his. An almost vulnerable look looming within the darkest depths of his gaze and she didn't know if he was actually dumb enough to believe what he had just said, or was simply hoping she was.
"You're not that naive." Stepping into his personal space, she didn't once break eye contact. Not until he looked down at the floor and forced her hand. "A baby changes everything!"
"Why does that have to be a bad thing?"
He didn't understand and why would he? It wasn't him awake throughout the night, cursing the very body he was born with for failing to give him the one thing he so desperately desired. He wasn't questioning his worth as a human being or as a partner.
A piercing gaze spared her way. Now that he was no longer sitting, he no longer had to look up at her in order to see her face. Part of her wanted to run and hide, but she'd vowed for better or worse and this was easily her at rock bottom.
"I know your family." The murmur of her voice broke through the silence, arms folded over her chest with a hand resting against her jaw. It was all getting a little too much now.
Furrowing his brows, Michael tilted his head and shuffled carefully on his feet. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I know you've separated yourself from the Jehovah's Witness lifestyle, but your folks haven't." She sighed heavily, feeling the searing heat of his gaze. "We both know your parents want you to be married to the women carrying your children."
She'd been there when Michael struggled through the guilt of leaving that faith behind. While his belief in God never swayed, his thoughts on that particular practice did have him questioning life.
Still, she saw how it still plagued him, how he made decisions based off the life he was raised in. It's why he still hadn't celebrated Christmas and why he'd yelled at her when she'd splashed out on a particularly fancy watch for his thirtieth birthday.
It wasn't a lack of effort that kept him going back, it was the guilt that threatened to swallow him whole every time he tried to dip a toe into something he'd been taught to believe to be a sin.
Where his siblings had managed to break free, Michael was still somewhat attached.
"That won't matter..." he tried, voice trailing off. "It's surrogacy."
"You don't believe that and I don't believe that it'll just be surrogacy."
She willed him to see reason, to understand where she was coming from, but Michael shook his head in return. Stubborn in nature and used to getting what he wanted, he couldn't let this fall through.
"That's just your mind playing tricks on you." He insisted, burying his hands into the pockets of his black slacks.
"Okay, so tell me this." She began, gaze unwavering in an attempt to decipher every micro expression sitting so pretty across his face. "When Debbie is carrying your baby and your mother is holding the ultrasound pictures... who do you think she's going to call the mother?"
Katherine Jackson was an absolute saint of a women. If heaven was a real place, she was surely an angel sent down to Earth to protect one of God's greatest creations. She absolutely adored the women and always looked to her for guidance.
All this aside, Katherine was of a certain generation, one set in their ways. She wouldn't mean to cause harm, but the moment she heard someone else would be carrying her grandchildren, things would be different.
"No. She wouldn't. I'll tell her-"
With a wave of her hand, she didn't allow Michael to finish. "And once she's pregnant, you'll have Debbie move in..."
"Well, of course." He nodded like it was obvious, like she was foolish for even needing clarification. "I'll have to keep a close eye on her."
She didn't know what he meant by that and she didn't want to find out.
Sharing her space with the women who could do the one thing for her husband she couldn't, all the while knowing it's the only he thing he really wanted would deversate her.
"And that changes things!" She yelled.
"Girl, you're talking crazy."
She's never been a violent woman, but in that moment, she seriously considered lunging forward and strangling him right then and there.
Pacing the floor back and fourth, wearing the carpet thin and bitting down so hard on her lower lip, the blood rushed forward. Every thought in her mind begged for this to be a mistake.
Maybe she was still dreaming or perhaps she had misheard.
Stepping forward, Michael pressed a large grounding hand to her shoulder to stop her steps. Slowly she turned to face him and only then did she see a wash of disappointment paint the sharp contours of his face.
"I need to be a dad!" He admitted, leaving no room for argument.
"I know." She had never wanted to deny him of that.
"No, I don't think you do." It was his turn to get angry. Michael scoffed, stepping away and turning his back to her only to face her again, this time his cheeks red with irritation. "That's all I've ever wanted. For as long as I can remember, that's been the only thing that kept me going. I'm going through with this! There is no other reality for me!"
He didn't shout. He didn't have to. Michael had the ability to speak perfectly calm with authority and when he did, he became the most terrifying person in the room. He wasn't aggressive nor violent, but he knew how to scare people.
The heavy weight of his words lingered in the air and she was forced to confront them, because right now, he wasn't giving her an option. He was demanding something she no longer felt like she was a part of.
"So then, what am I?" Boardering on a whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Huh?" His face screwed up in confusion, not understanding the gravity of the question she's thrown his way. "What?"
"What am I if I can't give you that."
The clarity hit harder than he imagined and with a distinct huff, his hands fell against his narrow hips. "You're my wife."
"Am I?" Voice high pitched, eyes wide in debelif. "It sure as hell doesn't feel that way. You're planning on moving another women in without so much as consulting me."
"Stop putting words in my mouth. You know I love you."
"No, actually, I don't." She saw the way his face dropped at the admission, but couldn't allow herself the luxery of stopping long enough to care. "You couldn't even give me a month to wrap my head around this. You instantly found someone else to replace me with and what, I'm supposed to be fine with it."
"You're acting like I'm betraying you."
"You are." She spat, not once feeling sorry for it.
If he'd been wise enough to leave his dark curls down, she knew he would have been hiding his face behind the curtain of black. Unfortunately for Michael, he'd used one of her hair ties this morning and created a low hanging ponytail of sorts. Soft tendrils had fallen loose, but certainly not enough to disguise his expressions.
"No, I'm not." He fought back, hating the accusations thrown at him. Hands moving between them in a frustrated motion. "I'm finally doing something I want."
"Why her?" Unable to hold the question on any longer, it had been plaguing her the moment he uttered those words.
Because that was the thing, Debbie wasn't just another women. She was someone he'd let in. Someone he's gotten close to and trusted.
There weren't many people Michael had in life that he could consider a real companion, someone to guard his secrets and share part of his soul with. Maybe she'd been naive not to question her place in his life. Had she known Debbie had shifted from a nurse into something much more threatening to their marriage, she would have acted sooner.
"What?" Michael almost laughed.
"Why Debbie?" She snapped, no longer dancing around the situation.
Throwing his hands up, it was his turn to start pacing now. "Why does that matter?"
"Because out of every women in the world, you picked her."
"I didn't pick her." He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between elegant fingers.
"Yes, you did." She spat through gritted teeth. "Plenty of women would offer to have your babies. You're Michael Jackson for crying out loud."
She wasn't saying it was a good idea, God no. If surrogacy was a route they would ever go down, there would be a lot more planning than picking a random fan off the street, but this wasn't a rational conversation and she had a point to prove.
"I know."
"You went to her. You cried to her, told her things you should've been telling me." Heart heavy with the reality crushing their realtionship, holding back tears had never felt so hard. "You've been talking to her about our marriage."
"I wasn't talking about our marriage."
"You were talking about me! My diagnosis!"
And somehow, that was worse because it wasn't about confiding a secret to a friend. It was complaining about a medical mishap, something she couldn't control that had changed their lives forever without her permission.
Not just that, but the women he'd so carelessly trusted with her secret was a women she didn't know and the realisation that he had gone to someone else rather than approach his own wife wouldn't be something she could easily forget.
"That's different." But even he knew that was a weak excuse.
"No." She sniffed. "It really isn't."
"She's my friend." He muttered through a shaky breath. "I need someone to talk to."
And that was it, wasn't it? In his time of need, he hadn't seeked her out, but rather looked for the comfort of another women. It didn't matter if they were intimate or not, because all it proved was that he no longer trusted her to be cautious with his emotions.
She couldn't shake the idea off. The series of events that lead him into the arms of someone that wasn't her. The thought of him crying against someone else's shoulder, clinging to them with flushed cheeks and tear filled eyes as this other women rubbed his back and soothed him until he calmed down. The image made her sick.
"You had a wife! I'm right here." She whispered, her voice barley there.
"You haven't exactly been easy to communicate with."
Time stilled.
Physically, the world continued to spin, but here in the shared space of their home, in the bedroom they had spent so much time loving one another, everything froze.
Her lungs no longer held any purpose, breathless from the cynical spite he'd thrown her way and the worst part is, part of her believed it.
"Wow." She muttered, no longer able to fight back the single tear that left a damp trail along the curve of her cheek.
"I didn't mean-"
"No." For what felt like the tenth time that night, she cut him off. Eyes sharp as a knife and focused in his direction. "Please, don't take it back now. Let me hear it."
"Baby-"
"Tell me, Michael!" She insisted through the heartbreak, slamming her foot down in a demand for answers.
Seeing the torment on her face and her need to actually hear his side of things, he couldn't deny it, no matter how bad he had felt saying it out loud.
"You shut down." He sighed, head in hand. "I tried... you wouldn't talk about it."
Conveniently, it seemed as though he'd forgotten about the night they recieved the news, how she latched onto him and allowed him to cry desperately in her arms for hours while still trying to process the reality of their situation herself.
She knew she wasn't perfect. Maybe he really had tried to speak to her about these things and she had dismissed him. A vague image flickered in her mind two days after the results. He'd cornered her in the kitchen, his arms wrapping around her waist as he mentioned something about starting a family anyway. She'd tuned out. It felt too sudden.
Though she understood Michael was sensitive. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it. Now she realised he probably saw it as a rejection she hadn't intended on giving.
Anger returned.
"I got told I could never carry a child!" She reminded her husband, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. "Forgive me for needing a while to come to terms with that."
"Yeah, well I was told I'd never be a father."
That wasn't the case at all and he knew it, but Michael wasn't beyond manipulation in order to get what he wanted and what he wanted was to start a family, by any means necessary.
Throwing her hands up in the air, she scoffed in defeat, eyes trained to the ceiling, like she was praying for answers she would never get. "I can't believe this."
"What now?" Michael sighed, kicking the carpet beneath his sock covered feet.
"You think this happened to you." She accused with a subtle understanding laced within each syllable.
"It did happen to me!" He snapped.
"No! It happened to us!" She practically screamed, needing him to see that he wasn't the only one feeling lost. "We could have dealt with it together, given us space and time to come to terms with it and then, maybe we could've looked into adoption or surrogacy... we could've done it together." Without permission, a sob broke through her lips. "But somehow, you've made yourself the victim here."
"I lost something too, you know!" The vulnerability in his words had him shudder.
"What did you lose?" She asked, at a loss with this conversation.
"My children."
"You don't have children." She huffed, rolling her eyes at the poor excuse he conjured up.
"You know what I mean."
It felt as though they were going around in circles, neither person understanding the others point of view and her heart cracked at his ability to be so unknowingly cruel.
"No, actually, I don't think I do." She breathed out a silent cry, wrapping her arms around her stomach like she could physically hold herself from falling apart in front of him. Her pride would never recover. "Because from where I'm standing, the only thing you've actually lost is your faith in me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He enquired, eyes softening with how utterly defenceless she appeared.
"It means, two weeks ago, I recieved a news from a doctors office that broke my heart. " She laughs though the conversation was void of any humour. "Five minutes ago, my husband did the exact same thing before he let me recover from the first injury."
"Stop making me the bad guy." Michael pleaded, wanting to reach out and hold her, but knowing better.
"Then stop acting like one."
"I'm trying to fix this!' He insisted, eyes widening a fraction.
"Fix this?" She questioned, eyebrows arched and mouth settled into a solid line.
"Yes."
"I'm not fucking broken, Michael!" She yelled, holding herself tigher as the pieces threatened to fall. "I'm a person with thoughts and feelings and you're so quick to replace m-"
"I'm not replacing you." He insisted through a heavy breath, tangling his fingers in his tied up hair.
"The second you found out I was infertile, you started imagining another women pregnant with your baby."
"That's not what happened." He shook his head.
"Then tell me how it started."
He said nothing. Not a single word and somehow, that was worse. A look of guilt etched against the soft features his face, something he could probably mask from anyone else, but she had spent ten years loving him. She knew every face and up until now, this one had never really been directed towards her.
Like a stone sinking in her gut, dread filled her from the inside out. He didn't have to say a word. She knew.
"Oh my God." She gasped, hand falling to her mouth. "I'm an idiot."
"What? Don't say that." His voice dropping in tone, quiet and sympathic in a way it hadn't been the entire conversation. "You're not."
The room fell silent for a moment, until she found the courage to speak up.
"You were talking to her before the diagnosis, weren't you?"
The heavy weight of her words only paralleled by the heavy ache in her heart. Her lips quivered and all the while, she watched as he refused eye contact, looking anywhere but at her.
"W-what?" He stuttered. "Of course not."
"Don't stand there and lie to me!"
"I just..." The words trailed off, he couldn't finish the sentence.
"You just what, Michael?" She snapped, tears falling freely now and she had no intentions of wiping them away. He could see exactly what he'd done to her. "Finish the sentence."
Here, he looked less like the legendary pop star the world had come to know and more like a scared little boy, hiding from the bad things that go bump in the night.
Only, he wasn't a child anymore. He was her husband and she could hardly look at him without seeing an act of betrayal as it played out so plainly in front of her.
With a heavy sigh of defeat, he gave in. Tired eyes lifted and the look of anguish on her face was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
He stepped forward, knowing that if she just let him hold her, he could fix this, but with every step he took upwards her, she took one back. No longer wanting to feel like a predator hunting its prey, he stood still and answered with a guilty nod.
"I was worried, okay?" And he had been, it was just never meant to go this far. "We'd been trying for over a year and the tests... they all came back negative."
A year of failed attempts was enough to exhaust anyone, that she understood. What she would never understand was rushing off to a friend the moment things get bad and planning a whole other life so carelessly.
Her heart cracked inside her chest, breathing became a difficult task. She'd never imagined the person she loved the most would be the one the ruin her so deeply.
"So you already had a backup plan?" She spat.
"No!" Michael combed his fingers through his hair, groaning in frustration.
"You already had her!" She yelled and with a look of shame, neither of them could deny it anymore. The color drained from her face and with the last of her energy, she managed to whisper. "You did."
He knew what he'd done was wrong, but some part of him refused to acknowledge it. Michael wasn't dumb, there was a reason why up until now he'd kept this whole thing under wraps, but it wasn't how she was thinking.
"It wasn't like that." He spoke, eyes locking into hers, just willing her to take a leap of faith and believe in him. "I just needed to know this could happen for me... that I could have children."
"Yeah..." She whispered into the void, wishing for nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare. "you had her waiting in the wings, preparing for the perfect moment to spring this on me."
"Stop."
His usually soft eyed look had hardened. He couldn't take this anymore. The constant back and fourth was enough to drive anyone to the brink of insanity. Every second that moved between them, he could feel the agonising weight of their love story resting on his shoulder. Shallow breathing falling from his rounded lips just to keep him from toppling over and falling to the ground.
"While I was praying." She started, her voice cracking with sadness bleeding into her words.
"Stop!" He repeated, only this was a painfully curated plea more than a soft request.
"Hoping... sitting in waiting rooms." She continued, only torturing herself more as the conversation lingered like dead weight in the air.
"Please, baby..."
"And it only took you two fucking weeks to picture a different women carrying your child." If something heavy had been sitting near by, she would have thrown it across the room just to rid herself of the anger she felt bubbling to the surface. "You couldn't even give me a month."
Scratching the back of his neck, Michael felt the moment his cheeks flushed as embarrassment began to rise to the surface. "That's not fair."
"A fucking month!" She continued, in that same aggressive tone. Frustration lingering like an unwanted compainion, threatening to break free and destroy all that they had built between them.
"Baby-" His fingers flexed on instinct, reaching for her hand and then deciding against it.
Staring at nothing in particular, feet planted to the floor. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the delicate flesh, unable to process the absolute mess that had become of them.
Worry flooded Michael. Seeing her angry, that was something he could work with. At least then, he knew what she was thinking, how she was feeling and could give her space until she calmed down enough to talk rationality about whatever issues were clouding her judgement.
"Ten years." The words left her mouth, but she barley registered it. All the fight leaving her body now she'd been presented with all the facts.
"What?" Genuinely perplexed, brows furrowed and mouth downturned into a deep frown.
"I've loved you for ten years." She clarified, chest heaving and voice wrecked from the earlier shouting. Utterly defeated as she thought back to a simpler time in life when she truly believed they could get through anything so long as they stayed united. "Yeah, it took us some time to get here, but I thought once we got married, that would be it. We were bound together. Ten years in the making..." crying felt redundant, but she had nothing more to give. "and it took you fourteen days to imagine a future without me in it."
Panic began to set in as he watched the women he'd vowed to protect crumble before him. Her nose pink, eyes unfocused, like if she chanced a glance in his direction, she'd fail to exist within the scrutiny of his gaze.
"I never imagined a future without you." His voice barley that of a whisper, but his eyes urged her to look back and show some sign that she understood his point of view.
"No?" She let out a small laugh, fingers wrapped around the golden pendant sat between collarbones. "Just one where another women plays the part I can't."
Michael physcially recoiled like she's burnt him. He hadn't meant to make her feel like she was easy to replace, but it was obvious he had. Intentions didn't matter when the person you cared for the most suddenly began to look at you like you were a stranger.
"I still want you." He confessed, struggling to understand why she wouldn't see reason.
"No!" She shook her head in protest. "You'll tolerate me. You want the kids more."
"That's not true." But even as he said it, he knew it to be a lie.
"And if Debbie disappeared tomorrow... or I didn't want to go through with surrogacy or adoption. If children were completely off the table forever..." stepping forward, she could finally feel the heat of his body. So close, she could touch him, but couldn't convince herself she should. "would you still choose me?"
The question hung between them and suddenly the air started to feel stale. Her eyes finally found his, his lack of communication prolonging a hefty silence between them.
She didn't need him to say anything. Funnily enough, the words he didn't say communicated more than he ever could.
"Oh." The word fell from her lips without permission and she recoiled, creating more distance between them as she stepped back because finally, she understood.
This wasn't going to work.
As he stood, partially paralysed, watching the life leave her eyes. He knew she was only seconds away from allowing his dumb need to always control the world around ruin everything they'd built in the past decade of life.
"Baby, don't-"
"You're acting liie this is something I want." She scoffed, arms winding around her waist, eyes cast down to the floor.
"I did this for us!" Michael snapped, though his anger was completely misplaced. His desperation to keep her near provoking a side of himself he never wanted to show.
"No." She didn't yell. Her voice perfectly still. "You did this for you."
"Why does it matter? You want kids to. You've always said you couldn't wait to be a mom." Each word spoke with perfect diction, clear and precise. Hands held outwardly to get his point across further and desperation clinging to him like a second skin. "Why are you making this an issue now?"
"Because I needed time to heal... to understand what's going on with me and how to move forward." She wasn't even angry more, crying for the life thought she'd be living instead of the hell she was faced with. "I wanted some input into these huge, life altering decision. I get to decide what's right for me, for our marriage and you just... fuck." A sob broke free and cracked her open. "You took that away from me and maybe it wouldn't hurt as much if you'd been thinking about surrogacy with a stranger, but Debbie?"
"Come on." Michael sighed, tired of repeating himself. "It's not like that."
She said nothing, she barley flinched at the harsh tone of his voice. The world moved around her, but she didn't notice. Feeling like a ghost in her own home, she could no longer deny the distance between them.
Two weeks might has well have been two decades. He didn't see her the way he used to. She wasn't some new, shiny thing he saw for himself in the future. She was something worn down and broken that he was willing to drag along.
For a second, she remained perfectly still, hand held out in front of her and eyes fixed on the beautiful rings decorating her finger. Two bands that had once made her feel so warm and cared for now felt foreign on her skin, a reminder of all the things she could no longer have and the lengths her husband would go to in order to continue living the live he envisioned for himself.
They weren't a unit anymore. They hadn't been the moment he stepped back and discussed plans of impregnating another women behind her back, long before either of them had been tested for any infertility issues.
Having been with him through the good and the bad, she'd seen him at his lowest, sobbing over the vindictive rumours tabloids so carelessly threw his way. She'd seen him overjoyed, his beaming grin so bright it rivaled the light of the sun. She'd held him when he was lonely and cried with him when he was sad. His victories had become her own and his losses hurt her soul so deeply, you'd have thought they were one.
Now standing in front of him, listening to his act of betrayal, she no longer felt like they were bound as man and wife. Physcially, he was in reach. If was wanted to, she could push forward and hold his hand. Emotionally, he'd never felt so distant.
A heavy sigh of defeat past her lips and with a decision made, she watched herself slide the gold engagement and wedding band off her finger.
"No." Michael gasped in a panic, eyes wide and heart thumping frantically in his chest. "No! Don't do that."
"I can't do this." She whispered, placing the rings in his plam, flinching subtly as their fingers made contact and pulling away fast like his touch had scolded her flesh.
"Put them back on." He urged, trying to hand them back, but she moved away, backing herself into a corner just to prevent any further touch. His face fell, crippled with an emotion he couldn't name.
"I can't stay married to a man who makes decisions like this without me." She insisted, her voice so matter of fact, it scared him.
Michael's eyebrows raised high, teeth worrying his lower lip. "I wasn't making a decision. I was enquiring with a friend."
"You found a surrogate... you're planning on having a baby with a women who knows you intimately." She scoffed, eyes wet and unfocused.
"You're making it sound dirty. I'm not trying to hurt you." And he sounded so sincere, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it anymore.
Crossing the line into her personal space, Michael no longer cared about valuing her comfort as he desperately pulled her arm up and placed the wedding band back into her hand.
"Don't do this. Put it on." He persisted, eyes wild and voice raw. "Don't leave."
"Take it back." She uttered.
"No. I don't want it." Michael argued, holding her fingers over the ring in a desperate act to make her reconsider. "I brought this for you. To show you what you mean to me, to show the world you're mine... in every way that matters."
"That's doesn't mean anything right now."
Michael felt the wetness on his cheek before he realised what it was. Crying at the thought of losing her and aching because he knew on some level, he already had.
"It should." His voice cracked, doe eyes wide with terror. "You're my wife."
"I was your wife." She corrected, pulling her wrist from his grasp, the weight of the rings feeling heavier than ever.
Michael's eyes pooled with tears, mouth opened in horror at the subtle correction. He could feel his heart giving out, the loss of physical contact no longer the only barrier between them.
"No." He shook his head, breathing heavy and crying right alongside her. "Please. No. Don't- don't do this to me."
Ignoring his request, she continued to talk as though those particular words hadn't left his lips at all.
"You know what hurts the most?" She asked, but didn't want for answers. "Not that you talked to Debbie, or that you even found a surrogate. It's the fact that it never, not once, occurred to you to ask me. You didn't come up to me and ask 'what should we do now.' You just decided what you wanted and thought I'd go along with it."
"I thought I knew best." He whispered, staring at her face under the florescent bedroom lighting.
"That's your problem... you always think you know what's right, but you never stop before you jump ahead."
"We can still start a family." Michael desperately clinging to the dream had to try just once more.
She laughed bitterly, wiping under her eyes with the back of her plam. "Listen to yourself." She mocked. "This isn't working."
"I love you." He uttered in blind hope that it might make her stay.
"Stop saying that like it's going to fix anything." She spoke, eyes rimmed red and irritated from the steady flow of tears.
"I made a mistake." He finally admitted with a firm nod. "I understand that."
"A mistake is forgetting our anniversary, or forgetting to call while you're on the road." She clarified, refusing to be moved by those big Bambi eyes looking at her in fear. "You made an active choice here and it's not something easy to forgive."
"I can fix it." He promised, taking her hand and watching as it fell limp in his desperate hold. "I'll tell Debbie we're not doing it. I'll stop talking to her all together if that's what you want... just tell me what to do."
His pleas were earth shattering and part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him everything would be okay, they could figure this out together. They'd been through a lot in their realtionship and this was just another obstacle life had thrown there way.
But it wasn't that easy. It wasn't a vase he'd broke, but her trust and that was an entirely different conversation he wasn't ready to have.
"You can't undo this." She ignored the soft whisper of her name as it fell from his lips, looking over at where his hand clutched her own in a move of solid desperation, her skin sunken in from his harsh grasp.
"After my diagnosis..." she began, looking him straight in the eye even if it hurt to do so. "I looked over at you in the doctors office. It killed me, but I thought to myself, 'at least I have Michael.' Turns out, you weren't thinking that way about me, because if you were, you would've held my hand and let me grieve, you would've asked me what I wanted."
"I know." His shoulders slumped and he wiped his face as a result of the onslaught of tears. "I was wrong, but please don't go."
"I have to." She told him straight, not wanting to prolong this painful heartbreak further.
"We can get through this." Michael promised, squeezing her hand with his own.
"Maybe." She watched as hope flashed across his face, but she couldn't focus on that while pulling her hand out of his tight hold. "But not today."
His face crumpled, awful and pale like he was about to throw up if she took another step from him. For her own sanity, she had to.
Stepping away, she ignored his cries as she crossed the room, placing the rings he'd tried to give her back on the nightstand beside the lamp he used for some late night reading.
She didn't look back, she couldn't. She considered herself to be a strong women, but for Michael, she was weak as a kitten. If she chanced a glance over her shoulder, she ran the risk of turning back and allowing him the victory of winning her back.
Wasting no time, she left the room with the door closing tight behind her.
Michael stood, head in his hand, sobbing over his own mistakes and wondering if he would ever be able to make this up to her or if he really had just lost the only women he'd ever truly loved.
DO YOU REMEMBER THE TIME? ; vampire!thrad!michael jackson / f!reader
summary; “So, Mr. Jackson,” you speak over the cassette recorder. “How long have you been dead?” ... He laughs.
word count; 14.2k
warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. THE PICTURE IN THE BANNER IS PURELY AESTHETIC (zero racial descriptions!). no pepsi accident !!! heavily inspired by interview with the vampire (2022), journalist!reader. flashbacks, falling in love, time skips/nonlinear narrative, angst with a happy end, diana ross slander, reader is #danielmolloymaxxing, vampire turning, explicit depictions of blood and violence & some weird psychosexual vampire shit, making up, brief mention of vomit (because vampirism is gross), explicit sexual content: dry humping, phone & couch sex, mutual masturbation.
A/N; i want to preface this by saying i in no means claim that this is an accurate representation of mj. yes this is true for all rpf but i've never written it before so i'm nervous. anyway. i genuinely, literally, have absolutely nothing to say for myself at all. i’m not even kidding. a few notes: the vampire rules are the same as iwtv (obviously). you can honestly safely assume that louis and armand are just next door in san francisco for the entirety of this fic (it changes nothing but it's funny to think about). i've left out the changes to mj's skin during the thrad era, because even though your appearance freezes when you're turned, i figured i can play around with that. so feel free to imagine him as you'd like. (also. i'm going to be honest with you: it gets pretty fucked up. for those familiar with iwtv it's a walk in the park, but for those not… yeahhh...)
⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. my masterlist. REBLOGS and comments are deeply cherished, feed your local writer!!! fic playlist <3
“So, Mr. Jackson,” you speak over the cassette recorder. “How long have you been dead?”
He laughs.
A beautiful sound, softer than life itself; this delicate thread he walks on with one foot hanging off the ledge and into the darkness. Not really alive, not truly dead. Just trapped in the endless pendulum of both.
“It’s Michael,” he almost whines. Such a soft cadence for a creature capable of such great violence. A contradiction, just like everything else about him. He’s lounged on his couch, spread out, wearing darkness much better than it wears him. He’s biting on one finger with a tilted head, smiling at you so brightly you almost forget about the sharp-fanged canines glistening. “For you, it’s Michael.”
You pause, swallow. “I know, Mr. Jackson.”
Michael Jackson lived just like he died: on the margins, despite having every spotlight on himself. Biggest star of the world—resplendent, untouchable—someone to look at in a museum display with awe instead of knowing. Of learning.
Of loving.
Michael Jackson came into your life still breathing, cheeks full of warmth, alive. So, so alive it hurts to think about. He’d just broken the Grammys in half, forever splitting himself apart from any other artist that’s walked the same halls and earned the same awards.
They weren’t him. No one would or ever could be.
The year was 1984. At the beginning of spring, the time when earth wakes up and stirs people into living again. But it stirs hunger, too. Blood-red and sopping with a never-ending repetition that rarely gives and only takes.
You didn’t know it then and neither did he, but the spring of ‘84 would be the last spring Michael ever saw as mortal. Where he could wake in the morning and tiptoe outside, glimpse at the birds perched on his balcony and watch the sunrise without it being suicidal.
You were nervous back then, still green while the industry was blooming all in technicolor around you, trying to carve a space for yourself in metaphorically unmoving stone.
You’d just gotten out of a hellish job waiting tables near Marina Del Rey. Ready to take the world by storm, carrying your clip-book full of articles everywhere like ID. It was your baby, fully yours, born from three years’ worth of endless nights and cramped fingers and all the sweat going into that.
UC Berkeley’s Mass Communications alumna. Magna Cum Laude, although you had to fight for it because, well… Life gets hard sometimes, right? But you got it in the end, and it felt good as shit.
That waitress job was temporary, you’d swore to yourself it would be. Your dreams were much bigger than a sleazy diner only serving those small enough to fit in it. It got you through school though, so there’s not much to pine about. You lose some, you win some.
And you won big.
Worked your ass off for that win, too. Written a banging thesis on the rise of MTV, built a portfolio of music reviews for The Daily Cal, co-hosted a weekly pop culture slash entertainment show on KALX with some campus friends.
‘90.7 FM every Wednesday, baby!’
You miss it, what can you say? You just can’t help yourself. Life flowed easier back then. Before the inevitability of success, of that gnawing feeling something’s going to go terribly wrong any minute now.
Before Michael.
Everything is categorized as either before or after him. Sometimes you can’t even tell the difference; the feeling of his teeth is like it’s always been there.
A phantom pain you’d feel when changing mixtapes for an article that was due, or those times you’d get goosebumps when tidying up the vinyls—late at the radio station, after a show—and his face would show up.
White suit over a black shirt; piercing eyes, soft face and even softer disposition; gold handwritten cursive reading Thriller.
You’d think, again and again, ‘Fuck, he’s gorgeous.’ The vinyl would sit tucked pretty between The Police’s Synchronicity and Bowie’s Let’s Dance, and that’d be it. Just another record on the shelf, another artist that floated above the common man not because of money or arrogance, or even success.
Simply because he was meant to be there. It was the rest of the world that was just catching up with him.
That’s what you thought then, at least. Before you met him and got to know him. Before falling for him rather than the idol plastered on every entertainment article (written by you, or otherwise). It simultaneously took you by surprise while also not being surprising at all. Everyone falls in love with Michael one way or another, you just didn’t think you would.
At least, more than a fan or an admirer of his art, professionally. Of course you were a fan. Your mom used to blast Jackson 5 records every Saturday morning, and you’d be peeling potatoes or sweeping the living room with Michael’s voice as an underscore.
You grew up with him. And, isn’t that sad? You were a kid, a real kid; crying over boys and homework and skinned knees while he was pumping out show after show and interview after interview. Even at eight, you remember feeling sad for him.
Your mother used to tell you you’re being silly. That the Jacksons loved to perform, and they got handsomely compensated for their artistry. That they wouldn’t have to work a real job a day in their life the way you or your dad were expected to. And, she was right. But the sadness was there, you could feel it.
When he released his first solo album, Got To Be There, you bought it with the weekly allowance you’d been saving up and surprised your mom. That weekend, the only thing echoing through the house was Rockin’ Robin. And when he put out his first proper solo album, Off The Wall, you were first in line at your local records store.
You loved him for a long time before you laid eyes on him, but that childish almost-affection quickly got eclipsed by something far stronger.
The date was February 28th of 1984, the Shrine Auditorium bursting like ripe citrus against a setting sun, palm trees swaying by the sheer size of the crowd. A heavy laminated card dangled from your neck, reading:
26th ANNUAL GRAMMY AWARDS, National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences, Inc., PRESS.
You were with Rolling Stone, or with whatever crumbs of a presence they maintained in the West Coast after moving all their offices to New York years ago. Your editor, Ben, was a washed-up Rock-N-Roll purist who thought anything other than Elvis was ‘a fad,’ including the ever-rising pop scene.
Including Michael.
Which is precisely why he sent you—the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed girl from Berkeley—to cover the Grammys instead of going himself. Thought it was a waste of time, and who were you to disagree with the man?
Ben could live in his past-and-gone glory days all he wanted; it was a new decade halfway on its way out already, with something in the air that felt historic. Primordial. You needed to be in that room, and if playing into Ben’s refusal to get with the times was your way in, fuck would you do it.
Of course, it did end up being historic. Michael had—has—that quality about him.
The backstage press room was pure pandemonium that night. Hot and stifling, reeking of hairspray and cigarette smoke, packed with aggressive reporters from Time, Newsweek, and television affiliates you couldn’t even begin naming.
You think they saw you just like Ben did. Scratch that: you know they did. A kid without her big-girl pants on, thrust into the deep end for the sharks to feed on and scatter the scraps.
You’d earned your place there, as much as their stares did nothing to help the sweat on your back or the twitching of your lips. Watching from the designated press room, you bit through your lipstick as the nearly 7K-seat theater blew up with each win Michael brought home, growing louder the more the night progressed.
You were not surprised at all. Thriller was a masterpiece, you knew it from the very first listen. And if anybody asked, you’d just point them to Page 30 of your portfolio: your best article. Your magnum opus. October of 1982, a thousand words typed on a clunky typewriter in the basement of Eshleman Hall, coffee stains on the margins. Written by a girl who saved up her waitress tips just to buy the record on release day; the same girl who’d saved up for Got To Be There all those years ago.
When Michael finally entered the press room, it erupted even louder than the theater had.
Much closer in proximity, shoulders and elbows pushing against ribs, a clunky brick-sized cassette recorder clutched so tight in your hand your knuckles shook. Someone kept thrashing against your back to get closer, but all they managed to do was push you right to the front. Right into Michael’s eyesight.
He was surrounded by publicists, security, and Quincy Jones, who was positively glowing. Somewhere to the side stood his date for the night, Brooke Shields, and Michael was holding a literal armful of golden gramophones. He was in a gold-embroidered blue-black military jacket, a single white glove, aviator sunglasses.
He looked otherworldly.
(Michael Jackson is not of this earth, that much was clear long before he died in sanguine ecstasy.)
A sea of camera flashes clicked with inhuman speed, swirling into a dizzying staccato reflecting off of him. And being with Rolling Stone—their dwindling influence in California notwithstanding—still meant you were with Rolling-fucking-Stone. You knew you had one sought-after chance at a question before security whisked him away, and you knew you had to make it count.
Asking anything along the lines of ‘how does it feel to have won’ or ‘broken the record’ were out of the question entirely. His answer would be tight and rehearsed, and you didn’t grind this hard just to waste something so monumental on a local-channel-news question at best.
Your hand shot up so many times you might’ve gotten whiplash, questions flying around the room in tandem with the trickling clock. Your heart dropped and kept dropping as publicists looked you over in favor of the men squeezing you from all sides. Until one publicist—female, older, a mirrored image—made eye contact and your world stuttered in place.
“Alright, alright, quiet down,” she commanded over the clamor. “We have time for just a couple more. Yes, you in the front.”
This was it. Your heart was hammering so deeply you felt it in your stomach, seeping down your legs and numbing them in the process. Your Berkeley instincts kicked in like fight-or-flight, forcing your voice to even out and raise. Holding up the recorder, you smiled through the sweat dripping down your face.
“Mr. Jackson, congratulations on a historic night. I’m with Rolling Stone. On Billie Jean, you and your team famously spent weeks just mixing the bassline. Tonight, the world is celebrating the commercial success of Thriller. But as an artist, do you feel the industry finally understands the actual technical craftsmanship you put into this record?”
The room got quiet. Not truly silent, but just enough to hear your own heartbeat again, listen at just how loud you were breathing. A man coughed beside your ear, and you fought the urge to flinch.
Michael paused. He wordlessly handed a few gramophones to Quincy by his side, tilted his head just so, lowered the aviator glasses down his nose, and gave you a gentle smile.
Cameras click-click-clicked away.
You’d heard his speaking voice before that night, obviously. But hearing it from five feet apart had nothing on the shitty TV box in your apartment or the screens you’d watched the awards from backstage.
“That’s a beautiful question,” he breathed, and you pushed on your tiptoes to nudge the recorder closer. He sounded like soft velvet, making you shiver. “Yes. Yes, I do. People often just want to talk about the dancing or the charts, you know? But Quincy and I, we lived in that studio, and Bruce sweated over every single frequency. Billie Jean… that bassline is the heartbeat of the song. If the heartbeat isn’t perfect, the body doesn’t move. To have the Academy recognize that tonight… It’s a sign God is good, and that the hard work is understood. That means a lot to me. Thank you.”
That was it. Your one question, your headline, the article you were waiting to write ever since you heard his voice on vinyl that first Saturday morning. But you were never one to be satisfied, were you? No. You always wanted more, pushed harder, chased things quicker than your feet could keep up with.
The publicist was about to call one last question, but Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off you, so you did the one thing you’d been busting your ass three years off for.
You asked another.
Briefly meeting the publicist’s line of sight, you jumped back into Michael’s gaze. “Is that the standard for pop music now? Perfection or nothing?”
He pushed his aviators up again, chuckled something soft, smile so wide and blinding it bordered on catastrophic. He said: “Perfection is a nice goal, but it’s really about the magic. You can’t mix magic, you just have to catch it when it falls from heaven. Thank you, bless you.”
Bedazzled hand over his heart, hell broke loose with all its demons as Michael was led away.
And that was how the new girl from Berkeley managed to snag a spot on the front-page cover of issue #419, right beside the pose of Eddie Murphy.
(You’d written for #417 too, but that issue hit the streets right before the Grammys. You’ll always mourn that cover; the lighting on Michael’s face made him look beautifully melancholic. Having your article plastered next to him might’ve actually killed you, so, yeah. Like you said: you lose some, you win some.)
You wouldn’t see Michael again for a couple of months. In reality, you didn’t think you’d see him again, period. Speaking to him once was already a utopic dream come true. A comet that only flies by once and you remember it forever, because there isn’t a chance you’ll see it again.
But the Rolling Stone higher-ups loved you. Okay, ‘love’ is a strong word. Though, being the only journalist to squeeze out a genuine answer from Michael on arguably the biggest night in pop-culture history? That made people do a double take when your name showed up. That’s all the love you needed.
Ben was weirdly jealous. It didn’t help when you asked him how many Grammys Elvis won in one night. Really dug a hole for yourself when you added, “Or, like, ever?”
He could do nothing when you were chosen to cover the preparations for the Victory Tour; granted exclusive access to Zoetrope Studios to attend the rehearsals. You’re surprised you didn’t pass out when Ben broke the news, with as much enthusiasm in his face as reading his monthly bill charges.
April of 1984. A boulevard packed with the busy fumes only a city as big as Los Angeles could produce, that same cassette recorder tucked inside your bag as you paid the cab driver and stood in the front doors of Zoetrope. The sun was slowly setting in the background when a production assistant came to grab you. Huffing and puffing while breezing through his notes, he hardly even looked back to see if you were following.
When he slipped you inside the auditorium, you chose a seat near the middle, the lights dimmed and the stage alight. You pulled out your notepad and got to work, words flying off the paper with hardly the need to look down at them.
You were mesmerized.
All of them were great, but they weren’t Michael.
When they started practising a Jackson 5 medley and you heard I’ll Be There echoing right in front of you, tears almost fell. You thought of your mom and how insane this was, sniffled, and continued jotting on your notepad.
The rehearsal ended, stage lights dimming until fluorescence zipped to life above the theater seats, and you had to squint against the onslaught. Your notes were a mess and your shirt sported a new ink smudge near the breast pocket, yet Michael recognized you anyway.
He was sweaty and tired, wearing a soaked white shirt, curls stuck on his forehead and cheeks. He had just downed an entire Evian water bottle, and some of it trickled past his lips and down his neck. He looked entirely spent, and all you could think was how much you’d kill to be the one to make him feel better.
Your head shook at that. Jesus, girl.
His demeanor was so different from when he was onstage. It’s like he took another form entirely. But down there he was just a guy, squinting at you through the exhaustion. You exited the seats and when he came close enough, you told him: “Hi, Mr. Jackson. I’m from—”
He cut you off. “Hold on… Don’t I know you?”
His voice was as soft as you’d remembered. It washed over you. From the back, his brothers’ boisterous laughter could be heard, but you clung to the softness. Faltering a little, you looked at your shoes before meeting his eyes again. Your smile was tight but genuine. He remembered you.
“Backstage at the Grammys. I asked you about the Billie Jean bassline…?” you trailed off.
And, his whole face just lit up. You should’ve known right there he’d be the thing to kill you.
Snapping a finger, he laughed: “Yes! The craftsmanship question. I remembered your voice.” His shoulders fell in relaxation, like he was lighter. His hand dropped, that enthusiastically bright smile melting into something softer. Mellower. Looking straight into your soul all the while. “You wrote that beautiful piece for Rolling Stone. You actually… listened to the track.”
You chuckled a bit, feeling your neck flush. This wasn’t the Grammys press room or an official interview studio, with cameras or mics or anything other than his eyes to scrutinize you. This was private. Genuine. You were a kickass professional, but you were also human. He flustered you; way more than pride would have you admit out loud.
He read your article. Called it beautiful. Holy shit.
“I try to make it a habit. You’d be surprised how many people I work with that couldn’t tell you the difference between a chorus and a bridge.”
Cough. Ben. Cough.
That made him laugh. Fuck. Fuck! Leaning a hip against a seat, he crossed his arms and shook a curl off his forehead. His smile was fucking devastating. “Not you, though. Right?”
“I mean, I hope so?” You made a joking grimace, something between cringing and shrugging. “There’s always a margin for improval, though.”
“I think so, too. Staying stagnant is one of my biggest fears.”
“You’re anything but stagnant, trust me,” you laughed, swallowed hard when he levelled you with a look that urged you to continue. “I–I mean, Off The Wall might’ve been your first fully solo album, but you’d already separated yourself from your brothers creatively. Completely. And, Thriller… What can I even say? They’re like day and night. So, yeah. Trust me,” you took a breath for what felt like the first time after a dive, “Journalistic integrity and all.”
He was nodding along, smile brightening the longer you rambled. In truth, you actually wanted to kind of kill yourself, but once you started there was no shutting it off. So, there you were, giving Michael Jackson a review of his own damn life’s work! What even was your life?
“You’ll be covering this,” he looked back halfheartedly, sighing, “uh, tour?”
Your brows furrowed. “The preparations, yeah.” Call it plain curiosity or your journalistic instincts kicking in, but it took you over. “Why’d you say it like that? Are you not… feeling this?”
He levelled you with a smirk. His eyes were hooded; tired, but sly. Oh, he was a problem, alright. “Not now that you’re here.”
He said it all smooth and suave, yet squinted his eyes a second later, softly laughing at himself and making you stutter through a laugh too.
“That’s–uh… Thank you. I appreciate it, Mr. Jackson. More than you know.”
“Michael,” he grinned at you. “For you, off the record, just Michael. We’ll be sharing a space for some time ‘til the tour.”
You nodded like an idiot, completely caught off-guard. Because, yeah, what the fuck. Sure. “Michael,” you repeated. Like an idiot.
A camera flashed from the side, a metaphorical bucket of ice-cold water getting dumped on you. All levity evaporated off of him, spotting the promotional photographer almost instantly and raising a dismissive hand.
“C’mon, man. Go bother Jermaine or somethin’.”
“O–of course, Mr. Jackson. Sorry!”
He left with his tail tucked between his legs, and you looked at Michael with a sniff. “He doesn’t call you Michael.”
“He’s not you, is he?”
“Guess not.” You glanced at your watch, eyes widening. “Oh! I have to go. I’ll see you next time. Um,” you giggled awkwardly and shook your head. Maybe it could be seen as endearing. At least, you hoped. “Goodnight, Michael.”
“Do you live close? Want me to get someone to call a cab?”
“I’m good,” you nodded softly at the thoughtfulness. It made you feel warm. “See you.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, hips jutting off of the seat he was leaning against, hands closing around the towel hanging from his neck. “I’ll see you.”
That night, you closed your apartment door and screamed so loud the old lady next door had to check on you. You were so over the moon that you slapped a kiss on each of her cheeks and gave her a bunch of leftover cookies you’d made the day before.
You weren’t scheduled to attend another rehearsal until next week. What you weren’t expecting to find at work two days later was a courier at your desk, a nondescript white package shoved into your arms as he urged you to sign. Your heart began pitter-pattering like a hailstorm as you carefully opened it with a pair of scissors, and not even Ben’s curious gaze was enough to stop you.
It was from him.
A rare, early white-label promotional vinyl pressing of Thriller, ‘NOT FOR SALE’ plastered front and center. Your heart genuinely dropped to your ass, head swimming as you turned it around your grip with a hung jaw.
You think Ben might’ve made some sarcastic comment about the feral look in your eyes, but you didn’t even register his presence. He was such a small blotch of importance in your mind, he might as well have not existed at all.
Your head was in upheaval, little-you’s running around with everything on fire, because… This wasn’t happening, right? What the hell?
There was a handwritten note attached, on what looked like to be Michael’s personal stationary: a gold-trimmed and thick cream paper sporting his handwriting. Your heart galloped harder, like it wanted to burst free with every line you read.
It was a wonderful surprise to see you at rehearsals. It’s rare to find someone who understands the magic we try to capture in the studio. I would love to talk more about music with you… Without all the flashing cameras next time.
If you have some time this weekend, please call Bill (my security) at this number (213)XXX-XXXX. He will arrange for us to have some quiet time to talk.
Keep writing beautifully.
—Blessings, Michael
You were gone, in every sense of the word. Completely and utterly wiped out.
You called the number right there in the office, nervously fidgeted with the cord as you spoke with a sweet-voiced man on the other line who identified himself as the aforementioned Bill, chewed halfway through your lip when you gave him your address and arranged for him to pick you up on 8PM that Saturday.
Arrangements for Encino, the Jackson residence. To somehow—in some inconceivably mind-numbing way—meet up with Michael Jackson and… talk about music? You. And him. Alone in a house larger than your apartment complex and probably your old house combined.
You and him, alone, with his beautifully doe-like eyes and that soft voice that hasn’t left your mind ever since you heard him in the flesh. Fuck.
When you got home that day, you dropped everything by the door and flew to your mom’s old record player she insisted you take during the move. Punching the white-label in, you spent nearly the entire time between coming home and sleeping just listening to Thriller on repeat.
It sounded so… crisp. Clearer than the record back at Berkeley’s radio station, or the one currently sitting on your stack near the wilting spider-plant. If absolutely nothing else, it was a collector’s wet dream, and the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for you in a long time. Worst of all? He didn’t have to.
The thought had you smiling like an idiot inside your small apartment, with the smoke-stained walls smelling of cheap perfume, forgotten takeout, and that certain kind of loneliness only the dust gathering could spread.
God, you were so easy. But he was who he was, so you figured you’d cut yourself some slack.
That’s exactly the thing, though… He owed you nothing. Anybody else in his place would’ve probably forgotten about you the moment they stepped out the press room, let alone remembering you worked for Rolling Stone and waiting for the article to hit the streets? Are you kidding?
You never asked him why. That week came and went like water in a forest creek, swifter than a breath. Before you knew it, it was Saturday and 8PM loomed dangerously. Your room was in a state of disarray, which meant your bathroom too, which might as well have meant the entire apartment looked like site zero of nuclear testing.
Bill arrived at 8PM on the dot, bent his hat for hello as you descended the stairs, and drove you to Encino like he’s driven you a million times before. Like he would a million times again.
Michael greeted you by the fountain. Your heart did the thing that makes you think you’re having a heart attack, but no. He’d just smiled at you. Cheeks full of warmth, eyes bright, asking with a soft voice if you liked his gift. He said he didn’t want to come off as pretentious, but the way you spoke about Thriller made him think you’d appreciate it.
You don’t even remember what you said; the most you remember about that night is everything you’d lose—
“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Michael’s voice cuts through the low hum of the cassette recorder, dragging you out of the spring of ‘84 and dropping you right back into the suffocating luxury of 1988.
You blink, focusing on him again. That sweet face full of promise gives way to what he is now: undead and frozen, disastrously beautiful, the best and worst thing to ever happen to you.
What he also is, is inside your mind. Literally.
The tape reels of the Sony TC-D5M turn between you, small plastic wheels trapping secrets that could burn the music industry to ash if they ever left this room. When they leave this room.
“I’m the one doing the interviewing. Get out of my head,” you quip, arms and legs crossed, every ghost of his gaze making your hair stand in attention. Clearing your throat, you adjust your position as if a straight back could shield you against him. “Who’s he?”
“Yeah, yeah you are. C’mon, girl,” he tsks, waving you off. “You know exactly who he is. I don’t have to read your mind to know where you go when you look at me like that.”
“And where is that?” You level him with shaky blinks, almost afraid to take the risk of not seeing him for that fraction of a second it takes for your lids to open again. He’d never hurt you, you know that.
At least, more than you want. More than you crave to be hurt by him.
“Hayvenhurst, Zoetrope, the studio in Encino, that hole-in-the-wall record store…” he counts off on one hand, long curls falling over his eyes from the half-up/half-down updo he’d tucked them in. “Before. Stuck on something that’d never last to begin with. I’m right here, baby. Can’t you see that?”
He looks so good it makes you want to cry. Why did you agree to this?
Because he’s Michael. Because you love him. You loved him in 1984, and ‘85, ‘86 and ‘87, and you love him now too. No matter the blood. No matter his nature. He’s still the Michael you met in that crowded press room, no matter how much he insists he isn’t.
“So. The him in question is you, Mr. Jackson. You, before you turned?” Journalistic, professional, curt. That’s what he asked for, isn’t it? One final interview by his favorite journalist, revealing what he is to the world.
His eyes drift down to the recorder. It whirs and whirs and keeps on whirring. The almost 13K square feet take the silence and project it all throughout, until the house is louder because of it.
“Yeah. It’s me.” He breaks into a blinding smile. His fangs glint. “I’m thirty years old. I was turned the summer of ‘84, so I’ve been dead for about four years.”
“By all accounts then, still a child.” He doesn’t like that. Clenches his jaw, but says nothing. “Who turned you? How? I imagine those reading are most curious about that.” And then, almost too quiet for the cassette to pick up on, “I know I was.”
“You know what I think about?” He ignores your prompt completely, elbows resting on his spread thighs, eyeing you with that look he gets only where you’re involved. “Remember Dodger Stadium?”
Of course you do.
(December 9th, 1984. A sea of fifty-five thousand people thrashing and screaming, all there for the final night of the Jackson 5 Victory Tour you’d been vigorously covering since April of the same year.
Somewhere along the way, it became something else. Michael had kissed you under the dim lights of his personal studio in Encino, and you’d kissed him back. One hand on his nape, the other clawing at the curve of his waist. His arms curled around you like they belonged there, and his tongue tasted as good as he sounded.
He asked you to be his girl two weeks later. You protested halfheartedly—thinking of your career and the ethics—but in the end didn’t give half a shit. He was yours, you were his, and you continued being a kickass entertainment journalist in the meantime. Your sources just became a tad more direct.
And then, he died.
It was early August, their next concerts being scheduled for NYC. He flew you out, ready to show you off to his brothers like they didn’t already know, and you were over the moon.
Ever since the tour started and long distance became an inevitability, the landline by your bedside got hot every night before bed. He’d call, and you’d fall asleep with his sleepy voice as a lullaby. It left you aching in the best of ways.
You missed him like you knew him all your life. You were so happy to see him again, but… He was different.
He looked… sick. Lips dry, eyes unfocused, limbs uncoordinated like it was the first time he wore his skin. He refused to leave the hotel while the sun was out, and looked at your neck like it was calling to him.
Well… His nature became clear when you found him draining a busboy behind the hotel. The guy looked deliriously elated to be dying: smile wide as blood-spurts flew like a fountain, bathing Michael in red as he gulped it all down.
He was onto you before you could even take a breath deep enough to scream.
Blood-stained hand against your mouth, wet against your skin, hot as it accidentally slithered past your lips. Your pupils shrunk into pinpricks, the bricks cold on your back as Michael caged you between him and the wall.
You couldn’t breathe. You screamed against his hand so loud your throat burned, but it didn’t matter. Nothing came out. Only the hot, sizzling tears that mixed with the blood.
“Shh, shhh, baby, calm down,” he whispered. He was so close, inches away, the fresh blood metallic in your nostrils. You saw his fangs and screamed again, thrashing against his hold. “Please, I love you. I love you, baby, be quiet—”
You sobbed against his hand, head shaking as you desperately tried to get away. He kept shushing you with soft and loving praise, calling you beautiful, caging you harder. Your eyes fell on the busboy still dying, milky white skin drained of color as his blood stopped flying, and you knew he was dead.
“It’s over,” Michael whispered, kissing your forehead, lips lingering as he spoke against you: “It’s over, see? Stop cryin’ baby, you’re breaking my heart.”
“You killed him,” you wailed against his hand that was slowly retreating. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t move. “You killed him, Mike, he’s de–dead—”
Your sobs were the only coherent thing that could come out of your mouth; the same mouth that now had the taste of that guy’s blood. You were going to be sick.
“Somethin’ happened in New Jersey… I changed. I changed, baby, and,” he pointed to the dead guy, “I asked his consent. He let me,” Michael laughed in disbelief. “I swear to you. Let’s just go back to the room, yeah?” He searched for your eyes.
You couldn’t look. You were petrified of what you’d find. Some monster, or the same sweet eyes he hid behind his hands when he shyly asked you to be his girl? You still don’t know what would’ve been worse.
“W–what…” you coughed, spit clogging your throat, tongue paralyzed because if you moved it too much you could taste the blood. “What are you?”
“I’m me, but different. I’m better.” That same soft voice, his characteristic lilt right in your ears.
“I want,” you heaved, “I–I want to go… I think. Michael, I just… Let me go.” You ducked your head down, one of your trembling hands ghosting over your jaw and the blood caked there. “Let me go, plea—”
“Can I kiss you?”
“What?” you cried, eyes finally meeting his. There the monster stood, with the same eyes you loved.
He slowly leaned on you, laying his delicious weight and grounding you despite being the reason for your turmoil. He closed his eyes, those soft curls tickling your cheeks, his hips completely flush against yours and making you gasp as he breathed you in. You were hot, boiling everywhere: neck, chest, hips, deep down your belly and spreading into every inch of your limbs.
He was everywhere. And, in spite of everything, you clutched him tight. One hand on his bicep, the other brushing on the curve of his waist, leg unconsciously lifting to curl around his. You exhaled into his open and waiting mouth, swallowing his lips when they crashed against you. You tasted the fresh blood in his mouth, and shivered as you accidentally licked his fangs.
All you could think was that you’d go to Hell. Not in some lighthearted, cursing-in-the-heat-of-the-moment way. The literal way. The biblical way. Damned for eternity, boiled alive and skinned with fire type of Hell.
You moaned into him; half a whine, half a sob. He ate it all. He grinded his hips into you, hand buried in the meat of your thigh and bringing you even closer, closer to where he was hot too—
You were going to be sick.
And you did. Breaking the kiss for air, all that connected your mouths was a thin line of hot-red saliva mixed with blood.
And… Yep. There was your dinner: twisting in your stomach and up your esophagus, hitting you so viscerally you only had time to push Michael aside and hurl on the dirty concrete of some NYC back alley, trapped between a dead body and an undead one.
Fuck ‘a rock and a hard place’ and whoever made that shit up. Fuck them and their momma, too.
“What the fuck are you?” you rasped with a sore throat, wiping your red-crusted lips with the back of your hand. Half-kneeled over, you were gripping your knee with one palm so hard it hurt.
He smiled at you wide, fangs getting buried in his bottom lip. They glistened with your spit and that thick metallic tang you could still taste. His voice was still soft. Still his.
“Isn’t it obvious, girl? I’m a vampire.”
You just laughed.
Sudden, sharp, gut-deep. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed that hard in all your twenty-six years on this mortal coil. Twenty-two, then. You laughed and laughed until all you could do was inhale lungfuls of air that punched their way out of you seconds later.
You clapped two hands together and looked at Michael with a crazed beam, your mouth open and teeth showing, still laughing. He looked at you and started laughing too, that deep rumble you found so attractive. He returned the crazed look, hands moving to wrap around each of your shoulders as you ran out of breath.
When your laughter died out, you fainted into his arms, and that’s the last thing you remember about that night in the alley.
It’d been four months since August. Four long months of guilt and disbelief clouding your head every time you woke up, of haunting your nightmares in the form of that unnamed busboy each night you fell asleep.
Anyone normal would’ve turned Michael in to the cops. Would’ve called him psychotic over the vampire bullshit, and ran away to some corner of the world so obscure not even the CIA could’ve found them in.
You did none of that. You weren’t just anyone.
He showed you. That very same morning, with the hotel room blinds shut, he proved everything. Read your mind right back to you, extended and retracted his fangs on will, moved around the room in a dizzying rush of movement a million times faster than any normal human could run. He told you everything.
Your head hurt so much you couldn’t get out of bed for two days, thus ending up losing your flight back to LAX. He paid for another ticket without question.
It was a tough-as-shit pill to swallow, but swallow it you fucking did. Michael Jackson was a vampire. Because, yeah, sure! Vampires are real! That’s a totally normal thing to be aware of in the world.
Michael was a vampire, you loved him, he loved you. He called you his girl, you kissed him and ached for him the same way you did before. You just needed time.
Ben was hounding you about your pending article/review of Prince’s newly released Purple Rain, the ceiling in your bathroom began leaking while you were away and had to get fixed, and you just… needed time to get your head straight.
The four months flew by quicker than you could’ve anticipated. Even as Michael and his brothers touched down on LAX at 2AM on the penultimate Friday of November—just a week before their final six shows in LA—you had a hard time believing what really went down that night in August.
He called you during. Every night, just like before, the landline by your bed rang and you’d talk for so long that you’d wake up in the morning with the phone dangling off the side of your bed. Pretending everything was normal. Ignoring the elephant in the room probably big enough to get into the Guinness record.
He’d call, and all you could think about would be those late nights in his studio, laughing over nothing as you questioned what you were even doing. Of how insane it was to share such an intimate space with him. Of knowing him beyond that invisible wall between you and a person of such tremendous success.
Of how much more he was than anything a TV host or swooning fan could squeeze out of him.
You flew into his arms near the mini-bus that was scheduled to drive them home from the airport, chuckled over his shoulder when Bill made eye-contact with a smirk. Bill also knew. You and him were the only ones.
Well, if you exclude Michael’s maker. But you don’t like thinking about that, so you don’t.
“What does it taste like?” you asked him after the show on the 7th; the second to last.
You were in his room in Encino, the lamps casting a warm glow over his endearing childhood clutter. Perched on top of his bed, naked and sweaty and spent, you rested your head on your wrist, arm bent at the elbow. Your other palm played with the dips of his chest, curling in indecipherable patterns.
He huffed a soft laugh. “You’ve already had a taste, baby.”
“Yeah, and I threw up,” you counter. “No, I mean, like… What’s it like to drink blood? Does it feel like drinking life itself?”
He chuckled, gave you a wet peck and pulled on your lip with his fangs. You sighed a moan. “Warm,” he whispered. “Thick, it’s… Well, it’s not the answer to life’s mystery, angel. It’s food. I need it.”
“And me? Right now?”
His pupils dilated. You saw it in real time, as he bit his lip and his gaze fell on your neck. Your heartbeat picked up, and he would’ve felt it anyway, vampire or not.
“I won’t lie to you. I sense it. Feel it,” he brushed a sharp nail softly against the skin on your carotid, “as it slides along your veins. I think about it, when we—”
He looked cute. Flushing at his own words, his own thoughts. Your thigh was draped over his naked lap, and he slid a hand across your skin to grip you tighter.
You didn’t think much when you said: “Take a sip, then.”
His head snapped at you, all of the flush gone and replaced by something of a different nature entirely. There you were, a lamb that’s survived the wolf and begging for it anyway.
Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You knew he felt it. Your skin was sizzling, and you wanted him to taste you.
“No,” he shook his head.
You raised a wrist near his face, waved it like a child, naked breasts brushing against him. Stupid fucking lamb. “Why not?” you asked, and you actually sounded hurt.
He kissed you, poured all his love into it. Palm cradling your head softly and shooing away your wrist from the danger-zone that was his mouth, he said: “Because,” a peck against your lips, “once I start,” on your cheeks, “I won’t stop.”
Deep down, even then, you know you wanted it—)
“That’s not what I asked,” you tell him now, eyes tight. The whirring recorder fills the silence.
His head drops for a moment with a quiet laugh, and when he speaks up, he looks at the recorder pointedly. As if to say, ‘Happy now?’
“It’s my story, isn’t it? My reckoning?”
You huff. “A story needs foundation. So far, all we’ve established is that Michael Jackson knocked his head sideways so hard while filming Thriller, he’s having delusions. You asked for this interview, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he smiles. He loves this. Of course he does.
“Then let me do my job. Now… When, how, and by whom were you turned?”
He sucks in a sharp breath, elbows on his knees, playing with his fingers. “I was turned in New Jersey, July 31st. My maker… is a patron of the arts. That’s what he told me, anyway. Why he did what he did. He said I should stay like this forever.”
You feel your heart bleeding. You know he can hear it, too. “And you will.”
“And I will.”
Michael should be alive right now. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t have so much blood on his hands, even though it’s so, so fucking hypocritical of you to think this way. The moment Michael died, he became something else. Something outside of human morality and comprehension.
He’s not human, but that image of his doe-eyes that first Saturday in Encino is engraved down to your bones. You just can’t let go.
You cough, clearing your throat, begging a higher power to stop the tears from pooling. You don’t fucking need this right now. “So, it wasn’t consensual?”
His smile changes, for just a fraction of a second. “No. It wasn’t. But I don’t think you’ll find many vampires to tell you it was.”
You look to your lap, at the notepad that’s still empty and the nervous tapping of your pen. “How does one turn? Please, walk us through the process.”
There it is, that smirk. Even when he gets like this, his smile is beautiful.
“Remember Dodger Stadium?” he repeats, a deeper timbre in his voice that lands right where you don’t need to be thinking right now. He doesn’t normally sound like this, to protect his voice.
Fuck.
The answer is yes, and he knows it is. He just wants you to say it. Wants to remind you, as if it could ever be erased.
December 9th, Dodger Stadium. Last night of the Victory Tour. The night Michael finally gave his piece-of-shit father a taste of his own goddamn medicine. The night Michael tasted you for the first time. The point of no return.
You were backstage, waiting for him and his brothers to be done, eardrums nearly bursting by the sheer excitement of the crowd. It should’ve overwhelmed you—and it nearly had—but he made it all okay. Had Bill standing by your side for the entirety of the concert, ensuring Michael would be the first person to see you after they got done. For good this time.
Joseph was there too, and you were fuming, but not as much as he’d be. The thought comforted you.
Michael looked high when he stormed towards you, sweat-soaked and iridescent, the throat-burning screams of an insatiable crowd echoing behind him like the croaks of vultures. He smiled at you, letting his fangs show as he took you by the hand, Joseph hot on his trail. Bill stopped him, and Michael didn’t look back once.
He crowded your every sense in some obscure corner of the stadium, nearly pitch-black. He kissed you like he hadn’t found your lips in days, like a thirsty man trekking the desert.
You welcomed it. You craved it. Arms thrown over his shoulders, one playing with the curls of his nape and the other burying itself in their thickness, you squeezed him like you wanted to be fused. Needed to.
“You did it,” you sighed with a big smile against his lips, moaning a soft exhale as his kisses trailed down and all over. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Mike, you did it—”
The first bite was soft. Just a nip, a barely-there graze of his fangs on your exposed neck. A slip-up, making him freeze in place as your heart echoed, pounding deeper and deeper against its boney cage.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. All color drained from his face. You panicked, clutched him tighter against you. He quivered: “Baby, no, I’m so sorr—”
“No,” you breathed. Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You watched his eyes clouding, pupils blown as he zeroed in on your pulsing jugular. You felt the vein shifting your skin with its intensity. He damn-near drooled. “I want you to. I want you to have me, like this… I want you to taste me.” You licked into his open lips messily, tongue slipping on his fangs. “I trust you.”
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“W–what?” he stuttered in that sweet voice, just like the boy he used to be. His pretty eyes drifted between your neck and eyes, lost and confused, like he hadn’t heard you right.
You smiled at him. With one finger, you traced his cheekbone, down his nose, across his lips. One of your legs was wrapped around his waist, and you tightened it. His hand instinctively buried itself in the meat of your thigh, thumb softly rubbing.
“I want you,” your hand pushed down your shirt collar, “to taste me, Michael. You deserve it.”
He morphed into something else; darkened eyes, something swirling inside them that surpassed lust by an absurd degree. You couldn’t understand it fully; you could only just revel in it.
He inhaled sharply, lips on your vein, voice blistering. He sounded breathless, air completely punched out of him. “I do, don’t I? You smell… so sweet, baby.” A kiss, sharp fangs prickling you, warning you of what’s to come. “My sweet thing, all mine… Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you begged, “yes, yes, ye–ah—!”
It was… euphoric.
To this day, there isn’t a more apt word for it. That first tasting felt better than any drug, any naturally produced hormone. And it was exactly that feeling of intimate carnage you’d been chasing ever since.
The truth is, Michael ruined you. You’ve come to terms with it.
How can you even put it into words? He’s in your head again, you can tell; reliving it from your perspective, letting the pain and pleasure of memory wash over him as he exhales. You exhale, too. You cross your legs, he adjusts his crotch, and neither of you says a thing.
The recorder whirs, tapes wasted over the silence.
Your brain shifts through the memories without your say. That hot prickling of his teeth into your neck—for just a second—to gently pierce the flesh and not cause too much damage. The way he licked over it as you moaned, something in his tongue that made the pain give way to ecstasy.
You still haven’t figured that part out, but you doubt there’ll be any scientific studies done on the Dark Gift anytime soon. So, mystery it is.
The way he drank: lazily, his slender and strong arms wrapped around you like a vice, feeling him everywhere as your eyes swam. You turned boneless in his embrace, like putty. Completely at his mercy, and he drank every last drop you offered.
You were pulsing hot for him, and you are now too. Both times, he’s been able to feel it. That first time, though, he held back. Blood-drunk and greedy for more, he drew back with a sharp breath, two slim fingers finding the puncture wounds and pressing tight to stop the bleeding. Heaving as his tongue lapped over what was left still on his lips, completely gone.
You remember feeling hammered. Like you’d just downed a whole bottle of Hennessy and done three lines of coke. Fuck, that’s not something one can go through and just be normal afterwards, right? Well-adjusted and going on about their day?
Humans are vampire food, and that something in their saliva surely is to make your last moments on this earth somewhat enjoyable. That busboy looked so happy with his entire neck slashed in two. You’d been in ecstasy too, and just lived to tell about it.
He’s doing this on fucking purpose. Your thighs clench, eyes narrowing.
“I remember,” you hiss curtly. “But you knew that. You’re in my head right now, aren’t you?”
“What would I see?” he asks, breathless, leaning back on the cushions, hand on his crotch. Don’t look, don’t look. “If I was.”
Two can play that game. You force yourself to think of something insanely unsexy. Like that time you accidentally walked by Tito skinny-dipping in the pool in Hayvenhurst, one night you’d stayed over and wanted a glass of water in the middle of the night. You got an unforgettable view of his naked ass, and that’s exactly the image you project.
It takes merely a second for Michael to lose it. And, fuck. Fuck him and that stupidly deep laugh of his. Fuck him, and fuck you for finding it so disarming.
“You think my laugh’s disarming, sweet thing?”
Sweet thing. Just like he called you that night, drooling over the smell of your veins. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“Mr. Jackson—”
“—Michael—”
“Michael—!” you give in and cut yourself off, his name a frustrated whisper. You clench your eyes tight, defeated. Then, because you’re you, you bite back. “Remember the AMAs? Or Rolling Stone’s 20th, remember that? Huh, Michael?”
(The American Music Awards of 1986. What can you even say about that shitshow of an awards night? The last time you’d been inside the Shrine Auditorium was as a young journalist, still unsure but certain to leave your mark.
And you clearly had, because the second time you stepped through those doors was while holding onto Michael’s arm. His date. His girl. Seated in the front row, wearing a pretty black dress to match his military jacket.
You don’t remember much about the ceremony or the afterparty, except for how much you wanted to strangle Diana Ross in that shiny red dress of hers. That old bitch.
Your and Michael’s relationship was kept mostly private from the public, but not from either of your circles. A badly-kept secret, so to speak. Of course Diana knew as she called him up the stage and held his arm, kissed him sloppily on both cheeks, danced tightly against him as all the artists involved sang We Are The World.
You fought with him about it afterward, really bad. Said some nasty shit you wish you could’ve phrased differently, because he just couldn’t see your point. He even defended her, right in your face! You remember saying something like: “She met you as a child, Michael! A grown woman! Called you sexy on national TV! What the fuck are you not seeing, exactly?”
He replied like: “Baby, it ain’t like that. Never was, never will. You’re overreacting. Please. Why are you bein’ like this?”
Bill drove you home ten minutes later, and you didn’t speak to Michael for over a week.
Your apartment got promptly filled with an apologetically handwritten card, some of your favorite pastries from Phoenix Bakery in Chinatown, and a brand new record of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love.
It was a week too fucking soon.
Yeah. Well, ‘86 and ‘87 were a couple of bad years for the both of you. You don’t know if you can confidently say you actually broke up, because how do two people break up when one’s tasted your blood? When you’ve let them? Can that connection ever be severed, even momentarily?
You sure as hell acted like it had.
You’d barely spoken to him in months—close to a year, almost—and the cards didn’t once stop appearing every week, like clockwork.
He called you once, too. Late into the night, your apartment quiet as you twisted and turned. You picked up on the third ring, breath catching in your throat when you heard his soft whiny breaths.
Michael. Heavy and hot, almost scratching the receiver. You recalled his scent, the way his perfume would linger on the pillows even hours later. The way you’d bury your face in those pillows as he wrecked you.
The soppy-wet sounds of his hand working over himself travelled the distance, landing right between your legs as you rubbed them together in shock.
“Mike?” you whined, bit back a moan as he exhaled.
“Talk to me, baby, jus’ keep talking… A–ah, please, plea… I need to hear your voice…”
It was so loud under the silence. Your heart pounding, the heat between your legs slipping past the point of tolerance, the way his soft moans slithered on your skin and made you shudder. Your hand buried in your panties, mouth huffing and drooling over the headset, shuddering with each of Michael’s groans and whines, each wet echo of his hand as he got off to your voice alone.
He came with a shuddering breath that was enough to send you over the edge too, fingers cramping as you chased the feeling with your hips, your moans only prolonging his own high.
The quiet stretched over you both like a blanket, just the faint scratches of the connection breaking it, your breaths mingling even miles apart. You imagined what he’d look like right then: fucked out, needy, spent, curls a wet mess against his forehead and cheeks. The way he’d clench his eyes in pleasure and the way his thighs would quiver from it. The way you’d kiss every inch of him, lips sliding over his sweaty skin as he flushed; because, despite everything, he still got shy.
Panting, you punched the landline shut, like it’d burned you. And that was it.
While that period of time felt like ages to you, it must’ve been meaningless for an immortal who’s got nothing but time in his hands. You think he would’ve waited years had you not pulled the stunt you had.
The scene was this: November of 1987 inside the Hollywood Palladium, dimly lit table areas punctuated by blinding white follow-spots cutting through a thick layer of haze, the stage dominated by a giant ‘Rolling Stone: 20 Years’ neon sign. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive French perfume worn by every A-lister, spilled champagne, hairspray, and an omnipresent cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke.
You wore that black dress Michael bought for you to match him in the AMAs, because you knew he would attend. He’d said as much in his most recent card that he’d sprayed with his perfume. You weren’t proud of it, but you’d clutched it tight against your nose, inhaled a deep gulp of his sweet and honeyed musk, sighed as frustration and pettiness sprouted inside you like weeds.
You wore his dress, to match with another man. Like the selfish bitch you were, apparently.
His name was David; a sweet post-graduate from USC who’d clung to you like a duckling since his first day in the office. It didn’t take long for him to ask you to be his date for the anniversary party, and you could see in his eyes he hoped it’d lead to something more. A sloppy makeout with champagne-soaked lips, maybe some second-base action in the back of his red BMW in the parking lot. A textbook office romance that’d end up being nothing but a short-lived disappointment, because after Michael that’s what every relationship was doomed to burn down into.
It’d never happen, of course. The plan wasn’t to get under somebody else, it was to get under Michael’s skin. That’s just about how far you’d thought it through. Hindsight’s a nasty bitch, though, because you really should’ve second-guessed yourself a bit harder. You wouldn’t have David’s blood on your hands had you done that.
But, you’re getting ahead of yourself.
David looked like the American Dream personified. Tall and muscular, pretty blue eyes and long brunette hair. He was the kind of man destined to marry his high school sweetheart and live in a nice two-story house in the suburbs, driving that same BMW until either he or the car gave out. You have no idea what happened and he somehow ended up as an entertainment-journalism intern in the heart of LA, but everyone’s got a story, you suppose.
Michael’s arrival signalled mayhem. He’d just released Bad three months ago and embarked on his very first solo world tour since September: first stop in Japan, then back to the states for the near-month gap until the Australian leg of the tour. Bad was another masterpiece, but you’d known that already.
You were with him for almost the entire time he was making it. You’d sat curled on his couch in the studio as he re-recorded his ‘83 demo for Liberian Girl, shuddering at his beautiful harmonies, kissing him in-between breaks.
Outside, the sidewalk was a warzone of the paparazzi’s flashing Xenon flashbulbs. Inside, the instrumental intro of Dirty Diana began blasting as everyone became aware of Michael’s arrival, and you had to fight the urge to glower.
He’d told you it was fictional, a gritty pop-rock anthem about groupies. You knew he was telling the truth. It still pissed you the fuck off.
David was pulling at your hand, wanting to introduce you to Jann Wenner, who he’d just met himself. You know you should’ve been enthusiastically jumping at the chance to get acquainted with Rolling Stone’s co-founder, but all you could think about was Michael.
His look. The longer hair you’d been threading your fingers through, now slick with gel and held up in a half-bun, falling to his shoulders. The metallic buckles, the heavy black leather, the studs. He looked like sex, even from fifty feet apart. Even in the dark. Maybe especially in the dark; right at home.
His eyes found yours in the crowd, irises glinting unnaturally when you made eye-contact. You’d missed those eyes so much. He smiled at that, reading your thoughts from the distance.
Amidst the clamor of his arrival and the party which was in full drunken swing, he made every sound but his projected voice fade away; as if your ears got stuffed with cotton. It disoriented you, and for a second before his voice rang in your head, you thought you’d been drugged.
‘Hi, baby,’ he echoed around your skull.
Fuck—
A chuckle, in unnatural surround sound. ‘I missed you too.’
But then David drew closer, still chatting with Jann Wenner, laughing over something you hadn’t bothered to pay attention to. Not that you could. Michael was watching. And when David’s palm inched down to your waist, gripping your skin with the confidence of a much different man than who you’d become accustomed with… You knew. You could taste it in the air.
David was already dead.
Does it really matter what exactly happened next? How Michael cut a line through the crowd and laughed at David’s jokes, looked at you only when he invited him somewhere quieter to talk, acted fascinated with his infant career? How you did nothing to stop the growling predator from catching up with sweet David into one of the countless unmarked backrooms of Hollywood Palladium?
“Stop!” you cried as Michael had him by the throat, red-hot and thick rivulets of crimson painting the floor in heaps. David’s neck was bent for Michael’s teeth to latch onto, dark leather glistening with blood, his pretty eyes sizzling with an anger so deep it bordered on divine. “Mike, he’s no one, h–he’s nothing! He’s a fucking nobody! Just let him go!”
“A nobody?” he echoed, voice slick as he swallowed around the words. “Touching you? A nobody you wore this dress for? Our dress? Are you serious, girl?”
David was gargling on his own spit and blood, completely out of it, limbs spread like a plush-toy on the discount aisle. Your hands were shaking, gooseflesh prickling every exposed inch of skin.
“We can just t–take him to a hospital. Please, Mike,” you wheezed out, a sudden sob breaking through your voice. “It’s my fault… It’s my fault, I didn’t thi—”
“Think what? That I’d do this?”
You shook your head, eyes clenched, arms crossed over your torso unsurely. “Just, let’s ju—”
“We can’t take him anywhere, sweet thing. Or let him live.” He rose, slowly, the predator approaching the deer because it loves it despite everything. He came to you and cradled you by the nape, searched for your eyes as your breathing steadied. You gripped him by the waist as he brought you closer, going to kiss your forehead and stopping short because of the blood still dripping. “What happens when he wakes up and tells the police Michael Jackson tried to kill him?”
Fuck. You’re so fucking stupid. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, id—)
“Of course I remember,” Michael tells you. “If you’d told me to stop, I would’ve. But you didn’t. Why?”
You drop the pen, ink smudging the unmarked notepad before you throw it to the side completely. “You never actually wanted this interview, did you?” He smiles. “What is this? Some sort of sick trip down memory lane? Why the hell did you have me agree to this, Mike?”
“It’s Mike, again? Good, good…” he breathes, smile elated. “I didn’t have you agree to anything, baby. You agreed… because you wanted to. Just like you wanted me to drain David dry.” You look away. “Admit it,” he urges, wild.
(—iot, idiot, idiot.
“Scratch me,” he told you, breath hot and metallic. You almost leaned forward. “Push me. Bite me. Do anything, and I’ll stop. I’ll let him go.” He unravelled his arms from you, took a step back, eyes locked onto yours like anchors the entire time. He moved backwards, one painstakingly slow step at a time. “Anything. Move a muscle, and I stop.” Another step. Two, three. “Anything, baby.” He leaned down, grabbed David by his blooming neck, oozing in-between his fingers. He shook his head: “No?”
You didn’t move an inch. Not a twitch, or a tremor, or a step. Nothing. Because he was right. If David woke up, Michael’s life would be over. Yours too. You’re not ashamed to admit it; you love Michael too much to care about a life snuffed out before its time. Hell, you might’ve killed David yourself.
So, you did… nothing. You stood there idle, breathless as the soppy slaps of Michael’s lips and tongue drained David dry. And when he swiftly came in front of you—spat the remaining blood on the ground next to your heels and fixed you with his hunger—you kissed him.
Open-mouthed, hot, eating him from the inside out. David’s blood smearing on your skin, you moaned against Michael’s sizzling lips, your waist and neck bending as he leaned into you harder. He whined something soft, voice electrifying, just like he sounded all those times before. Even under the leather and the death, he was still your Michael.)
“Why did you call me here, Mike?”
“You know why. You’ve known from the start.”
You shake your head, petulant. “No, n—”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, you do.” He searches your eyes, an endless brown sea of stars, all trapped inside his irises. His brows furrow, and his voice suddenly loses its punch. “I need you with me. I… I can’t do this, not anymore.”
Your heart stutters. “What? What’re you talking about?”
He chuckles to himself a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s something broken. “Eternity is lonely, and I love you s–so much…” He sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. I can’t.”
Oh… “Michael,” you breathe. Every human instinct in you screams to run, but every uneven beat of your heart screams the opposite. He can feel it. The way the blood surges through your veins, the way your breath catches somewhere in your throat, your eyes that trail down his figure you’ve memorized by heart.
Fuck. Fuck, f—
“What is it, baby?” he whispers. He might as well have yelled it. The way he’s looking at you makes the hairs on your nape stand tall, a shiver going through your shoulders you have no time to suppress.
You gulp. Eyes trailing down his arms, caressing his veins, falling into the trap of his slender hands. He’s beautiful everywhere. His pretty face and even prettier eyes, the long curls he’s grown out, his soft-spoken mouth with two fangs sharp enough to kill.
God. You love him so much. You need him. Not just for ten, twenty, thirty, forty years. Not to wilt away while he stays behind, watching you go with every sunset. No. You need to be… with him. Through all of it. You fucking need him.
“How… would you do it?” you whisper.
You don’t need to specify what ‘it’ is. His eyes are proof enough he understands exactly what you mean; holding you captive, like snares. You watch the way they darken, how his whole face shifts. It makes need pool deep down your belly. You twitch on the sofa, and he knows.
But you know, too. You can see the way he’s rubbing a hand on his thigh, adjusting in place, breathing a little heavier.
“I’d have to drain you first,” he punches out. One of his fingers traces his own throat in demonstration, sharp nail catching skin and leaving a trail. “I’d bite… here,” he stops at the carotid. “And,” his finger continues the trail, “here.” The jugular.
“Yeah?” You feel the vessels he’s pointing to galloping, pulsing harshly under your skin, like they’re getting ready for him. It’s like you can’t breathe properly anymore; the air gets stuck somewhere down your throat, your chest rising and falling in compensation. “And then?”
“Then…” He shifts, standing up, stalking towards you. “I’d stop, just before you die…”
Your neck needs to bend upwards to look him in the eye, eyebrows raising in performance. You’re eye-to-eye with his crotch, and you push down the urge to rub your cheek against it. You breathe: “Oh?”
“Mhm,” he hums, looming above you, all dark and handsome and yours. Fuck, you’d missed him. His palm comes up to cup your jaw, thumb softly tracing your bottom lip. “I’d slit my wrist… Right over this pretty mouth…” His thumb pushes in, and you take him gladly; tongue swirling around the digit as you huff a moan. It threatens to undo him. “I–I’d… Hm. I’d let you drink from me, as much as my baby needs… Yeah?” he asks, voice breaking into a high-pitched breath at the end.
“You will?” you ask when you release his spit-soaked thumb, giving the digit a kiss.
“Yes,” he exhales so hard his whole chest shudders. “I will, girl. I’ll give you every last drop.”
You don’t know who lunged first. All you know is that one second he’s looking down at you—mouth gaping as he pants, the heat between your legs spreading like tendrils over your nerves—and the next, you’re kissing.
Kissing is a kind term. You’re breathing each other in; licking and scraping teeth together like animals, whining against each other’s open mouths. His hold is bruising on your skin, his body an anchor as he turns you around in his hold.
Back against his lean chest, hips flush, his arm around you as his mouth comes down to your neck with a moan. He doesn’t bite, or even nip; he’s breathing you in. It makes you hotter, temperature rising dangerously.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he sighs, words muffled on your skin. “My girl… All mine…”
“Do it,” you heave, bound in his arms. He freezes. “Make me. Right now. Do it, Mike—”
“Baby—”
His hold lightened, and you used it to turn around again, just as flush as before. You grab him by both cheeks, cradling him in equal parts softly and fiercely. You smile, and it widens when you realise how much the sight undoes him.
“You were right. I’ve wanted this… for a long time.” You lay a peck on his lips, moving back before he has a chance to return it. You remove your blouse with both hands, chest falling and rising deeper with each second more his gaze trails over you. Taking his palm in your hold, you bring it to your pulsing neck, letting his nails softly graze against it. “I trust you.”
Just like you’d told him in Dodger Stadium. The words cleave him in two, lids hooding over his eyes as he nods, leaning down to catch your lips in a wet kiss full of promise.
He lays you down on the big couch, your naked skin meeting the back cushions. He undresses, looming over you like a statue, something from another era entirely. Lean and catastrophically beautiful. The white shirt he wore lands somewhere near the still-whirring cassette recorder, and he’s on you in seconds. Careful hands cradling the back of your neck, kissing you all over as your breathing quickens.
He’s nervous. “I’ve never done this before.”
You giggle nervously. “Me neither.”
It lands just like you wanted it to; makes him chuckle. He meets your eyes, and you suddenly realise his eyes will be the last thing you see. What better a way to die? He breathes: “I love you. I love you so much.” You smile. “Say it back,” he begs.
With a shake of your head, you whisper: “After.”
What comes next can best be described as a… euphoric daydream. A split-screen montage of ache and pleasure, a film reel of your life the way people say it flashes in your eyes just before you step into the light. You never believed it when they said that. How can so many years fit into so few seconds? How can an entire life of mornings and afternoons and nights all fly by so quickly? How did you get here?
As Michael pierces your flesh—carotid and jugular throbbing together in thick, hot rivulets you faintly register bathing your skin—you feel no pain. The ceiling oozes and bends out of shape, your limbs grow numb, and your eyes swim. You moan, but it doesn’t sound right in your ears. Like you’re somewhere else, hearing it from a distance. And Michael keeps on drinking; gulping you down, your heart racing to make up for the loss, lips siphoning all of your nearly one-and-a-half gallon of blood out.
You’re not in Michael’s house anymore. You’re six, and your dad’s bought a brand new record player as a gift for your mom’s birthday; the one that’d later end up in your apartment. You jump excitedly as she punches in Abbey Road, and the three of you spend the entire morning dancing to Here Comes The Sun.
You’re fifteen, and a boy’s broken your heart for the first time. He’d asked you to the prom as a joke, making you come by his house only to find Donna Taylor dolled up and smushed against him, his parents snapping polaroids of their son and his real date. You were mortified, hardly got out of bed for a week.
Your first day at UC Berkeley. Your fresh start. Your passion. The new friends who didn’t give a shit about how you grew up or what you used to be. The endless caffeinated nights slaving away in Eshleman Hall. That small diner close to Sherry’s house you’d all spend your free nights at, gossiping and laughing and talking about the future with greasy fingers. Those Wednesday afternoons spent at the radio station hosting your show with Aisha and Susan, giggling over Michael Jackson’s vocals on the second verse of The Lady In My Life.
Michael. The Grammys of ‘84. His room in Hayvenhurst. The tiny mom-and-pop record store close to your apartment you’d both go incognito in and browse for records, even though the teenage girl behind the counter recognized him and swore to keep his secret with her life (as long as he promised to come back). Before he had the courage to kiss you. Before you had the courage to admit you wanted him to.
The memories are brighter now, images swirling and bleeding into one another, to the point where you don’t know where one ends and another begins. You see Michael’s younger face, before he turned, and he’s standing beside you as you were on your first day in Berkeley. You look good together.
You feel featherlight. Eyes drooping and—
Something warm drips on your lips. You didn’t realise before, but a breath was stuck in your throat, lethargic and slow. It punches you straight in the chest on its way out.
It’s so sweet. Hot and thick, better than anything you’ve ever tasted. Like a charged live-wire, you jump up. Things get less blurry, sanguine haze slipping into rhapsodic focus.
It’s Michael’s arm, his oozing wrist, his blood you’re gulping down. You’re so, so hungry. Starving. Like you haven’t eaten in years. Your hands wrap around his wrist like an animal, pushing it into your mouth, guzzling down his saccharine blood as it drips past your jaw and down your breasts. You hear him moan, deeply, erotic and charged. You gulp harder and harder—
He swipes his hand away, and you’re left whining.
“No,” you cry, whimpering, words slurred like you’re drunk. “Iwantmore, Michael, I need more—”
“I’ll give it to you, baby, I will,” he comforts. His hands cradle your face softly, wrist still bleeding, fingers trailing over your forehead and cheeks and lips in awe. “You’re here…”
“I love you,” you heave out. His blood is still thick on your tongue. With newfound strength, you overpower him, pushing him back down onto the couch and straddling his lap. He moans as you kiss him, making him taste himself, tongues swiping against each other. You want to eat him up. “Ineedit, M–mike…”
He’s hard against you, bulge pushing up against his pants, sensitive as your hips start rubbing against him. You feel drunk on it. You lick your own lips, chasing the last sweet remnants of his blood, gulping it down with his spit. It’s like every single sensation has been dialed up to a million.
He looks like a dream. Breathing heavily, his non-bleeding palm tight on your thigh as you move against him, head hanging back with an open mouth. He brings his wrist up lazily, blood seeping down his forearm, fangs biting his lip with a dangerous smirk.
“You want it?” he whispers, sharp. You nod feverishly. He hisses: “Take it then. Take what you want, girl—”
He moans so prettily when you take his wrist in your mouth again. A little calmer now, not like you’re starving but rather like you’re savouring. Every hot drop. You’re wet and aching, rubbing against his hardness, gulping him down as it all swirls into a fucked out bliss you never want to get out of.
You could listen to his sounds forever. You want to. He’s so breathy and soft, nothing like the men you’ve been with before who only grunt like brutes. You suck his wrist a little harder, drop your clothed center a bit firmer, his eyes rolling back as he lets out the most mouth-watering mewl.
He exhales an embarrassed breath a second later, feeling as you smile against his wrist, still drinking. He pulls his hand back, your lips smacking in its absence.
“How d’you feel?” he slurs, cupping your cheek.
Forgoing an answer, you drop a hand between your bodies, grinning when he shudders. You rub him over the cloth just like this, need growing stronger the more he falls into you.
You lean down and kiss him, blood and breaths mingling, gasping a small ‘oh!’ in his mouth when you feel those slender fingers sneaking past the hem of your skirt.
You’re shaking as his fingers make contact with your slick; so cold contrasted with the heat bubbling, exhaling into each other’s face as you rest your forehead against his. Your hand undoes his zipper, bypasses his underwear and closes around him.
Fuck. Fuck. You missed him so much.
You work him just the way he loves: fingers brushing over the tip, smearing the wetness, squeezing him just so as your grip glides up and down. In return, he works you too: thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles without missing a single beat, not even when he slips two fingers inside and you falter, moaning in his mouth.
“It feels so good, Mike…” you hiccup.
“I know,” he whines, “I know, sweet thing… You’re so good f’me… Here,” he brings his wrist up, “drink. Dri–a–ah, mhh—”
He tastes so fucking good. Is all blood like this? Is it just Michael? You don’t know nor do you care, you just need to keep drinking. You hold his lean arm tight against your torso, veined forearm lodged right in-between your breasts, wrist bent as he continues working you to a climax.
He stops his ministrations on you and closes around the hand that’s sloppily working him, slips his hardness out, single-handedly ripping your underwear in two. Fuck. Fu—
You shudder when he slaps the tip against your sensitive clit. “Mike,” you cry through a full mouth, nearly choking on a gulp. You shove your wrist in his face, brows furrowed, begging: “Fuck me.”
The sounds he makes slides over you like hot molasses. And when he slips in, it feels right at home.
His fangs break the skin on your wrist, mirroring your greedy gulps and you move against each other, skin slapping against skin. He’s everywhere. Everything. Him feeding on you feels as euphoric as it had that very first time, when you were still alive and mortal, fragile in front of the beast. The sensations travel from the puncture wounds and up your arm, tingling and erotic. They mix with the feeling of his dick driving in and out of you until you can’t tell where one sensation ends and the other begins.
You make for a sinful sight. Damned. Fucking on his couch, blood dripping down the leather, drinking each other up as you’re steadily shoved towards your peak. You feel it coming suddenly, his arm still held tight between your tits, his wrist limp as you detach your lips from the wound because you’re—
“M–mike—” you sob, voice wrecked, “I’m, I–I’m—”
“Yeah?” he breathes. He kisses you, hand slipping to your clit, and you come harder—fiercer—than you’ve had in your entire life.
The feeling threatens to drown you all over again. It travels from your bud and up your belly, spreading like tendrils and meeting with the tingling of his mouth that’s latched to your wrist again. Not drinking now, just kissing. Tiny wet pecks as the skin tries to heal itself, veins throbbing.
It takes a few more desperate bumps of his hips and your fangs—fangs!—teasing his ear for him to cum inside you. He shudders whole, his moans the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, his head falling back and chest rising arrhythmically.
He doesn’t pull out, and you don’t want him to. You’re content to lie like this, chest to chest, connected and aching in the best of ways. Still breathing hard, you kiss him on the cheek, and he smiles at you so brightly, tears gather on your lashes. Happy tears.
“My baby,” he whispers, pretty doe-eyes drifting across your features. He kisses you, just for a second longer than you had. “My girl…”
“Look!” you giggle, brushing the pad of one finger against a fang, mouth hanging open like an idiot. He laughs. “I’ave’angs now!”
“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “but you need to rest. You’re not gonna wake up so happy, trust me.” You hum, smirking, squeezing your walls around his sensitive and softening dick. His hand comes down your ass in a sharp slap, making you smirk wider. “C’mon now, girl,” he smiles, pecking your nose. “Don’t start.”
“Okay,” you smile against him.
You spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, resting just like he told you, listening to him explain how most things work now. It makes your head ring—and you have a million and one things you need to figure out and come to terms with—but none of it mattered for that small window of time you spent cuddled in his bed, all your problems and concerns unable to reach you past the warmth bubbling in your chest.
You died. Michael died. You were both on equal ground now, undead and damned, as you always suspected it was meant to be. Ever since you locked eyes beneath a sea of camera bulbs flashing.
(The night after your turn, you burned the forgotten Sony TC-D5M and the reels inside it. The interview was never going to see the light of day, anyway. He just needed to remind you of something you’d wanted from the start. He had to make you remember. He couldn’t stand your absence any longer. That you-shaped emptiness that threatened to stretch out for years while you’d force yourself to move on, leaving a void behind you that could’ve never been filled.
You loved him just as he loved you, and that was rare. Even before he died, he’d never felt it quite like he did with you. Every relationship of his scrutinized or twisted out of context, unable to exist with someone without offering explanations. He didn’t have that with you.
You’re a journalist, you know the ins and outs of the industry, and what you didn’t know you learned. Because you were good. With you, he was free to just exist.
So, yeah.
That’s the story of how Michael Jackson killed you, and that’s the end of it. There’s nothing else.)
- summary: thriller!michael and reader's respective friends bailed on them at the cinemas without warning. reader spends the rest of the spooky halloween night with a guy she barely knows... but at least he's funny. and real cute.
* NOT thriller era mike btw, it's thriller michael as in,, the character he plays on the thriller short film itself :) WE'RE IN THE MICHAELVERSE!
word count: 5.3k
warning: again, we're in the michaelversee??? let's go!!, just first meeting and a bunch of fluff ensues, woman tries writing comedy for the second time, mentions of ola ray, but again this is INSIDE the thriller short film, but it's NOT horror... I'm not talented enough for that , RUSHEDD AND SHORT, a whole bunch of nothing happens
* no usage of y/n, michael refers to reader as 'girl' mostly
author's note: OKAY so at this point you guys probably know Thriller Mike is my favourite, of course we love all eras but I think this particular one is a soft spot for all of us tbh. And this is rushed, SOO sorry about that. I hope you like it though, it's just been in my head for a while.
I was watching A Different World, and I yearn for a college-type Mike and I thought who is best fitting for that kind of thing if not Thriller MV Michael? And truth be told guys, I watched it when I was five and he was actually my first childhood crush and the first celebrity loml. It goes full circle!! Trust!!
+++ not really proofread, SORRY
+++ english isn't my first language! and sorry for the mix of british and american spellings, i am NOT a professional writer by any means! but hope you enjoy!
Halloween nights have always been your favourite time of the year. Growing up, you knew you had the advantages of being a child to grab as much candy as you could from soft-hearted adults. From dressing like Snow White to Bride of Frankenstein, they were going to eat out of the palm of your hand. As you get older, though, you discover those nights really were made for children and somehow it’s not cute anymore for you to knock on some stranger’s door and beg for candy.
You never really got over that.
But you continue on. Halloween for high schoolers was more of a ‘secret party in Kevin’s basement with scary movies in the background’ and little commemoration for the occasion itself. Halloween in your twenties though? It could range from formal Halloween parties held by your married coworker, or a movie night with yourself, cuddled with a blanket and candy – that you had to sadly purchase yourself, as well. This year, though, a third thing made its way into your list of options.
Accompanying your friend to a date with a random man she met last week, at the cinema. Your initial reaction when she asked was pure, immediate and resounding ‘No!’ but Ola has her way of getting things her way, especially when it comes to you. She had an effort to persuade and comfort you, stating that you wouldn’t be a third wheel. Her guy would bring his friend, as well.
That led to another pure, immediate and resounding ‘No!’.
You have no idea what happened afterwards, but regret is already consuming your whole being as you tap your foot on the ground impatiently, looking at the time.
Standing outside the cinema building.
Another sigh escapes you, looking for any sign of your friend. Halloween III is supposed to start in about five minutes, and you could see from outside that the concession stand queue is getting long. You desperately need that popcorn to get through this unwilling double date. Where the heck is Ola?
“I’m here, I’m here!” A soft voice calls out from behind, making you turn around to face the sound with a roll of your eyes. Ola comes running into your sight, dressed in denim, looking as pretty as ever for her little date. You cross your arms to your chest, exaggeratingly holding out your wrist, waving the watch you’re wearing in front of her face.
“Ten minutes! Ten minutes I’ve been waiting on you, Ola,” you scold her, frowning in displease. She scoffs and pushes your wrist away, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, girl. I had to make sure I look as good as he does, you know?”
You shake your head, with a click of the tongue. “Your guys are running late too, you know? God, what's keeping them?”
“You think he's nervous like me?” Ola asks you, whispering through her excitement. Grinning as she repeatedly nudges your arm. You could only laugh and lightly slap her shoulder before a man clears his throat behind you.
“Hey, Ola.”
Turning around, you're met with two… completely different men. One was Ola’s date, dressed in a blazer jacket with dark denim jeans, his hair gelled almost a little too much and his charming dimple was out on full display. His friend, however…
You suppose he does look cute. Well, more than cute. He's downright gorgeous. His eyes are sharp yet softly flicking between you and Ola, his smile subtle, as if he knows what you're thinking yet he's trying to hide that smugness. He probably is. Nobody is that good looking and isn't aware of it at least a little. And you want to thank the universe for blessing him with those curls… You think he's one of the most beautiful men you've ever seen in your entire life. The thoughts die down though, as your eyes gaze down to his outfit.
It's very… vibrant.
Striking for sure. Candy-red leather jacket with two black lines with a downwards slope meeting in the middle. Coloured pants matching the jacket. He holds himself in a relaxed way, nodding in acknowledgement as his eyes meet yours properly for the first time.
“Sorry for being late,” Jimmy, Ola’s date, says with an apologetic tone. He motions towards his friend, eyes rolling good-naturedly. “You'd think he's the one going on a date. He took an extra five minutes when I told him it was time to go.”
The friend chuckles, his eyes flitting to the ground, coming back up to meet your gaze briefly before pushing on Jimmy's back. “I'm sorry that you don't know how to look fly, Jim.”
Jimmy only responds with a sarcastic laugh before looking at you both again, “Ladies, this is Michael.”
You nod with a small smile, introducing yourself right back. Ola and Jimmy immediately drift towards each other, walking into the cinema, completely forgetting the rest of the world. You're left with Michael, and the both of you have never looked so offended.
The man in front of you scoffs, shaking his head. “Just leave like that, see if I care.” His eyes flick back to your direction, a polite smile growing onto his face. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” you reply with a soft laugh before adding, “Nice get-up, by the way.”
He looks down at his figure before giving you an award-winning grin, “Hey, thank you, I know. Somethin’, isn't it? Might as well dress up if you're goin' somewhere.”
You nod and laugh a little more, and you confirm silently to yourself that this man is quite smug.
Both of you walk into the building, slowly catching up to Ola and Jimmy. They're in line for the snacks, so you and Michael wait for them at the end of the hall. It’s a not so comfortable silence so you look around the place, wanting to know how many candles they'd put out for the Halloween decorations. You decide to count it silently, wishing so much you were back in bed rewatching horror movies.
The silence is broken by the time you reach a sixth candle next to the toilet. Michael clears his throat, “You look beautiful yourself too, by the way.”
Your eyes widen very briefly before a pathetic, “Oh,” leaves your mouth. “Oh, thanks… I didn't really try. Just a casual night for me. Now, I feel like I'm very underdressed.” An embarrassed smile paints itself on your face.
“Nah, the one who's underdressed is Jimmy,” he says with a judgemental shake of his head, clicking his tongue, “I told him to hold back on that gel, now he just looks like a schmuck.”
A laugh leaves your lips without your permission and you hold back a snort, “Oh good, I thought I was the only one. I'm sorry, I know he's your friend–”
“–friend or no friend, he's looking like a straight up tool,” Michael shrugs, grin widening at the sound of your laughter. He likes hearing it. He likes hearing it a lot. As a matter of fact, he likes looking at you too.
A little too much, if you ask him.
The first time he set his eyes on you, he immediately wished the night was intended to actually be a double date. If he says you weren't one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen, he'd be lying to himself and cursing the universe with such a sin.
You give a teasing grin, “So, you're a jokester. What are you doing here on Halloween night?”
“I owed Jimmy,” he casually replies, “He kinda saved me from gettin’ hit by a car.”
“Wha– really?” You ask with raised brows.
He shakes his head, not a twitch on his face as he looks at the couple walking towards them, “Not really, I'm just playing.”
A beat of silence passes and you look at him with the most blank face you can muster, and that makes him snort out a laughter. He gently holds onto your shoulder, his face scrunched up from trying to hold back on his chuckles. “I'm sorry, I joke too much. I know, girl.”
“Uh-huh…” you trail off and swat at his arm, shaking your head in amusement. “For someone I don't really know, you sure aren't shy. And your jokes aren't that good.”
He tilts his head, his eyes staring into yours, ignoring the slight about his joking expertise. “I can be shy.”
Good God, nobody who's shy would make eye contact like that. You almost have to look away from the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are so captivating. Practically pulls you in.
You need to snap out of it, for sure.
“We got the food, c’mon now!” Ola says as she tugs your arm, heading to the theatre hall.
•
It's in the halfway point of the movie when you look to your left and that damned Ola and Jimmy are flat out gone. Like, absolutely gone and missing from the premises. When did they even leave? And how come you didn't notice?
Your jaw drops at the thought of their audacity and you silently stare at Michael, who's enjoying his popcorn and eyes glued onto the big screen. Reaching over the two vacant seats and poking his arm, you're met with his confused stare.
“Where'd they go?” You mouth at him, motioning towards the empty spaces. He looks to where you're gesturing and his face that was contorted into confusion immediately fell to bafflement. He shrugs exaggeratingly, mouthing back. He doesn't know.
Both of you shake your head in mutual disappointment and disbelief. They just up and bailed, the nerve. Michael gets up from his seat and moves down to the one next to you, the one that was supposed to be Ola’s. He leans over and whispers to your ear in a low tone, “Let's just finish the movie. I wanna know what'll happen to her.”
Nodding in agreement, you struggle to ignore the feelings swirling in your gut. Why did his voice sound so melodious? He was merely whispering, for goodness sake.
You're going crazy.
•
After the movie ends, Michael and you walk out the theatre hall, trying to find any glimpse of the couple. With no such luck, you sigh and head outside.
“Hey, where are you going?”
You turn to look at Michael in surprise, suddenly shy. “Oh, well I figured they're not gonna turn up anytime soon. I was ready to go home.”
Michael raises his brows, “So soon. Why? Am I too boring for you?” He asks with a soft chuckle, stopping right in front of you.
You push at him gently, grinning in response. “No… I just thought you probably have a better idea on how to spend the rest of the night instead of hanging with a stranger.”
“I do,” he nods, his eyes staring back at yours. “I'm hanging with you.”
Warmth spreads to your cheeks and you let out a scoff to ignore it, “You think you're real slick.”
Michael shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, gleaming. “I know your name. I know you're Ola’s friend. That's not a stranger in my books, is it in yours?”
“Maybe. You don't need to know,” you softly tease.
He chuckles and nods, “Right. That's a shame. Guess we'll have to fix that, huh? Come on, walk with me. Night is still young.”
“Where are we going?” Curiosity laces your voice.
“We'll see where we end up,” Michael easily shrugs as he answers. “That’s the fun of it.”
He pauses before looking at you earnestly, so sudden that you're taken aback. “Don't worry, I'm not a creep or anything. I'm not forcin’ you.”
“I want to,” you blurt out.
Embarrassment rushes to your face as Michael quietly looks at you with an ever-growing grin on his face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, where are we heading?” You ask hurriedly, walking ahead of him. Michael stays a little behind, chuckling to himself and staring after you.
“We’re gonna walk to find out, girl,” he says in response, “Do you have a curfew? I'll take you home when it's time.”
You try shaking your head, “Oh, no, please you don't have to.”
He only nods his head in an exaggerated manner, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, yes I have to. Don't be silly. But we'll get to it when we get to it. I think I know what we're doing first.”
“What are we doing?”
He gives you a smile that could bring back people from the dead, you think. A smile that can kill, but also can bring things back to life. “How annoyed do you think people would be if they have two twenty-somethings at their doorstep asking for candy?”
•
You don't really have a clue on how you ended up here, standing at the doorstep of a stranger’s house, with a sad cat-eared headband and a roughly drawn set of whiskers on your face.
It took him a while to convince you for that one.
•
“I'm not doing that.”
“I promise, girl, it's safe.”
“How would you know?”
“I did it all the time when I was younger!”
“I'm not gonna use a damn Sharpie on my cheeks, Michael!”
“It'll complete the costume!”
“It's not a costume if it's just one, single headband!”
“It is with the Sharpie whiskers, now come on and don't be stubborn,” Michael says before hurriedly trying to draw on your cheeks. You squeal and try to get away but his arm around your shoulder is firm, and you tilt your head as far away as you could to avoid his doodling, both of you laughing in the back of the costume shop.
“Where's your Halloween spirit?” he laughs loudly, struggling to poke the Sharpie on your cheek.
You try turning away, his arm shifting to wrap around your waist as the childish giggles escape from the both of you.
“My Halloween spirit is alive and well, thanks! It's also sensing an irrational adult is nearby,” you try distracting him, trying to slink out of his grasp. He only tightens and chuckles heartily next to your temple.
“Come on, please? I promise, I'll look just as dumb as you do,” he persuades.
You laugh harder and roughly poke his arm that was around your waist. “What a great way to convince me. The only thing I want in life is to look dumb around town with a guy I just met tonight.”
“Hah, see?” Michael smoothly responds, his grip lingering, still gazing from behind you as you hold the stare with an exasperated smile. “I knew you'd cave. As expected, when I look this good.”
You throw your head back in laughter, subconsciously leaning against Michael before snapping out of it immediately. You shift away, almost abruptly.
“Yeah, yeah,” you clear your throat. Softly nudging his face, “Let's check out before you find some more dumb stuff like a mustache or something… and give the Sharpie back to the cashier!”
•
“What are you doing?” You whisper yell at Michael, who is currently, for reasons unbeknownst to you, hiding behind the bushes.
Rustling in the bushes follows, with Michael's distracted voice calling out from behind it. “Just keep at it, I'm doing somethin’ here.”
*I'm not the one who thought of this, why would I do it first?” You exclaim in horror, feet ready to run right out of there, Michael be damned.
“C’mon girl, I know what I'm doing!”
A quiet groan leaves your lips, eyes flicking back to the doorbell. You’re not completely sure why you’re listening to him, and you’re not completely sure either why you’re still hanging out with him at this point. Something about Michael just gets you doing things you won’t normally do. Exhibit A; your damn Sharpie whiskers. Taking a deep breath, you press on the doorbell. Just how you and Michael practiced.
Not much later, the door opens to reveal an older man holding a cup of tea, clad in pajamas. He looks at you warily, raising a brow in question. Eyes brimming with curiosity. “Can I help you?”
You clear your throat and give a bright grin to the man. “Hi, mister. Are you having a happy Halloween?”
The older man’s eyes widened before narrowing, flickering from side to side. “Uh-huh… look, I’m not really a religious type of guy, y’know? So, why don’t you go on ahead and—”
“Oh, no! No, uh, I was just wondering if—”
Right in the middle of your sentence, a figure jumps out from the bushes with the weirdest snarling sound ever, dressed in Michael's red outfit with… a head of an insanely realistic werewolf.
“Blargh!” A gruff voice is heard from through the mask.
The older man almost squeaks, dropping his cup of tea as he flinches backwards with his hand on his chest. “Good God!”
You think Michael's laughter can be heard throughout the neighborhood, but nobody can really be mad at a sound so dang beautiful. He keeps laughing as he takes off the werewolf head, crouching and cackling.
“Damn you, Mike!” The older man exclaims with disdain. “Every damn year you do this!”
Your eyes widen, turning to stare at Michael– who's still trying to catch his breath, by the way– and try to speak without laughing, “What did he just say?”
Michael almost giggles as he regains his posture, looking at you with a gleam in his eyes. “I do this every Halloween. He never not answers the door, it kills me how easy it always is!”
“You're not gettin’ me anymore, Mike, I'm tellin’ you!” The older man huffs in frustration, flicking his gaze to you. “He's trying to scare me out of this town, with the way he's acting! He got me trippin’ out of my porch last year, and he only helped after a full minute of laughing, mind you!”
The man in question who is currently standing next to you starts cackling again, and so do you when you notice the older man doesn't possess any genuine anger towards the both of you. The thought of you two laughing like lunatics as the man stares blankly at Michael's direction makes you lose it a whole lot more.
As you try to calm your laughter, the older man's eyes flick at you up and down. He snorts lightly, picking up the dropped cup of tea, –thank goodness it was a plastic one – and a smirk teases the edge of his lips.
“Sorry for dismissing a lovely girl such as yourself earlier. Forgive me?”
You momentarily freeze, and Michael stops his laughing. A nervous smile forces its way onto your face, “No, no, it’s fine.”
The man shakes his head, “No, it was my bad. Now, what's a pretty girl like you doin’ something this silly on a Halloween night, hm?”
You try to hide your grimace, thinking of how to respond when Michael stands up straighter and clears his throat. “Not too much on her now, Vic.”
Wrapping his arm around the back of your shoulder, he roughly punches the other man’s chest, grinning smugly. “See ya next year, huh?”
Both of you turn around to walk down the porch steps, Michael seemingly urging you to walk faster. You didn't even get to say goodbye to the other man, but that's not really necessary in this context.
With his arm still wrapped around you, Michael says quietly, “Sorry if he made you uncomfortable, he's stupid a lot of the time.”
“Oh,” you look at him in surprise, “That's fine. I wasn't… it's not anything anyway. But thank you, Michael.”
He shrugs, smiling widely at you the next second. “That was neat, huh? Did I scare you too?”
You throw your head back in laughter at the reminder of the situation earlier. “I wasn't! I knew you were up to something but… but not that! When did you even get this werewolf head? I was with you the whole time, wasn't I?”
Michael tsked, shaking his head in mock sympathy. When he pulls away to put his hands on his hips, one of them holding the said costume head, the only thing you're bothered by is the fact that the warmth of his arm left your shoulder to the cold. “Oh, girl, this isn't a werewolf. It's a werecat!”
“Oh, how would you know!”
“I know!” he exclaims, laughing at your fast response. “See, you can see it here… feline features… The muzzle is shorter and more flat. The eye shape is more cat-like too.”
You nod as you listen to him explain, carefully looking at where he was pointing. He's right. It doesn't look much like a costume werewolf, actually. The eyes are much smaller. Feline.
“Oh yeah, that wouldn't do much. Your doe eyes can be seen from miles away,” the words leave your lips without you realizing, still focused on the fake werecat head.
A beat of silence before Michael's slack jaw fixes itself and a sheepish grin appears on his face. A soft voice, “What did you say?”
When you realize what just happened, your eyes widen and your heart basically stops. Why on Earth would you say that out loud? Shaking your head, you wave your hand away.
“Nothing,” you clear your throat, trying to change the subject. “You didn't even answer my question yet! How'd you get the werecat head?” A dramatic gasp leaves you, “You didn't steal this?”
He looks at you with an offended facial expression. “No, I didn't! I wouldn't.”
A laugh leaves you, “I know, I'm joking.”
“Okay well… You were with me for most of the time… and then you got distracted with the Yoda masks next to the register when we were checkin’ out,” he snickers thoughtfully, “And luckily I knew that was gonna happen… before we even went to pay I already stuffed the head inside my jacket.”
“You sneak! How did you even fit the giant head in that jacket of yours?” You ask absentmindedly, eyes narrowing at the jacket itself, and the possibility you deem is little to none. Then your mind clicks and you look at him with a slightly parted mouth, “How did you know I'd get distracted with the Yoda masks?”
“They were glow-in-the-dark! I was distracted from the moment we stepped in!” Michael exclaims, his eyes twinkling with humour.
Laughs echo through the dark and narrow street. You find yourself unbothered with the shadows and the mists of the night, feeling peace unlike any other as you shift closer to him. He boldly responds by inching his hand closer to yours and grip it firmly. But when you look up at him, all you see is a smile of sunshine and eyes filled with wonder.
“What do you want to do next?” He asks you, swinging your intertwined hands back and forth as you walk down the street.
You chuckle at his antics, “Well, what are you thinking?”
He hums in thought, gripping your hand tighter. “I'm thinkin’... We oughta get some grub. What are you feeling like?”
“Something oily and unhealthy sounds really good right now.”
A laugh escapes him, “Then we're on the same page. There's that diner around the corner, you ever been?”
“Oh!” You grab onto his arm, suddenly urging him to walk faster. “Yes! They have the best curly fries. And the blondie is to die for.”
Michael only chuckles as you lead him down the street, eyes gazing at the back of your head and drifting to the grip you had on his arm. He shifts your hand to his again, intertwining like before. Of all the things he'd expect to happen tonight, the last thing was getting to find himself a pretty girl to hold hands with.
Gosh, it's like he's back in grade school.
“Who are you running from? Slow down,” he chortles. You only respond with a sheepish grin before pacing yourself, swinging your hand in his.
•
The diner has you sitting in the corner booth with Michael right in front of you, burgers and wings having already been demolished not even ten minutes after they were set on top of the table. You take a fry from his plate as he retells stories of scaring the ‘Vic’ guy, laughing breathlessly.
“And then he just got out of the pool and tried to chase me out, but the thing was, I already left for the bash next door! The poor schmuck just stood in the middle of the street, drenched from head to toe, without a goal in sight. Hah!” Michael cackles, sipping on his milkshake afterwards.
“Okay, okay… just tell me. Why do you bother that guy so much? What's he done to you?” You ask him, trying to control your laughter.
Michael leans back in his seat, smile turning into a soft smirk, shrugging, “Dude cheated on my sister, continuously throughout their dating course. It was a solid year of me torturing the guy, and then my sister ended up on good terms with him, so the torture just grew milder and less… dangerous.”
Eyes looking deeply into his, your lips tilt up at the edge. “So you're just doing it for the love of the game now?”
He grins again, “Love for my sis and now love for the game, that's right.”
“Boy,” you snort, “I'm sure he's regretting his mistakes every single day, huh?”
“Well, he should,” Michael clicks his tongue, “I never did like him. He went around too much and stayed around far less.”
You tilt your head in question, “He doesn't seem to hate you though.”
“That's just the Michael effect. Nobody knows how to hate me.”
You stare at him in bewilderment, shaking your head. How does one obtain such self-assurance? And by looking at him innocently sipping from your milkshake, it didn't seem like he was joking. He genuinely thinks everyone likes him.
And damn it, he's probably not even wrong.
“Hey, you have your own!” You scold, pulling your milkshake glass out of his vicinity, his puckered lips chasing after the straw. He guffaws, brows furrowing in disbelief.
“You took my fries!”
“Well, you weren't eating them fast enough!”
“Fast enou– okay, okay. Give me that milkshake, baby, we'll switch, how about that?”
“Uh-uh,” you shake your head, the affectionate name he calls you did not go unnoticed. But the blushing is ignored as you add, “I'll stick with my delicious strawberry while you can go ahead with your vanilla.”
“You're the reason why chivalry is dead, y’know?”
“Oh, I'm the reason?”
“Yeah,” he laughs as you reach and push at his chest. Taking your hand, Michael places it on the table as he covers it with his hand. You both smile as you sip on the milkshake, eyes gleaming with something new.
•
After much arguing and persuasion, Michael walks you to your house, chattering all the way there. At this point, you had your arm wrapped around his. You didn't think you're this type of person who's desperate for affection from a man you only just met hours prior, but then again, tonight's been full of surprises.
“Where do you think Ola and Jimmy are?” You ask him, wondering aloud.
Michael shrugs, “Probably somewhere funky, knowing Jim. Probably tryin’ to get hair gel out of his fingers.”
You let out a laughter of shock, “I don't believe you! He's your friend, Mike.”
He looks at you, defensive. “And I stand by what I said!”
A giggle escapes you again, quieting down when your eyes set on the familiar front porch steps. Clearing your throat, you look at Michael with a soft gaze. “That's me.”
Michael slows down, lips shaping an ‘O’ before looking back at you with a small smile. “Darn,” he says quietly, “I was hoping for it to be further.”
“We've been walking for a good twenty minutes,” you laugh.
He shakes his head, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Well, an extra ten with you couldn't hurt me one bit, I'll tell you that much.”
Ignoring the heat flooding your cheeks, your eyes roll at his words. “Real slick.”
“I know,” he smugly grins before laughing as he shifts closer. Gripping both your hands in his, he gazes at you fondly.
“I had a really good time tonight. It's been a while since I've met someone so fun.”
“Oh, psh… you're friends with Jimmy. I'm sure you and Gel-Head have all the fun in the world,” You joke, heart warming at his wide grin. Laughing uncontrollably, he shakes his head and pulls you into a hug.
“Boy, am I glad that he forced me to come. I got to hang out with the prettiest girl for a whole night. And she laughed at my jokes,” Michael says as he pulls away slightly to rest his forehead on yours.
You smile and close your eyes fondly, “And I got to hang out with a not so bad looking stranger, too. And he's really, really funny.”
“Oh lucky you,” he murmurs softly, gaze flickering down to your lips before he smiles sheepishly.
“Mhm, lucky us,” you reply, voice just as soft. It's a quiet few seconds of you both just staring into each other's eyes before Michael swallows.
“I kind of want to kiss you goodbye, is that okay?”
You blank for a second, heartbeat thundering under the skin of your chest, and all you manage to do is nod. And that nod is all that Michael needs.
He leans in, slowly to make sure you have time to change your mind, and after receiving zero signals of such a thing happening, he closes the distance and presses his lips against yours.
His arms wrap around the back of your waist as you wrap yours around the back of his neck. Leaning up on your tiptoes, he dips his head down further to deepen the kiss. Lips caressing, soft breaths mingling before he softly parts your lips with his tongue.
A soft sigh escapes you, zoning out and only focusing on the feeling of his warm mouth against yours, tongues gliding. His fingers slowly stroke up your back and rests on the back of your head, lightly tugging your hair as he bends you during the kiss. God bless whoever taught this man how to do this.
The kiss ends slowly, your eyes still closed, mind still foggy as he pecks your lips one, two and three more times before pulling away completely. Michael's grip on your waist tightens and his eyes are hazy with feeling when he notices your dazed state.
“Okay?” He murmurs as he kisses your cheek, softly stroking it with his thumb.
You could only nod, humming in response. Still trying to center yourself.
Another breathtaking grin of his makes your heart lurch, and he takes your hand and kisses the back of it.
“I'll call you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” you finally breathe out. “Please do.”
He almost giggles and leans in to kiss your lips again, this time more brief but just as passionately. “Can't wait.”
Michael urges you to go inside, he wouldn't move an inch until he sees so. Looking back multiple times on your way to the front door with a shy smile on your face, all you see is his face absolutely gleaming.
Bidding a final goodbye, you slowly close the door after waving at him for a full ten seconds. Falling back against the door, you exhale shakily. Giggling to yourself, you thank the universe he's not there to see you outright acting like a fool because of him.
What you don't know, however, is that Michael is currently walking away from your house, jumping and whooping silently to himself, even more foolishly than you. Whistling as he twirls the werecat head around his hand, he's thinking of all the lines he'd say into the telephone once tomorrow arrives.
And this is why Halloween has become his favourite time of the year, too.
DISCLAIMERS: This is not an accurate portrayal of anyone depicted in the story. I do not know these people. It's strictly a work of fiction.
PAIRING: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader.
GENRES: Angst / Fluff / Smut /
SUMMARY: It's 1987 and with his career reaching heights, Michael Jackson has the world at his feet. His name reads like a mythical legend echoed across the globe, he's at the top of his game and about to embark on his first solo world tour after the release of the Bad album. Everyone tells him he should be celebrating, this is the happiest time of his life, but if that's true, why does he feel so alone? As tabloid gossip runs rampant and press vipers edge closer, he can feel the walls closing in. Stuck between the camera lens, he no longer feels human, just a caricature of a man he no longer recognises. When a blast from the past suddenly reappears in his life (at a funeral of all places), Michael feels a glimmer of hope that not all is lost. Only problem is, she still doesn't trust him after a mistake he made in '84.
WARNINGS: Angst. Mentions of infidelity. Arguments. Strong language. NSFW scenes. Funeral/Death mention (not a major character.) Mentions of racism / the KKK (not super detailed, just mentions as found in a manifesto Michael had actually written for himself before the bad era.) Minors do not interact with this post.
WORD COUNT: 22.2k (yikes. buckle up guys.)
MORE: you can read part one here.
Bereavement has a funny way of uniting people. From families to strangers, gathering in attendance mourn the loss, yet celebrate the life of someone held dear.
Cultures across the globe had their own form of celebration, separate ways of respecting their deceased, but they all had the same result because the losing someone is never easy, regardless of geography.
In The United States, wearing black was seen a common sign of respect ― a way to honor those that passed by downplaying your own appearance to keep the focus on funeral.
This was how she found herself sitting in a unfamiliar church, legs crossed delicately at the ankle, in a obsidian dress that fell to mid calf. Not her typical attire, but well, circumstances dictate and who was she to fight tradition?
The California sun beamed bright through the stained glass window, casting a rainbow hue against the tired, brick floor and commanding the room, right at the front of the service stood a priest ― a short, well mannered man with salt and pepper hair, talking passionately about the creation of man.
Aching cries could be heard, soft with the attempts of thoughtful people desperately resisting falling apart in the midst of pain.
It was beautiful in a way. Not death, but the careful consideration people showed in moment of true sadness.
Not knowing many people here, she found herself sitting in relative isolation, a chair between her own body and the next person, but that was okay. She was here to pay her respects and knew she wouldn't stick around after the service. There was no need.
As a gentle prayer reverberated off the tall, stone walls, she couldn't help but feel an impending sense of concern ― a burning, warning sensation, intuition screaming that she was being watched.
In a desperate attempt to not draw focus, with a subtle shift of her body, her head turned. The change of perspective allowed more access to the room and tired eyes lingered, searching the space of gathered grief.
Each person sorrowful, not knowing what to with their hands. Some cried openly, while others forced themselves into heavy silence. Even in a state of unknowing, children in attendance seemed to understand something irreversible had taken place and she silently wondered why anyone would submit their child to such misery.
After scanning the vicinity and finding nothing suspicious, she was about to turn back to the front.
Whatever that feeling was, she must have imagined it and maybe that was partly her fault. Death made her uneasy and as she grew, she found herself believe more and more in the supernatural.
Shaking the ridiculous thoughts aside, her body began to move, placid and with caution, but just before the priest could regain the full cusp of her attention, her body froze like that of a statue ― unwavering and solid.
In the not too far distance, her eyes caught a glimpse of the person causing such inner conflict. Suddenly, her stomach dropped and she could feel the frantic ache of her heart hammering in her chest.
There, right at the back, desperate to stay hidden, dressed in same dark shade the rest of the attendees donned, yet somehow standing out like a sore thumb ― the way he stood, the curl of his hair, maybe it was the flashy watch or the way his clothes were just a little too embellished for every day society.
But the thing that got her, truly throughly hit like an arrow though the heart, had to be those damn aviator sunglasses, the one's she could recognise a mile off. Despite the shade of darkness covering his eyes, she knew the searing heat of a familiar gaze staring back. Resisting the urge to roll her own, she turned back to the service and tried to give very little thought to the other spectator ― a practice which seemed far easier in theory.
As the funeral continued, she tried to best to focus, but the newfound distraction was persistent, like a mold that festered and refused to go away. The feeling lingered, her face flamed and for the first time that day, she wished that the burial site recently dug for the newly deceased would swallow her up instead.
Once closing prayers were shared, an assemblage of people stood at once. Those that knew one another shook hends and shared polite hugs, comforting the pain with heartfelt gestures of love. What proved to be a sweet sight was also the thing that prompted her to leave on account of not know most of people in the room. Watching their shared grief felt a touch intrusive.
Purse in hand, with a graceful turn on her heel, she followed the steps that would lead her outdoors. The shining beams of lights in the sky almost felt too happy for what she'd witnessed, or maybe it was the universes way of proving that even on the worst days, hope still lingered. Whatever the world was trying to say, all she knew was that she needed to leave.
The desire to get her car had been the driving force propelling her forward, the distinct click of her shoes meeting the sidewalk as she lead the charge, most people opting to stay inside for a little while longer. Peaceful in nature, until the sudden sound of a low, flat heel joined her own.
Of course she knew who it was. How could she not? Those footsteps had been part of the soundtrack of her life for an entire year. She recognised the pace, the echo, the growing crescendo as they drew nearer.
She should've known better by now.
He didn't track, he stalked and so as her feet came to an abrupt halt, so did the echoed movement behind her.
Like the buzz of a humming bird, the beat of her heart increased. The air around them had already changed and she could smell the scent of his cologne without so much as seeing his face.
Bal ã Vaersailles if she wasn't mistsken ― a French fragrance usually targeted to a female audience, but he'd fallen in love with the scent after catching wind of it on Elizabeth Taylor.
With her back to him and her eyes closed painfully, she finally let out a shuddered breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"If you're trying to keep a low profile, you're doing a terrible job."
The first words she'd uttered in his direction since the disastrous phone call of 1984, the very same one that broke the foundations on which they built their realtionship and she wished more than anything, she'd thought of something wittier to reintroduce herself into his orbit.
Like he hadn't yet registered the sound of her voice, it took a moment, but eventually she heard the familiar sound of him clearing his throat and then that frustratingly gentle tone.
"Well, I must be doing better than you think." He started, tilting his head to look at her from head to toe even if she wasn't facing him. "No one else noticed me."
With no direct line of sight regarding his face, she could still somehow picture the cocky smirk edged against his lips and found herself rolling her eyes at the imagery.
"Maybe that's because you weren't burning a hole into the side of their heads the entire service." She muttered, folding her arms across her chest like a form of protection.
"You don't know that." He laughed.
"Yes I do."
Her stubborn inability to look in his direction caused a flare of irritation to form within and he knew it was entirely irrational.
She had every right to avoid him and if he was really honest, he found himself surprised she's taken it upon herself to start a conversation. That same honey tone he once compared to that of a bird song had felt so pure once.
Now it hurt to hear that voice linger with traces of disdain.
Shuffling awkwardly on his feet, he found himself desperately resisting the urge to tug at her upper arm and turn her himself.
"Will you face me?" He asked and once she failed to meet his request, he muttered a final blow. "Please?"
With a subtle rise of her shoulders, she breathed out a heavy sigh she'd been holding and told herself it didn't mean much. It had been three years since they were this close, since she heard him pleading for her outside the apartment door. It had been long enough that he should no longer have any effect over her and so with her fist cletched, she followed his request.
Slow, but sure, her movements fell in line and soon her feet had made a full half a turn. The painfully familiar coutures of his ridiculously perfectly face came into view and her beath caught in an instant.
The vitiligo now presented itself to a magnitude impossible to ignore, but he was still handsome. He still had that dazzling smile, those sparkling eyes and an air of childhood whimsy etched into the very fabric of his being. The reality of seeing him so close somehow still felt comforting and she hated him for it. Not because of who he was, but because it was difficult to see all the beauty when the act of betrayal still clouded the picture of the man she knew.
Tucked into the collar of a black buttoned shirt, she found the same aviators he had been wearing inside the church and could help but think how ironic it was that he'd worn them inside only to remove them the second he stepped out in the sun.
"What do you want, Michael?" Feeling no need to beat around the bush, she barley flinched at the wide eyed reaction provoked by her words.
"I uh..." Scratching the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn't kicked, Michael's gaze fell downwards. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Even as he said it, she knew it to be true.
Why would he have thought he'd see her here? Frankly, she was shocked to see him too. Not because she didn't think he cared enough to attend, God no. One thing about Michael, he felt enough emotion to cover a thousand people, but he was a busy man.
While she didn't keep a close eye on his career these days, it was impossible to ignore with the giant success that came from the Bad album.
"Just because I stopped talking to you doesn't mean I stopped talking to everyone I met through you." She shrugged, unwavering against his pitiful glance. "Oscar was my friend."
"Yeah... I know." And the nod he gave said more than the sorrowful words.
Oscar Roberts had been an elderly man Michael had introduced her to only a couple months into dating. He had been a friendly, happy person, who often got a thrill out of proving his intelligence by beating her in crossword puzzles from the morning papers.
From the moment they had met, a connection bloomed, like suddenly her family had expanded to make room for a grandfather she didn't know she had.
But before all of that, before he had become her friend, he had been a vocal coach who encountered Michael in his youth.
As a young boy fronting one of the most popular pop groups in the world, Michael craved a steady foundation. One his own home life had never provided.
For a while, he latched onto the stability that came from Oscar and then that later transfered to Bill the moment he was hired by his father. Although the dymanics shifted, he never forgot about Oscar and the care he showed to a young child when he needed it the most.
It had been a while since he had last seen his friend, but upon learning of his death, Michael, of course, dropped everything he could to make it to the funeral. One final goodbye to a friend who saw him as a person rather than an image.
He realised quickly, he shouldn't have been surprised to find her here there at all. She must have continued to visit the elderly man long after the demise of their realtionship.
"He was a good guy."
"The best." She agreeded.
A heavy pause fell between them, silence broken only by the distant chatter of a mournful group still stood in the church.
Michael chanced a gaze while she looked past him. Still so pretty, but her eyes were ever so lightly tinged with a red hue that indicated she'd been crying earlier and if it were possible, he felt his heart break for her.
"You look beautiful." He complimented, the words falling from his tongue before he realised what he'd said.
That black dress fell against her body like it had been made for her, precisely crafted to her exact measurements. There was an air of confidence about her, despite the unfortunate set of circumstances surrounding them and his heart skipped a beat every time her eyes found his own.
"Don't." She warned.
"Don't what?" He asked, stepping closer, into in charted territory.
On instinct, she found herself stepping back, keeping the distance that felt safe. "Act like everything is normal between us."
"That's not what I'm doing." Michael spoke, brows arched.
"That's exactly what you're doing and it's bullshit." She scoffed in frustration.
Her reaction provoked one of his own and Michael found himself sighing in debelif, scrubbing a large hand over his face in irritation. "Why are you acting like this?"
"I'm not acting like anything." She insisted, eyes narrowed into slits as the anger swelled. "You followed me out here, for what? So we could have this awkward conversation and you could throw shitty compliments at me."
"That's not what I'm doing." He repeated.
"That's exactly what you're doing."
Bickering with an ex had been the last thing she had wanted to do, especially today of all days.
Like the world mocked her misery, ths sun hid itself rays behind dark clouds, the warm air vanishing and leaving behind a grey chill.
In front of her, he stood as though he could hardly believe this was happening and maybe it wasn't the conversation that had thrown him off at all, maybe it had been her presence.
If that were the case, she felt a twinge of sympathy. She finally found she could relate to him in some manner.
"Can we not do this here?" His voice grew gentle, more akin to that he would use to present a version of himself to the public. "Please. I don't want to argue at a funeral."
At that, the harsh glare of her eyes softened and she felt the exact moment her shoulders dropped, laying her defences down. "Me neither."
"So..." awkwardly shuffling on his feet, Michael bit down on his lower lip and then held out a shaky hand. "truce?"
Time froze as she stared at his peace offering. The same hand she had once held in loving moments of devoted bliss. Where his long fingers had slotted against her own perfectly, like he'd been crafted just for her.
The same hand that had once caressed her body, worshipped her skin or tugged at her hair during particularly passionate nights.
Nauseated with nostalgia, her instincts kicked in. Fight or flight and this time, she spoke before really processing the situation at head.
"I'm have to go."
She stepped back, refusing the hand shake, turning her back and stepping away.
Only she didn't get far when a warm force wrapped around the fragile bones of her wrist, not harsh, but enough to keep her still.
"Wait." His voice a broken plea. "I'm sorry."
With the particular intensity of the situation at hand, neither of them had noticed the figure slowly inching closer nor the desperate look of anxiety clawing at his senses. That was until a secure hand fell on Michael's shoulder and scared the man back into reality.
Allowing her wrist to fall from his grasp, he turned to find his well loved bodyguard and though he cared a for the man a great deal, he couldn't help but silently curse the intrusion.
"Yes Bill?"
"People are starting to leave the church." He acknowledged. "We should go, Mister Jackson."
Mister Jackson. So professional. If only they knew the world knew how close they were when they weren't in a professional setting.
"One moment please." Michael pleading.
Chancing a glance over her shoulder, it wasn't long until her gaze met that of the newcomer, his eyes flickering with a sense of familiairy as a hint of a smile curved against his lips.
"Well, hello again." Bill laughed like he was witnessing the impossible. "I wondered if we'd ever see you again."
"Hi." Finding it impossible to resist, she smiled back. "It's really good to see you, Bill. You're looking well."
"You too kid."
Before further pleasantries could be exchanged, the church doors opened and with that, the face of reality broke through the fragile structure of isolation they'd built moments before.
"I should go." She muttered, not wanting a crowd to form and see them together, even if logic told her no one would notice her when Michael Jackson was around.
Still, she retreated, not so much as rasing a hand to wave goodbye as she returned back to her own vehicle.
Once inside, gathering her emotions in a desperate attempt to calm her racing heart, she couldn't help but curse Oscar Roberts despite his death.
Even from beyond the grave, that old man still found ways to torment her.
Unable to linger on thoughts of a love past, a week later, work began to pile up. When she first started illustrating children's books, it had never occurred to her just how demanding the process would be.
Between reading the books and poems, starting the beginning sketches and getting the green light to go ahead and create the final product, life never felt boring.
As busy as she always found herself to be, she would be lying if she said she didn't love it.
Art was a form of escapism and she understood how fortunate she was to have made a name for herself in a field that was so obscure.
She'd worked hard for it, but that didn't mean she'd grown ignorant to the advantages it provided her. There had been a time straight out of college where she had struggled to find work in her profession and she told herself never to forget just how difficult that had been.
A huge perk to living alone came in the form of the spare room she owned. Most people would have used it as a guest bedroom, but she'd spent days renovating it into a studio so she could focus on her work in peace, separate from the rest of the home where she could escape to when she needed a break from painting.
With tentative brush strokes, the picturesque watercolor scene bloomed to life beneath her hands. Two, mischievous bunnies forging their way through the forest in search for their lost friend.
This particular project had taken a lot to secure. With so much back and fourth between herself, the publishing company and the author. It had been her job to make their tale come to life. After a lot of finessing, they'd finally all agreed on a snippet of concept art and now she had fully immersed herself in the piece.
How much time had passed since she sat down at her desk early morning? She had no clue. Time seemed to slip away whenever she found herself working and the only indication the day had moved without her came from the sunlight peaking through her window.
The sky had darkened a hue, but the sun had yet to set. Blending a particular tricky shade of green, she had been prepared for another couple hours of painting at least, but then a swift bang on her front door broke the creative focus.
Jumping in her seat, she found herself lowering the paint brush into a glass of water and slowly rising to her feet.
Not expecting any visitors, it only made sense to check who stood on the doorstep by looking through the peep hole and when she did so, she really wished she hadn't.
Wearing an entirely too charming smile, hands folded innocently behind his back as he tipped on the balls of his feet and straight back down. There was something so unique to him as a person, qualities she had never found in another.
Michael Jackson.
Of course. Because when had her life ever been normal?
Ripping the door open quick enough, she feared the state of the hinges once they'd settled. Her body crowded the frame, leaning against the wooden panel with her arms crossed.
"What are you doing here?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes on instict.
If he'd been shocked by her cold welcome, he didn't acknowledge it. If anything, the subtle curve sitting at the corners of his lips showed her that he was entirely too thrilled to see her face.
With an innocent shrug, he finally stood still. "I was in the neighborhood."
"You're never 'just in the neighborhood.'" She scoffed in disbelief. "You live forty five minutes away."
Not too far, but far enough to make this journey entirely futile on his part. She didn't know what game he was playing, but she did know it made her nervous.
"So a man can't travel for work?" He asked, as if that explained everything.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she realised fairly quickly, Michael wasn't going to make this easy. "How did you even know I still lived here?"
It had been years since he'd been had access to her personal space, since he saw her and knew for sure she still was still a resident in the same apartment building.
Years since that final night where he had knocked on her door with so much vigor, tearfully apologising for the biggest sin he'd ever committed ― a mistake which had cost him the love of a good women and the companionship of a great friend.
"I didn't, but I hoped." Awkwaedly straightening out the white t-shirt he wrote beneath a black dress shirt, glimpses of the shy man she once knew surfaced, even as he tried to play it off with a soft laugh. "If a stranger answered, I was going to tell them this was all some elaborate competition and they'd won tickets to my first show or something."
And she knew he was telling her truth. Had someone else opened the door, he would have to explain his presence with some ungodly tale. She wouldn't put it past him to sweetest the story with tickets to the tour that was supposed to start later this year.
"You're an idiot."
"So you say―" he spoke with a playful gleam in the depth of his eyes. "but you haven't slammed the door in my face yet."
Like he had just reminded himself that was a possibility, Michael made quick work to barge past, his shoulder hitting against hers, the touch smoldering as he entered the apartment he once knew like the back of his hand.
From her mouth fell a small gasp in reaction not only in reaction the unexpected contact, but also the audacity he held. If he noticed, he didn't seem to care. Instead, Michael walked around like he owned the place and allowed that damn soft, obsidian gaze of his to fall on their surroundings.
Things were different from the last time he'd been inside the safety of these particular four walls. She'd painted to them from the uninviting beige to a pale shade of dusky blue, the trimmings matched in color while the elaborate framed artworks stood out in a bold, golden hue. The vintage carpet sat on top of the hardwood floors looked like it could've been sold at an antique store and the white sofas and decorative chairs made the space feel larger in size than he knew it to be.
Transformed from a small caterpillar to an extravagant butterfly, her tastes had changed. For a moment, he found it jarring, that perhaps he no longer knew this women at all.
Then his eyes locked onto the large bookshelf standing in the far right corner of the room, overspilling with novels of every genre and that alone comforted him with the knowledge that she wasn't that different after all.
"Hope I'm not intruding." He called over his shoulder once he heard her close the door behind him.
"You are." She muttered in annoyance.
Her words either slid right off him or he chose to ignore them. Either way, he practically danced around the space, plucking a decorative cushion between his palms and expecting the strange patterns. "So, what were you doing before I arrived?" He asked absentmindly, as though this was a regular occurrence for the two of them.
"Well, I was painting..." She huffed, gazing over at the gold clock sitting on the faux fireplace she never used, eyes growing large when her eyes followed the hands. "but I didn't realise what the time was. I should probably make dinner."
"Great." He clapped, rubbing his palms together with a trace of a smirk. "What are we having?"
"I have got to be dreaming."
The words left her mouth before she fully registered what she said exactly, but Michael seemed elated. A prance in his step as he moved close towards her.
"Dream of me often, do you?" He cackled.
"Yeah." She spoke sarcastically. "You pop up in my nightmares."
"You're so mean to me." But even as he said it, his tone held a trace of amusement before he carried the conversation along. "Seriously, what are we eating? I'm starving."
"Well, since I was cooking for myself and hadn't expected such a picky guest, I was going to make spaghet-"
The words hadn't even properly left mouth when Michael suddenly screwed up his face in a manner you would usually only see in a child.
"Yuck!"
Rolling her eyes to the back of her skull, she wondered for a second if she'd woken up in a parallel universe where all of this made sense, but the paint splatter staining her jeans and fingertips told another story.
"Where's Bill?" She found herself asking. "Do I have to call him to drag your ass out of here?"
"Oh, Bill's downstairs." Micahel confessed, rather nonchalant, waving her off before opening up kitchen cupboards and rummaging through her belongings with little care. "Waiting in the car under strict orders not to intrupt."
"Of course he is." She sighed.
People from all different walks of life found it incredibly easy to get lost in the enigma that was Michael Jackson. The stories, the false narratives and the ridiculously malicious rumours that the media spread. He was a myth to some, a legend to others.
But as she observed him from her living room, eagel eyed as he made a mess she would be forced to clean up later, she was reminded that this man wasn't even thirty yet. And like all people in their late twenties, he was restless.
Slamming a cupboard shut, he turned with a scowl, a harsh contrast against his delicate features. "Your kitchen is stocked terribly."
"Excuse me?" She scoffed, eyes wide.
The more he spoke, the easier it was to grow frustrated at his presence. As if him intruding like this, storming the place without so much as a 'can i come in?' wasn't bad enough, now he was insulting the state of her living conditions.
The sound of utensils russling, metal on metal broke her from her thoughts and the view of her former lover rustling through a pile of paper takeout menus felt too real. A sense of deja vu washed over once he turned with a cheeky, dimpled grin.
"I knew you kept it." He practically cheered, triumphantly holding a menu in the air like some kind of grand trophy. "Boy, I haven't eaten from here in years."
Michael wasn't the biggest eater and he was generally pretty picky in day to day life. There were a few exceptions here and there. KFC was was big one. During sints of his life where he would dip into vegetarianism, the chicken you could buy from KFC was his one weakness. He was also a sucker for sweet treats like donuts or maple cookies. He'd eat until he felt sick and still ask for another. But amongst all this, the one thing he craved when in need of actual substance usually came in the form of Mexican cuisine.
His favourite being that of a small family owned restaurant only a block away from the apartment building she called home.
They'd found it once while driving back from a gallery opening and Michael had insisted Bill stop there. They hadn't entered themselves, Michael not wanting to be hounded and unwilling to let her leave his side while he had her, but he did place an order via Bill.
The dishes had been a hit and after their first taste, they'd become frequent patrons while they had been dating.
Since they broken up, she hadn't had the heart to go back.
"What do you say? Shall I give them a call?" Despite asking, he hadn't waited for an answer as his feet crossed the floor so he could reach for the landline.
Probably for the best. She never did have the heart to say no when he looked at her with those large doe eyes.
Half an hour later, the two of them sat opposite one another at her kitchen table and she watched in mild concern as he demolished a dish of spicy red chilie enchiladas like he feared the food would be snatched away if he wasn't quick enough. He stopped only to sip from a glass of orange juice, smiled sheepishly at the women across from him and then returned to his meal.
Through a half hearted bite of her burrito, she couldn't stop herself from asking a question she'd been wondering since she found him at her door.
"Why are you here, Michael?"
He paused momentarily, doe eyed gaze turned towards her pretty face while picking up a napkin to wipe the grease from his fingers and mouth. He coughed once and then leaned back against the chair.
"The other day, I realised something with clarity I've been lacking for years." He admitted, fingers tips tapping a catchy tune against grain of the wooden table top.
"Yes?" She encouraged, pushing her plate away to sip at her glass of water.
"I've surrounded myself with a bunch of people that agree with me."
"Okay." She nodded because that was never a secret.
There were two kind of people in Michael's life. Those that wanted something from him, not caring how it would effect him in the long run. They would overwork and demand more from him until he hit a wall of exhaustion. Vipers, sucking the soul from his very essence without so much as flinching.
Then there were the 'yes men.' Those in his inner circle who agreed and encourage every outlandish idea he ever had, in fear of being ostracised from the holy land, even if saying yes caused harm.
She's always hated both types.
"Don't you get it? I could say the grass is red and they'd nod their heads just to keep me happy." He laughed, though it was devoid of any humour.
Leaning across the table, the tapping never once seizing. With great determination, Michael made sure to keep eye contact with the women across from him, even as she tried her best to avoid it.
"Then there's you." His tone softened. "The moment you told me off for calling you beautiful was so surreal... I wasn't used to it."
That took her by surprise and as she stared at the man she once loved, she caught glimpses as to reasons why.
Before the infidelity, he trusted her entirely, enough to bare his soul as she'd bared her own.
Now it seemed he was hoping to do exactly that, only three years later.
"Okay?" She questioned, brows furrowed.
"I liked it." He laughed and this time he was amused. "And I figured if you're comfortable telling me off at a funeral, you're probably comfortable being honest with me about everything."
From the outside looking in, it would be easy to assume Michael Jackson had it all. The star power and the talent behind to back it up. He had money and status, he could physically buy whatever he desired.
Unless that thing he desired required honesty.
A twinge of sympathy bit at her consciousness, crafting tales of abandonment at her hands after their break up. It was nonsense, of course, staying would have harmed her, but seeing him so vulnerable reminded her that he needed people and sometimes, the company he kept only seemed out to harm him.
If she could help him during this tumultuous spout of conflict then she would.
Wasn't that the right thing to do?
"What do you need an honest opinion for right now?" Reaching over, her hand fell flat against his, stopping the rhythmic tapping he'd absentmindly created.
Michael felt the clenching ache of his own heart.
The physical contact was enough to draw a breath, but the fact that she'd been the one to initiate it was the thing that really sent him over the edge.
As she pulled her hand back, Michael felt a heavy need to resist the impossible urge to physically whimper at the loss of warmth that came from her lack of touch and instead focused on the conversation at hand.
"Tour." The words settled on the tip of his tongue.
A vague flicker of confusion sat across her face. "What about tour?"
"Is it a good idea?" Dropping his gaze, Michael could feel a source of vunerality rising.
Taking a moment to contemplate, a comfortable kind of silence fell over the pair. Her eyes flickered down, catching the slight of Michael nervously tapping his feet ― he never could say still. Eventually her gaze returned to his face, watching the crumbling embers of a fire once ignited struggling to stay ablaze.
"I don't know."
The frustrated sigh he let out wasn't directed towards her, but it still echoed through her apartment and struck deep within.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" He questioned, finally meeting her gaze.
"I mean, the last time we were... close..." She awkwardly started, the idea of their realtionship feeling too taboo to speak of out right. "a solo world tour was your dream." Her voice soft as though approaching a wild animal. "You were so pissed at your brothers and Joseph for making you do that Victory tour."
Michael exhaled softly and then a quite chuckle passed his lips. "Yeah."
There had been a time where he'd been desperate for this opportunity. Now as the dates grew nearer, the rising pressure felt like it had the potential to break him.
"But I know it's a lot. Not just the travel, or the energy it's going to use, but the weight of responsibility that will fall on your shoulders." She continued quietly, not trying to scare him, but not wanting to sugarcoat things either. "That's not even factoring in you lupus nor your insomnia."
The words fell heavy in the room because as much as he wanted to be, Michael had never and would never be able to live like a normal guy his age. There was so much to contemplate and big decisions haunted his darkest night.
Michael let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he spoke. "Wow, you really are honest."
"I'm not saying it to be cruel, but you have a lot to consider." She looked at him properly, seeing fear flicker on his face. "I think you're a natural born performer, but I also think you give a lot of yourself to others and barley leave enough pieces to keep yourself sustained."
No one had ever had the balls to say it like that and Michael knew it to be true. Saying 'no' had never felt like an option and maybe that's why he felt so conflicted.
Refusing to break the fragility of their joint gaze, he felt his fingers pull at a loose thread of his shirt while his heart beat a rapid rhythm against his chest.
"Are you saying I shouldn't do it?"
All she wanted was to help, to give him an answer that would actually spare him anymore torment. He'd dealt with more than she could ever possibly understand and she wanted to protect him, truly she did, but he had to want to protect himself too.
Regardless of how their situation ended, she still found herself caring a great deal about Michael. She probably always would and rather than letting that thought scare her away, she felt oddly at peace with the direction of their realtionship.
"Well, that's for you to decide." She spoke with a soft smile. "I think it would help for you to weigh the pros and cons and decide what's right for you." Her words strong as she tried to ensure what she said would get through to him. "All these people whispering in your ear, I know it's hard to hear, but they don't care about Michael the person. They care about Michael Jackson the brand... but you're more than a selling point."
And that was the crux of it.
Regardless of anything else, the fame, the notoriety or any of the music, he was a human above all else.
She saw that.
She always had.
Michael couldn't prevent the awe-struck look he gave her from settling on his features, the subtle movement of his chest rising slowly beneath layers of clothing being the only thing reminding him that he hadn't conjured this whole thing up in his mind.
There was always this internal conflict Michael found himself facing.
While he hated the repercussions that came with fame, he needed the celebrity status. He craved it for so many reasons, but one stood out amongst the others.
He hated that he grew up in a world where such prejudice run rampant.
As a black man in the industry, he'd seen it first hand, how they were always treated like a novelty act, stolen and stripped of their work and inhibitions. It had sparked something in him and the flames grew bigger as he became older and processed information different.
He could remember it vividly. Sitting down and watching a news segment where he witnessed a group of white kids being raised and welcomed into the KKK. It had made him sick to his stomach. Who would allow this for their children? He couldn't imagine, but he didn't have to because he had saw it happening with his own eyes.
What had really been the kicker came to him when he realised all that had happened on Martin Luther King Jr's birthday and that alone felt like a sick, ironic twist of fate - a real kick in the teeth for not just him, but every black person breathing the same air.
How was it possible he lived in a world like that?
Micahel loved all races and in a mission to prove his own deserved to be treated with the same respect his white counter parts were given by simply existing, his ambition clawed it's way to the forefront and never quite let go.
Thriller became the best selling album of all time, not on a whim, but by design. The anger had been the fuel to drive him forward. No black artist had ever been allowed to make it on MTV, so he made an album impossible to ignore with music videos to captivate an eager audience. Eventually, they had no choice but to air his work and slowly, he inched the door open for other acts to follow his lead.
If white people hadn't saw black heros before, they certainly would now.
But as the fame festefed, his ambition grew. It wasn't enough. He wanted to be the biggest star on the planet and he wanted to better himself with each album cycle.
Maybe the tour wouldn't be so bad after all.
"I want to prove myself, to be great." He admitted. "I want to do shows and have people leave saying, 'wow, I've never seen anything like that before. He's a real star.'"
The smile she gave in return to his confession beamed brighter than any star he'd ever seen before.
She was proud of him and knew he had it in himself to show the world what a true showman he could be, if that's something he really wanted to do.
"Then do it, but do it for yourself not these creeps using you for God knows what."
And what happened next in the slow moments filled with the sound melodic laughter he gifted her was enough to bloom a whole garden of flowers.
"You think I can do it?"
"Yes." She replied instantly. "I know you can."
It was the way in which she said it, no hesitation, just utter belief in him as a person. A trust of likes he'd always longed for.
Observing her up close, completely still as the beginning navy blues of night began to creep through the windows, he found himself lost in time, where she had once been his and he would never have to worry about distance between them.
As the years passed by, the memories of their time together faded, not completely, but consistent. There had been moments shortly after their break up where Michael would cry himself to sleep, knowing he'd lost someone who loved him without exceptions.
But like they say, time really does heal all wounds.
The tears eventually stopped and as life got busy, he barley thought about the plethora of memories he shared with this women.
Then she just had to attend that funeral, didn't she?
Damn it, Oscar. Why'd you do this to him?
Upon seeing her, a hoard of memories surfaced like a crescendo, impossible to ignore and far too beautiful to pretend he hadn't noticed.
Looking at her now, he was reminded of his betrayal, the pain he'd caused and the cracking ache of her voice over the phone asking him if it was true.
Guilt swarmed.
So much so that he knew needed to say something if there was any chance of keeping her in his life for good this time.
"You know, I've made a bunch of mistakes..." His voice soft as he broke through the silence. "I've made a lot of dumb decisions and put my trust in the wrong kind of people," understatement of the century. "but I have to say, what I did to you haunts me the most."
Eyes growing wide, she very quickly caught on to where this conversation was heading and began to shake her head in a desperate attempt to stop it.
"Mike... let's not do this."
"No, I have to say it." He argued, looking down where his hands sat folded in his lap. "We never really got closure... you never let me talk to you after the phone call."
And it was true.
After that faithful phone call that sealed the breakdown of their relationship, he'd shown up at her door six hours later, but Michael's stubbornness hadn't let him stop there.
He'd called, left letters, had tried to catch her at work. Somehow, she had managed to expertly dodge every attempt.
After a while, he got the message: she didn't want to see him anymore.
Shaking her head, her eyes narrowed in his direction. "That's not fair."
"Hey, I'm not blaming you." He promised, holding his hands out in surrender. "I underatand why you didn't, but... I guess I've always wanted to see you face to face and tell you that, you never deserved it." Honesty laced every word. He needed her to understand. "You were good to me, maybe too good and I didn't appreciate it enough at the time."
If only she knew how much he valued it now.
Bravely lifting his gaze, he found her already looking at him with a somewhat mournful expression. "That's my fault. I never want you to look back at what happened between us and think that you weren't enough for me because truthfully, I think I might not have been enough for you."
"That's not true." She said in an instant, head shaking in disbelief that he would ever consider that as a possibility.
"I'm sorry." Michael spoke with such earnest. He finally had the opportunity to say it in person and he'd be damned if she didn't feel the weight of his regret. "I'm so sorry for the entire thing. You're one of the few people that never wanted anything from me... I think the most you asked for was a stupid postcard while I was touring." Humming with a soft laugh, his brows softened. "You have to know, the time I spent with you was some of the happiest of my life. I was so lucky back then. Hell, I'm lucky now that you're even letting me sit here."
"You kinda gave me no choice." She quirked, the beginnings of a smile cruved against her mouth. "You barged past me."
"Yeah." He laughed, cheeks turning pink. "I guess I did."
With the sound of his laughter trailing off, they were left in a beat of silence, the only sound breaking it being the familiar ticking of a clock.
She could see it now. The sorrow that plagued his eyes ― big, sad and wide.
Back then, part of the reason she hadn't wanted to see him in person to hear him out was due to the unfair upper hand he always had whenever he looked at her.
Just a brief glance and she was putty in his hand.
She cut off contact, not to be cruel, but in a desperate attempt to protect herself and maybe that had been selfish, but she wouldn't apologise for doing what she needed to do in order to survive.
After a minute of silence, she finally found the courage to break it.
"Thank you."
"Huh?" Michael breathed, head tilted.
"For what you said." She hummed innocently, hands wrapping around her water glass. "I appreciate it."
"It's the least I could do."
Taking a generous gulp of water, she watched as Michael did the same with his orange juice and wondered if much like her, he'd only taken a sip to have something to do with his hands.
Letting her glass touch back down on the table, she leaned forward, arms to the wood grain while his eyebrows pulled together.
"For what it's worth, I never thought you were a bad person."
"No?" He spoke shyly, scratching the back of his neck.
"No." She found herself repeating. "Misguided? Definitely, but you care about everything. I think that's why you're so sad."
"I'm not sad." He snapped.
The thing with Michael was, if he felt like he was being called out or attacked, he would immediately enter defence mode. It was the only way he knew to protect himself.
Leaning back against her chair, eyes narrowed, but not unkind, she sighed a heavy sigh and shrugged.
"Yes, you are." She persisted and watched as Michael rolled his eyes back. "And you're lonely. You're so scared of being used or of getting hurt, so you don't let people know the real you."
"You know me." He muttered softly, holding onto the words like a lifeline.
"I think I did..." she nodded. "once."
And it hurt to hear.
"What?" Michael scoffed bitterly. "You think I've changed?"
The very idea made his skin crawl. He didn't want to be different, didn't want to get older. He hated every reminder that he was.
"Everyone changes." She spoke, rising to her feet and making her way into the living room. "That's the nature of being human."
"I'm scared." His voice soft low, he wondered if she heard.
With little thought, he found himself following her actions as he walked across the apartment and sat beside her on the sofa, shoulders brushing in close proximity.
"Scared of what?" Her voice a whisper as she turned her face.
"Everything." He simply confessed. "People around me keep saying that these are the best years of my life."
"You don't think agree?"
"I don't know." Laughing without really meaning it, Michael felt sick with all he carried. "Every day it seems like there's a new story about me. That I want to be white, or that I sleep in some kind of hyperbaric chamber. They say I'm obsessed with Elizabeth Taylor and even that Janet and I are the same person."
"I can attest there's definitely nothing womanly about you." She teased, playfully nudging her elbow into his rib.
"Shut up."
That pretty laugh of his rose, inflicting a giggle of her own. For a moment they were at peace, alone in her apartment where nothing scary could touch either of them.
Childishly, Michael picked up one of the many pillows off the sofa and hit her with it, laughing harder as she gapsed, snatching the cushion from his grasp to whack him back.
"Truce!" He pleaded, hands held out, hoping for mercy.
"Okay, truce." She chuckled, throwing the pillow back down and then atmosphere turned serious once more. "Okay, I'm sorry, you were saying?"
The sudden weight of heavy conversation came rushing back and with a dismissive sigh, Michael threw himself backwards. The view of the white ceiling doing nothing to quell the tention in his shoulders.
"It's just a lot, I guess." Shurgging, he didn't know what else to say.
"I'm never going to fully understand, Mike, but I know you're suffering. Art shouldn't require sacrifice despite what all the greats say." She spoke quietly. "You don't deserve this."
"Sometimes I consider running away." Michael sat up, looking towards her to see her reaction.
"I understand why you would." She spoke like it was simple. "Though, it would be a shame."
"What makes you say that?"
She took a moment, a brief pause to fully evaluate what she would say next. Breathing in deep, she found herself looking at him properly.
So much had changed over the years, but he still felt every bit as real as he always had.
"I don't know. Los Angeles is full of opportunists. Everyone is out for what they can get, not caring who they hurt in the process." She began. "I guess living here doesn't feel so hopeless when I know someone as caring as you lives close. It would be a shame for you to leave, but I understand why you would want to."
"I've never fully thought it trough."
"If you can dream it, you can do it."
His face softened significantly. She hadn't really said much, but what she had said meant something to him. For the first time in years, he could imagine an existence where the media wasn't constantly beating him down, where he could live a relatively normal existence while simultaneously carving a path for himself if he tried hard enough.
Nightfall descended and while it wasn't too late, the pale silver glow from the moonlight flickered across her face, illuminating her soft features so beautifully, for a moment, he found himself wondering if she was actually real or a figment of imaginination his desperate mind had conjured just to keep him sane.
She smiled over to him and he swore, for a minute, his heart had completely stopped. It wasn't just the familiairy of her anymore, he wanted her in ways he couldn't fathom, so he wasn't really thinking as he leaned in.
Inching closer, feeling her breath against his lips and feeling like a man dying of thrist, finally being granted a huge sip of water. Gaze falling to the soft pillows of her lips, he let his eyes flutter close while closing the gap.
Right as his lips were about to meet the sweet, heavenly taste of her, he felt a force pushing him back.
Snapping out of the haze, his eyes flew open and landed on the face of anger, her hands still against his chest where she'd forced him away.
She could hardly believe it.
Was he really going to kiss her just like that?
Frustration grew.
She knew she shouldn't have trusted him. Give a man an inch and he takes a mile. She should've known he was up to no good the moment he charged in uninvited.
"What are you doing?" She hissed, jumping to her feet in an attempt to create as much distance between them as she possibly could. Her heart beating so fast, she could hear her pulse in her ear.
"Nothing." Michael panicked, rising to his feet as he tried to step towards her, face falling when she immediately stepped back. "I'm sorry."
The irony hearing him say this for the second time in such a short time frame shouldn't have amused her the way it did.
"You can't just kiss me and pretend everything is okay."
"Okay, I know. I'm sorry." His eyes wide, pleading for a forgiveness he wasn't sure he deserved.
"You're sorry?" She scoffed.
"I am."
This whole thing was a disaster from beginning to end. He had come here for a conversation and how he'd realised what a mess he'd created and there was no way for him to clean it up.
"What am I to you?" Running shaking fingers haphazardly through her hair, she found it hard to seperate what had just happened to the breakdown of what had been their realtionship. "Am I some sort of temporary distraction you use when the world gets too loud?"
"No-"
He tried, she could give him that. He really had attempted to speak up, but she couldn't hear anymore excuses and cut him off before he could say anything else.
"You should go."
The words were cold.
Final.
Unwilling to let it fade so easily, Michael called her name so soft, she almost caved. He looked so pitiful, devastated at the prospect of leaving and never seeing her again. It was almost enough to make her forgive him.
But she couldn't do this anymore.
"Please, go."
Crestfallen and full of regret, Michael looked around the room, his breathing shaky and knees feeling weak.
He didn't want this, but he also didn't want to upset her more than he already had.
With a final apology falling from his lips, he stepped back and walked straight out her door, down the stairs and back the car where Bill was waiting.
"You were gone a while." His bodyguard joked. "I guess that's a good sign."
Michael didn't so much as smile back.
He simply lifted a pair of black aviators over his eyes and crawled into the back seat.
"Take me home, please."
A couple days passed since the almost kiss and her simmering anger quietly faded into a wall of uncertainty.
Had she have known that was how the night ended, she would've never entertained Michael in the first place. She wasn't totally innocent here. She'd let him in and perhaps old emotions had surfaced.
It was hard to expell a feeling when it never fully disappeared in the first place.
What they had and what they'd shared had been a monumental step in adult life. Her first real taste of an adult realtionship and if she were being honest with herself, it was the one she compared every other relationship she'd to.
Until the whole Diana incident, they'd been happy.
Michael, while not always fully able to physcially be in the same state as her, never failed to smothered her with love and affection. She'd never felt so valued or cared for until he came along to sweep her off her feet.
He'd made it easy to love him and she was all but too happy to fall.
Maybe that's why she hadn't protested when he walked in her apartment.
Whatever inner conflict she had, she'd decided to ignore it. He was gone now and it was probably for the best.
With her legs tucked beneath her, she found herself sitting comfortable on her sofa, book in hand as she felt herself submitting to another world.
In literature, there were no worries. If a book stressed her out too much, she could put it down and pick up another that fit her needs. She liked that, the ease in which she could find peace in the words of an author she's never even met.
Her latest watercolor scenes for the children's bunny novel had been sent for approval and now she had to wait, so she distracted herself with unfamiliar titles and found herself wondering why particular writers failed to gain the notoriety they deserved.
The fantasy genre still called her name and she found herself clinging to every word as a delicate balance of another life formed around her.
She wasn't aware how long she had been reading, but she knew she was close to the end, the climax building, the tensions high and she'd placed her bets on how the story would close once she'd finished the second chapter.
Flicking the page, her eyes carefully scanned the text with an intensity that grew with the promise of a final chapter nearing.
Before she got there, a deverstating knock kicked her out of the enchanted land and back to the mundane apartment she called home.
Frustration came in waves, but deciding not to let it ruin her mood, she placed the book down where she'd sat and moved to the door.
Checking the peep hole, mild confusion settled across her features when the sight of an unfamiliar person greeted her.
A man, standing at 5'9, 5'10 at a push, silm but strong dressed in layers. A white t-shirt peaked out from underneath red flannel shirt and over the top of that sat a dark bomber style jacket. He wore a dark wash of jeans, some beat up sneakers and had a pair of oversized, brown sunglasses covering his eyes.
In terms of face, the glasses did a good job at hiding most of it, but she could see the grown out attempt of a mustache, a set of crooked teeth and a vague idea of an afro tucked beneath a cap with a set of overgrown sideburns spilling out the sides.
An irrational part of her mind told her not to answer, that she could pretend not to be home, she didn't know this man or his intentions.
But a kinder, more polite side of her brain rationalised that this might be a neighbour she hadn't met yet and that thought had been the driving force to make her open the door.
"Hello." She smiled politely, keeping the door open only a slither so she could quickly close it if she felt uncomfortable. "Can I help you?"
Shuffling on his feet, the man easily kept his hands behind his back but offered a toothy grin. "Yes, hi." The voice low and with a hint of an accent she couldn't recognise. "I just moved into the building and was wondering, do you know where the laundry room is?"
"The laundry room?" She questioned, but nodded. "Yeah, it's down on the basement floor. You can take the elevator, but honestly, that old thing is so slow, if you can manage, I would just take the stairs."
"Is that right?"
She nodded, finding this whole conversation to be slightly on the strange side since she was sure this would've been convered when he'd settled his lease, but she was far too polite to close the door in his face.
"I'm from a large family you see." Despite the fact she hadn't asked, he started explaining his background. "Lots of brothers and sisters. It's my first time living alone."
"Oh, right." She replied, not really seeing the relevance, but understanding he might just need a friend. "Well, welcome to the building."
"Thank you very much." He beamed.
"I'll see you around?"
Without answering, he shuffled on his feet and then stopped still. "Just one more question?"
"Okay." Her voice soft as she clung to the edge of her door, peaking out from behind. "Shoot."
"Do they allow pets here?"
"Oh no. I'm sorry, Sir, this building is particularly strict about that." She confessed with a slight pout of her own, the rule having always seemed particularly harsh to her.
"Oh, 'cause you see... I have this uh... this chimpanzee, and well, I can't leave him unattended."
At that her body froze. Suddenly her eyes zoned in, attempting her hardest to bypass the shadow the glasses left, behind the mustache and those ridiculous mutton chops.
A gasp tore through her throat and then she let out a long, shaky breath, whispering as she spoke. "Michael, is that you?"
There was silence for moment.
Then a distinct chuckle, bending slightly at the hip, no longer able to keep his compsure. Looking through the orange hued lenses, he stepped forward and nodded to confirm her suspicions.
"Yeah... it's me." He dropped the accent and his normal voice suddenly returned.
She rolled her eyes back, lips settled into a firm line. "You're so annoying!" She huffed. "Why are you here? Dressed like that, no less."
"Sorry." Spurts of laughter continued to fall. "I got you good, right? I should venture into acting next."
"Yeah, you try that." She huffed, moving to close the door.
"Wait!" He called in desperation, all traces of humour wiped off his unrecognisable face. "I'm sorry. I came to apologise and well, it's hard sneaking out in daylight, so I'm trying out to new disguise."
With the arch of a brow, she looked him over one last time. "You're telling me you came here alone?"
"Lord, no." He replied easily. "Bill's downstairs in case things get dicey."
"Right."
Tention hung between them, uncomfortable but not entirely unbearable.
Clearing his throat, Michael finally brought his hands back in front of him to show a bouquet of beautiful peonies, ranging from bright purples to brilliant pinks, clutched between his fingers.
"I wanted to apologise for the other night. I know I went too far, I got carried away and I'm truly, very sorry about the whole thing." He sounded sincere, nervous almost as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "Do you... uh... accept my apology?"
She contemplated for a only a moment, but it was enough for her to see the inner conflict happening in his mind. With a dramatic sigh, she opened her door wider and reached for the pretty bouquet.
"I guess... just this once." She smiled, leaning in to get a good smell of the sweet florals. "Thank you for the flowers. I love them."
"I knew you would." He smiled and she was taken back by how weird it was to talk to Michael face to face and not have those pearly whites beaming in her direction. Whatever false teeth he wore were extremely convcing.
"You know, it's a pity you live in an apartment. I know how much you enjoy nature. You deserve a huge garden where you could plant whatever flowers you want." He mused outloud, not really thinking before he spoke.
"Now, that would be quite the life, wouldn't it?" She hummed and stepped back. "Do you... want to come in?"
Hesitation formed, a hint of surprise lingered, like he wasn't sure if she'd meant it or not.
Once he realised she hadn't taken it back, he nodded fast and stepped forward. "Uh... yeah, that'd be great."
Stepping back into her space, Michael found himself once again looking at her blue walls, listening carefully to her feet shuffling through the space to find a vase to home her new flowers.
"By the way, you really need to be more cautious about strange men walking up to your door, girl." The thought hit him suddenly and then he couldn't stop himself from talking. "What were you doing, opening up to this?" He indicated to himself, disbelief painting his words.
Filling the vase with water, she looked over her shoulder with a dramatic huff. "Don't judge me. You're the idiot who knocked. I thought you might have needed help."
He paused for a moment, watching her with a flicker of a grin teasing his lips. She'd barley spoke and he already felt lighter.
After a busy day juggling his management drama, tour conflicts and finalising a set list, speaking with someone about something so simple eased the tention from his shoulders.
"Didn't we watch hundreds of horror movies together?" He hummed, eyes following her as she moved across the room. "You know what usually happens to the pretty girl who's foolish enough to open the door."
"Uh-Huh." She laughed, leaning back against her kitchen counter with her legs crossed and arms folded over her chest. "They usually have this really dull monologue or they stare for about five minutes straight before getting the sense to run, but by that point, it's far too late."
"Exactly." He snapped his fingers. "Are you trying to be like one of those girl?"
"Well, no. My monologue would be so enticing, the killer would change his mind and ask me to tell him other worldy tales instead."
A scoff of disbelief passed his lips, eyes narrowed behind his lenses. "You play too much."
"Well, not everything has to be so serious." She shrugged, enjoying the lighthearted nature of the conversation compared to how things ended a few nights before.
Using her hands to push herself forwards, she softly approached the vague figure she knew to be Michael, but recognised to be someone completely different.
No one had prepared her for how trippy it would be to hear his voice and see a complete stranger looking back.
"So, what's with the get up." She nodded towards him and smiled as Michael jokingly twirled, giving her a full 360 view of the generic outfit laying flat against his body.
For someone who usually dressed like he could be called to a runway any moment, it was hard to imagine him picking through this particular set clothes, but then again, she understood that was the point.
Rubbing his hands together, Michael leaned back on the balls of his feet, rocking in exciement. "There's this music store a few blocks over I've been wanted to check out." He spoke happily. "Thought this would stop people from recognising me and well, you didn't, so it much be pretty great."
"Oh, so you're not using this disguise as a poor attempt to seduce me then." She teased, a playful smirk matching the gleam in her eyes.
Michael felt his eyes widen, his mouth fall open and the heat rise against his flesh. The tips of his ears had turned pink and he shyly stuttered through his reply. "W-well... n-no. Of course not." Casting a glance downward, Michael tried to preserve whatever dignity he had left.
If it were possible, the smirk she wore grew wider as she unashamedly stared right at him. Watching in mild amusement as the nervous boy she had once known began surface. Flustered and refusing to meet her gaze, you would never think this to be the man to get up on stages and wow crowds of people with his intoxicating voice and erotic dance moves.
She nodded as though she believed him and felt the small laugh rise out her throat. "Right." She muttered, a casual mocking tone lingered.
"Stop looking at me like that." Micahel muttered, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
She laughed again and the sound was so pretty, he finally chanced a glance up and offered a crooked smile as a fair trade.
"Anyway..." Michael began, cautiously stepping towards her, not wanting to overstep boundaries like he had a couple nights prior. "did you want to, maybe, come with me?"
"To the music store?"
Michael eagerly nodded, assuring her that he walked around in disguise from time to time and no one usually spotted him. They'd be totally safe. Bill would drive them and stay relatively close by on the off chance things got out of hand.
Hands on hips, she analysed the situation.
On one hand, they were playing in uncharted territory. Whatever existed between them still lingered and maybe it wasn't wise to spend so much time with Michael. Still finding it hard to fully place her trust in him despite her emotions clawing at her to relax and let go.
On the other hand, she had always felt at ease in his company. She enjoyed the light hearted conversation, the way he could make her laugh with minimal effort and all the hardships life threw their way would fade as soon as they spent any time together.
She'd made up her mind.
A soft hum passed her lips, eyeing Michael in temporary amusement. "You're not going to try and kiss me again, are you?" She teased.
Michael let out a shy laugh, rubbing his jaw with his long fingers. "I'll try my best to resist."
Despite not saying much, those words said everything.
Not that he didn't want to or promised that he wouldn't, but he'd try and keep himself from doing it. Which lead her to believe, he would very much consider kissing her again if the moment felt right.
With the rapid beating of her heart, she suddenly realised, she didn't know if she should be elated or terrified by that idea.
With the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears, her smile softened into something sweet. "Yeah, well, you better keep those nasty teeth away from me."
As she moved to grab a jacket off the coat stand she kept near the door, Michael's eyes followed her steps, analysing every miniscule movement like a biologist with a microscope.
It wasn't often he was taken back by the motion of another. Being as fluid as he was, it took a lot to impress him. But this wasn't just anyone, this was her and she didn't simply move, she glided like she could take off any moment and fly if she really wanted to.
Eyes lingering, catching faint splotches of browns and reds staining the light wash jeans. He chuckled, mainly because he knew her and this wasn't out of the ordinary.
"Girl, don't you wanna change before you leave?" He hummed in amusement. "You're covered in paint."
With a faux expression of insult, she let out a small scoff. "Oh, I know you did not just say that when you look like you're moments away from selling cattle to a meat market."
Micahel's jaw dropped and soon a euphoric laugh followed, shaking his head as he followed her out the door.
"I'll have you know, that's against my code now." He hummed and he watched her lock the door. "I'm trying the whole vegetarian thing out again."
"Nobel." She muttered, turning the key and then moving to stand in front of Michael, gently pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to cover those distinctive eyes. Too recognisable. Too risky. "Let's see how long that lasts when you realise there's a KFC across the street from this store you want to visit so bad."
She was right of course and he knew it. But rather than giving her the glory of admitting it, Michael stayed quite.
Eyes growing wide as she walked past, he quickly followed down the stairs, vaguely remembering what she'd said about the elevator and how slow it was. For as long as he's known her, she had always opted to take the stairs and up until now, he's never thought much about it.
Once outside, she seemed fairly confident in her footsteps.
Crossing the lot in long strides, she walked straight towards the burgundy, 1985 Mercedes Benz. A flashy car, but she supposed it made sense for the kind of person who played passenger in the back seat despite having his own drivers licence.
"How'd you know it was this one?" Michael found himself asking, absentmindly he reached out to open the back door and nodding as a way to encourage her to get in.
"Are you kidding me?" She laughed, eyeing the other cars surrounding them. "Do you see anyone else in this building driving anything this expensive?' She didn't wait for a reply, instead she ducked her head and slid inside knowing he would immediately follow.
Which he did.
Rolling his eyes, Michael closed the door behind him after sliding into the backseat, finding her already leaning forward to greet his bodyguard with a kind grin.
"Hello again, Bill." She chimed, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the cold air. "We really have to stop meeting like this. People will start talking."
Bill chuckled, turning his head and showing her a kind grin. "Tell him that, kid." He nodded towards Michael, sitting against the leather seats in that ridiculous disguise. "He'd convince me to drive through hell if he thought you might be there."
"Now that's a scary thought."
"Bill, stop." Michael groaned, hands covering his face, hiding his rosey cheeks from indulgent eyes. "You're embarrassing me."
"Sorry, Mike." Informal now they were in a safe space, like they were close, because they were. Bill chuckled, not sorry at all as he began to pull out of the parking lot. "Still wanna see that music store?"
Michael hummed in acknowledgment, huffing back in his seat when he caught her eye and noticed the spark of mischief he'd always adored.
The drive was smooth despite the LA traffic, filled with mainly idle chatter and the brief pause of conversation when Michael got carried away, humming captivating melodies along to the radio. Unable to sit still, he either tapped a tune against this thigh or moved his foot to the rhythm.
It made a fascinating watch. He'd always been this way inclined. Like music flowed through him. He didn't have to be in the studio to appreciate a hymn and he didn't need to scribble down lyrics to create a session. He simply was all of the above.
The drive passed relatively quick, but in that time she found herself eyeing the man beside her more and more and thought to herself how lucky she was to be trusted enough to see Michael Jackson in such a relaxed state, even if that same Michael Jackson was wearing a fake mustache and a pair of buck teeth.
As the car came to a smooth stop, the three of them opened individual doors and stepped forward. Michael moved towards Bill while straightening out one of his many layers.
"Can you stay back a little please, Bill?" He muttered, not wanting to draw attention.
"Of course, Mister Jackson. You won't even know I'm there."
With a sniff nod, Michael gave the older man a grateful smile and then rounded the car to walk besides the girl currently occupied, reading flyers in the store window.
It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Bill's company. On the contrary, he adored the man. In a world where his biological father caused so much misery, Bill was the one to fill the void. After all the years they's spent side by side, Bill had never one broke his trust, sold a story or looked at Michael like he was anything more than human. Truthfully, he didn't know what he would do without him.
But like all men, he didn't want a fatherly figure looming over his shoulder while he made a desperate attempt to try and to reconnect with a women who changed his entire world.
"What are you looking at?" He found himself muttering, following her gaze to a small pink advertisement for guitar lessons. "You looking to become the next Van Halen or something?"
"Nah." She laughed. "I thought maybe you could actually learn how to play an instrument or two." She teased, giggling softly when Michael's face turned stoic. In a swift movement, he turned towards her and nudged her shoulder with the a single finger. "I'm kidding." Though the laugh persisted. "The name caught me off guard is all. 'Guitar guru.' How humble."
Michael chuckled and stepped forward, casually offering an elbow, half expecting her to deny the gesture. Instead, she spared him a soft grin and looped her arm through his as he opened the store door and they stepped inside.
The smell of vinyl filled the air, colorful posters and pristine records lined the walls and shelves. To keep the intimate ambience, the store played an old Lionel Richie track and the man working his shift looked towards them once the bell above the door chimed. For a painful moment, she thought the worst when he gaze became more intense.
He must have recognised Michael.
They were seconds way from this trip becoming a whole spectacle and they'd be forced to run as fast as their legs could carry them back to the car.
She held her breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.
Only it never came.
The young man simply nodded in a simple greeting and then went back to counting money in the cash register.
Sighing in relief, she hadn't noticed Michael's amused grin, but she did feel the pull when he directed her through the aisles. Despite never stepping foot in the space before, he seemed to know his away around.
Keeping his promise, Bill flanked the pair from a distance and with the speed of an olympian, Michael b-lined straight towards the stacked 'M' section.
Slender fingers flickered through the albums, stopping only as they found the ones detailing his own name.
"You're such a narcissist." She spoke quietly against his ear with a small scoff, not quite believing this was the reason he dragged her here.
"I'm just checking they're here." Michael hummed, not paying much attention with gaze turned downward, looking down at his own face staring back against a white background.
In fact, he hadn't noticed much of anything until he felt the sudden loss of her warmth from his arm.
Head snapping up, he quickly caught sight of her only a few paces away, fingers pressed against the 'Madonna' section.
"Girl, what are you doing?" He huffed, stepping closer to inspect the album cover. The sepia coloring and intense seductive gaze of Like A Virgin greeted him and Michael fought back an impolite grimace. "What you looking at this for? You should really have more refined taste by now."
"I'm sorry, 'refined taste?'" She laughed, looking over her shoulder with her lips curved into a small grin. "Wasn't she sitting on your lap in '84 after one of the Victory tour shows?" Her voice quite to not draw attention to other shoppers, but Michael heard it well enough.
Behind his glasses, his eyes grew wider and he didn't need to look in a mirror to know he was blushing.
"W-what?" He suttered.
"Yeah." She mused in amusement. "I remember seeing it in all the papers the next day."
At the time, it hadn't been very long since their break up. The image of him with another woman opened a still raw wound and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't regretfully wished ill will on the pop superstar at the time.
In fact, she could vividly remember crumpeling that exact page in the palm of her hands before tossing it in the trash like the photograph had personally offended her.
As irrational as it had been, she was angry. Michael seemed completely fine filling the void she'd left with other, more established women while she'd been at home, trying not to cry every time one of his songs haunted her through the radio.
What had been her own personal hell now came back round, but not to haunt her. Instead it terrorised him and she took great delight in the distraught look the reminder had brought upon his face.
"That was nothing." Michael insisted, his voice dropping an octave as if to get his point across.
"Sure." She gave a less than believable smile and the nodded, fingering the titles of albums she'd never listened to. "Whatever you say."
With a huff, Michael pinched her waist provoking a small gasp, one she tried to hide with her hand as she stepped back from him, her eyes narrowed dangerously like she was warning him she was only seconds away from retaliating.
"I'm being serious." He huffed. "Don't go spreading that around."
"Right, because I'm known for going to the tabloids." She rolled her eyes, words dripping in sarcasm.
In reality, she'd never so much as had her name out there.
Even while she had been dating Michael during the height of Thriller, she'd stayed relatively out of sight. There might have been a photo of two floating around in some trashy, celebrity magazine with her standing close to the enigmatic star the world had fallen in love with, but her name was never mentioned.
Michael had been careful. He wanted keep her safe, his label wanted her to remain a secret for the sake of selling the single image and frankly, she just wanted her privacy.
She had no interest in becoming front page news and she definitely wasn't about to selling someone out for a quick buck.
"No, I know you aren't." Michael stepped closer, hand resting on her shoulder, soft but grounding. "I wasn't insinuating that."
Time stood still, his touch still burnt like it had all those years ago. Not in a way that made her flinch, but in a manner that warmed her from the inside out.
If she was honest, it pissed her off that even after all the time that had passed, he still had some kind of hold over her.
With a sniff nod, she stepped back, but offered a smile as compensation once his hand fell back to his side.
"Lets look for something else." She mused, trying to steer the conversation into a safer direction. "I wonder if they have any Tchaikovsky or Debussy around here."
Michael's love for their compositions were of little surprise to those who knew him and behind the brown shades, his eyes gleamed in acknowledgment. With a stuble grin, he was actually touched that she remembered so much about him.
They might have only dated a year, but it had certainly made an impression on both of then.
With little thought, his feet followed her direction into the classic section and soon she convinced him they should seperate to cover more ground.
He would search for Tchaikovsky while she's scour the section Debussy should be housed. Seperate mission which would ultimately lead the the same goal where they'd meet up to compare what they'd uncovered.
So engrossed in his own search, Michael had been far too distracted to look at his surroundings. For once he felt safe with the knowledge that no one would discover him, elbows deep in vinyl records and it was nice feeling.
With his focus somewhere else, he lost track of the women he's entered the store with. He wasn't worried. He knew she was okay, she wouldn't have wandered too far, but then he heard a familiar laugh that his nerves on end.
Head rising at the speed of lightening, he was quick to evaluate his surroundings and it wasn't long until his eyes found the shape of her body. She looked exactly as she had when she left him, the only difference being the tall, overgrown lummox of a man standing too close, making direct physical contact with a hand pressed against her lower back.
Now Michael tried not to make a habit out of jealousy. It was a terrible, ugly emotion and he hated the way it made him feel.
Living the life he did, most people thought he was exempt from expierencing the green eyed monster, but it couldn't be further from the truth.
As he watched the lingering touch and shared conversation, a pit formed in the depth of his stomach. If he'd eaten anything in the past hour, he was almost certain his body would be regurgitating to rid himself of the toxins that came from witnessing another man invade her personal space.
He couldn't take it.
Michael stepped forward, classic compositions forgotten in the face of envy and as he approached, he only caught the tail end of the conversation.
"... of course. I'm really happy you liked it."
Her smile bright and wide, so deverstatingly beautiful and he absolutely despised not being on the reciving end.
Standing in front of her, a man towered her frame, indulging himself far too much with her company and loving every ounce of attention she gave him.
"Not intruppting anything, am I?" Michael asked, his voice deep in an attempt to conceal his identity.
Turning towards him, wide eyed, but not unwelcome, she flashed Michael a small grin and shook her head. "No, not at all."
Nodding carefully, Michael stood right beside her, leaving barley a hair width space between them. If she had been uncomfortable with his presence, she certainly didn't show it.
"Oh, sorry. I should introduce the two of you." Hitting her head gently with the heel of her palm, the way she presented herself was always so endearing. Turning towards Michael, her eyes shined bright. "This is Rick. He's the author of the children's book I'm currently illustrating."
Rasing a brow, Michael nodded in understanding. Suddenly the familiairy of their conversation made sense, her feeling comfortable in the presence of this man wasn't odd because he wasn't a stranger to her.
Michael had always adored her chosen career path. Not only was she talented, but she used that talent as a way to connect to children, to enrich lives and with her illustrations, a love for the written word was encouraged. He should be happy that she'd been given this opportunity and he was, he really was happy to know she was thriving. Then he looked over at Rick.
And part of him seethed.
Because it wasn't that simple. Illustrating his book meant that they had spent time together before.
"That's... nice." Michael hesitated, but ultimately decided was happy she was doing something she loved. He had always thought she was too talented for her own good.
Besides, the idea of Rick writing children's novels hadn't shadow him in a sense of insecurity. While he was writing cute tales kids would enjoy for a short period of life, Michael had been writing critically acclaimed albums those same kids would remember for decades to come.
They weren't the same.
With a small gasp, she turned to the blonde and Michael suddenly decided no man his age should have hair that bright. They couldn't be trusted.
"Oh, Rick, this is my friend-" her words fell flat, sudden realisation that she couldn't introduce him by his actual name. She stuttered for a moment and from the outside, it might have simply seemed like she's misplaced it, but she soon recovered with a shy kind of smile. "uh, Peter."
At the sound of his favourite characters name falling from her lips, Michael felt a warmth flood through him. To anyone else, it was a simple alias, to him it was a beacon of hope.
"Peter?" Rick questioned, his gaze falling to the figure beside her like he was trying to make sense of something. "It's nice to meet you." He husked, holding out a hand in a friendly greeting.
For a beat too long, Michael simply looked at the man, not moving an inch until suddenly he felt a sharp blow to his ribs. She'd elbowed him and looked over with a sharp glare.
Recovering quick, he cleared his throat and then carelessly shook hands. "Yeah, nice to meet you too... I guess." Eyeing him suspiciously.
Rick's own eyes narrowed in confusion. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar."
Blood running cold, she immediately tried to close out this conversation. "I brought him to Linda's office once." She lied, sighing in relief as Rick faked recognition. "Sorry, Rick. We have plans for the rest of the day, so we're going to have to go."
"So soon?" He questioned, almost stepping closer like he didn't want to see the back of her.
"Yep." Michael interrupted, circling a possessive arm over her waist. "No time to stay and chat. It was nice to see you. Bye, Dick."
"It's Rick."
Before she could even say goodbye, he found himself pulling her towards the door where Bill stood in wait, suddenly no longer caring for music store he had once been so excited to step into.
Once outside, she ripped herself away from his grasp and pushed against his shoulder. Michael turned to her just as she folded her arms across her chest, seething in disappointment.
"What the hell was that?" She shouted in a whisper, her gaze cold as distant as she turned to face him.
"I don't know what you mean." Michael shrugged, playing innocent while leading the small group of three towards the car. "Who was that schmuck anyway?"
"I told you, I'm working on illustrating his book." She huffed, cheeks pink in humiliation once she realised Bill would be witness to this latest argument.
Sliding into the car, she moved her body as far as she could from Michael and barley registered the vehicle pulling out into the road. Michael didn't even so much as look back at the KFC as they drove past.
"That was so humiliating."
Michael turned towards her, finally removing the stupid hat and glasses, revealing those expressive eyes she suddenly decided she hated, but as he looked at her fully, she knew she was only lying to herself.
"Humiliating?" He scoffed, continuing to remove more and more of his disguise. The wig, the mustache and finally the teeth. "The only thing that was humiliating was the way he threw himself at you."
"He did not!" She seethed, staring out of the window, suddenly feeling far more vulnerable now that Michael was looking like himself.
"Yes he was. He had his hands all over you." He insisted, shaking his head back and fourth. "Tell her, Bill. You saw it, didn't you?"
Snapping her head back to face him, her eyes lit with fire, she snatched the cap he's been toying with from between his palms and tried not to yell. "Don't involve Bill! This is between you and me and the fucking audacity you have. Rick wasn't hitting on me, but even if he was, it's none of your business. I am not your girlfriend!"
There was a finality to her words that hit both of them in different ways.
A heavy silence lingered in the car after that.
The rest of the drive was relatively quiet unless you counted the sound of the tires moving against the road.
Once they reached the familiar path of her apartment building, she waited until the car came to a stop before she thanked Bill, unbuckled her seat belt and rushed inside without so much as looking back.
Sitting in sorrow, Michael looked out the window at her retreating figure and suddenly wished he had the ability to turn back time.
"What are you playing at, Mike?" Though the hazy echo of the door slamming on repeat though his mind, Bill's quiet voice demanded attention.
Blinking once, Michael shuffled forward on his seat, erratically fingers running through his newly exposed curls.
"I don't know." He confessed. "I didn't mean for that to happen... but you saw him, right? He was all up in her personal space."
"Yeah, I saw." Bill confessed with a nod. "But I don't think she thought much of it. Before you came charging on in, she'd been watching you."
Michael's head turned towards him so quick, he feared he had given himself whiplash.
"What did you say?"
"Yeah, that guy appraoched her and she seemed sweet enough, but she kept glancing back over at you. I don't think she even recognised that fella was touching her."
Feeling like the biggest fool, Michael buried his hands in his face and let out a dramatic yell, easing out of his frustrations much to Bill's amusement.
"So, what do I do now?" He asked, sounding entirely too vulnerable much to his own dismay. A lump formed in his throat, but he was much too proud to allow himself to cry with an audience.
This was his fault. He'd driven her away. If only he'd taken a step back and looked at the bigger picture.
He should've known. She was beautiful, yes, even when they had been dating he had known men threw themselves at her, but she had never entertained it.
She valued connection over a cheap thrill. A man approaching her was easy, but she never fell into their trap. Even with Michael himself, it had taken several dates before she fully committed to being his grielfriend. She hadn't simply fallen into his arms that day at the library.
"You need to go up there and apologise." Bill encouraged, hands on the steering wheel.
Michael paused, knowing the older man to be right, but realising an impending sense of deja vu. "That feels like all I do recently." He expressed sadly.
"Well mean it this time!" Bill huffed. "And when she forgives you, which she will, don't screw it up again, kid. She's good people."
'She's good people.'
The simple description played on a loop, encouraging him to get out the car and head straight inside her apartment building.
Bill had the right idea, but he was wrong about one thing: she wasn't good, she was the best humanity had to offer.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Michael no longer cared how much noise he was making or that he was no longer shielded under the covers of a sketchy disguise.
If one of her neighbours were to recognise him, he's not sure he would care all that much so long as it got her to speak to him.
Knocking on her door for the second time that day, Michael counted down the seconds until she opened up, ready to face all that she had, even if all she was willing to give him was anger.
Only, she didn't answer.
Feeling his heart loose rhythm, he tried again, his fist meeting the wood grain with eager precision.
Suddenly it was '84 and he could hear the sound of his own voice calling back out to her, pleading with the women behind the door to let him in.
Last time, he'd given up too easily.
She's slipped from his grasp and he had spent three long years without hearing her voice, seeing her face or watching as she breathed.
He wouldn't be making that mistake again.
With a heavy sigh, he knocked once more with a soft call of her name. "I know you don't want to see me right now, but I'm not leaving until you let me in."
Silence.
"I mean it. I'll say out here all night if that's what it takes." Michael assured, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the doorframe. "I'm sorry. I know I've been saying that a lot recently and you're probably tired of hearing it, but you have to know, I mean it. I know I keep making mistakes and you're finding it hard to know which version of me you should trust. I just- I get so scared of losing you for good, it makes me do all these irrational things."
"That's not your fault. It's mine and I know that. I don't want to make you upset or angry. It's the last thing I want. You mean a lot to me... I think you always will if I'm honest. Losing you was hard. I'll admit, I felt like part of me was left behind with you when things fell apart. Running into you again, it brought that spark back."
Baring his soul, Michael was ready to stay for the long haul and he didn't care if it took days. He would cancel every work related commitment he had if that's what it took. Sure, the logistics would be difficult and his management would hunt him down, but he'd have to be physically carried from her doorstep before he left.
"Do you know what still gets me?" He called through the wood, eyes still closed as he pictured her face. "Through all this, you've remained exactly the same. You told me the other night that everyone changes... but you haven't." He spoke through a humourless chuckle. "You're still the same vibrant, loving, beautiful person I always knew you were and I don't deserve your forgiveness, but God, do I need it. I need you."
When she still didn't answer, as ridiculous as it appeared, Michael began to sing an old Ray Charles song ― obnoxious and purposefully off key. The longer he waited the louder he got until eventually, the sound of the handle turning broke him from the groove.
Inside the apartment, she could hardly believe he'd chosen to do this. Regardless of how purposefully terrible he's opted into singing, if anyone had remotely recognised that voice, a full scale riot would've started on the second floor of her building.
If she hadn't been annoyed at him before, the simmering heat had since grown into a blazing fire.
"What is wrong with you?" She demanded as soon as the door flew open, fist caught in the middle of his layers, practically dragging him into her apartment and rolling her eyes at the sound of his child like laugh.
Slamming the door behind him, she let go of his flannel. With hands on hips, she looked towards him and the laughter fell flat when he noticed how tired she actually looked.
"I'm sorry." Michael spoke softly, stepping forward to plant a firm hand on each of her shoulders. "It was the only way I knew I could convince you to open the door."
"Aren't you tired of saying sorry all the time?" She sighed, heavy with the weight of the day.
"No, not with you." His gaze locked with her own and he gave a warm smile. "I'd say sorry a million times over if that's what it takes."
And she knew he was telling the truth because those eyes never lie.
She asked once, why he wore sunglasses even when he was inside. Michael's response had been a short, but simple one: "I don't want people to see my soul."
At the time, she didn't fully understand, but as she looked at him now, it suddenly all made sense.
"What you did back at the music store was out of line." She spoke carefully, but didn't bother to shake his hands off her shoulders.
"I know." Michael muttered, nodding his head in totally agreement. "I'm an idiot… but I'm working on it."
A brief pause in conversation allowed the heat to die down. The world seemed to fall silent and standing there, just a few inches from her front door, she finally admitted to herself that she was glad he hadn't simply let her walk away.
"It won't happen again." Michael continued in an attempt to get her to understand. "I think seeing another man's hands on you scared me and you're right, you're not my girlfriend, but I think- actually, I know, I want you to be."
Shaking her head, she opened her mouth to talk, but Michael cut her off while he still had the courage to do so.
"Look, I'm going to say it and I don't care how crazy you think it sounds." His eyes found hers, strong and unwavering. "I want to be with you. I made the biggest mistake of my life when I betrayed you like I did and I'm never going to be able to make it up to you, but I will spend the rest of my life trying."
Hand falling to her jaw, Michael's thumb gently traced the familiar structure with a tenderness only he possessed. "You're not ready to be with me right now, I know that." He spoke as a fact. "But one day, I hope maybe you will be… I'm not giving up on that. I'll be here and I don't care how long it takes. I'm not giving up on you."
Butterflies swarmed her stomach, her heart beat rapid in her chest. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. The fact she hadn't forced him out of her apartment said more than simple words ever could.
Instead of responding, she simply asked if he wanted to stay for dinner and Michael eagerly agreed, even going as far as chopping the vegetable to help in the kitchen.
True to his words, Michael stayed a constant presence in her life.
Over the next couple months, when he wasn't rehearsing vigorously for his first solo world tour, or visiting children's hospitals, he found himself at her door. Usually during the evening time, when the sky turned an inky shade of blue, she would hear that familiar knock and be greeted with a charming, dimpled smile once she opened up.
There conversations weren't always that interesting, but each one solidified their bond. They ranged from something as boring as the local weather to more sensationalised gossip.
He's been watching her paint one evening when suddenly, Michael gasped.
"Did I tell you, Jackie's finally getting divorced." He snickered as she dropped her paint brush, faint watercolor splattered against her cheek.
"I'm sorry, what?" With wide eyes, she turned to face Michael, the painting suddenly forgotten. "Enid finally had enough, huh?"
Michael shrugged, throwing a fist full of popcorn into his mouth. "Guess so. They've been rocky for years."
Their realtionship had been at a breaking point for so long now, Michael could barley remember if they'd ever actually been happy. Between his brothers constantly infidelity and Enid's persistent jealousy, they were better apart than they ever were together.
"I just feel bad for the kids, you know?" His voice dropped into a whisper, sorrow etched into each letter.
"Yeah." She nodded, and reached over to give his hand a comforting squeeze. "But sometimes it's better for families to live apart to provide a stable environment. They'll be okay, Mike."
Other days he'd come over in hopes of leaving the stress of his career behind for an hour or two. It was during these particular visit, they'd leave all the seriousness of life at the door and play games all night.
Tetris, Super Mario Bros, Trivial Putsuit, Pictionary ― the latter particular got pretty competitive with both of them yelling insults when they failed to convey the prompt. Despite both of them being able to draw, this game truly tested their limited.
"Man, you're lucky you can sing because there's no way you think that looks like a fire hydrant." She remembered speaking once, throwing herself down on the sofa in frustration.
"I don't want to hear from you." Michael scoffed. "Your mouse looked like some mutant alien."
"It did not!"
"Yes, it did." He huffed. "I didn't know if I should find a new home for it or run from it."
The nights usually ended in a lot of laughter, but her personal favourite game came in the form of something as simple as Guess Who.
"Could your person beat a goose in a fight?" She asked, looking at the board and then Michael with mild interest.
"Hmm..." Michael tilted his head, eyeing the cartoon depictions like he was trying to solve the world's most difficult puzzle. "My person would definitely give it a good try, but ultimately, that goose would peck their eyes out."
"Interesting." She acknowledged, starting to flick names down. "It's obviously not Tom. I don't think he even knows what a goose is."
Michael chuckled, leaning forward to ask a question of his own. "If your person owned a dog, would they dress them up."
"Oh, absolutely."
Quickly making his way through the board, Michael removed faces and then turned with a stuble smirk. "I know who it is."
"No you don't." She narrowed her eyes, calling his bluff.
"Yes, I do." Michael practically giggled. "Is your person Maria?"
"How do you do this every time!"
As she groaned, Michael cheered in victory. There were no prizes for a win, just the gloatful pride of knowing you had was enough for both of them.
Once, Michael arrived at her door carrying a bucket filled with the delicious sent of crispy fried chicken.
"I knew you couldn't last as a vegetarian." She laughed, closing the door behind him and followed as he made his way into the kitchen to grab two plates.
"It's KFC's fault!" He persisted, placing everything down on the kitchen counter. "If it weren't for them, I would be the perfect saint."
A soft laugh fell from her lips, eyebrows arched as she nodded her head. "Sure. I'd believe it." She grinned.
Between bites of chicken, they'd spoke of everything and nothing all at once. It was easy, comfortable and for the first time in a long, she finally felt completely comfortable in his presence.
"I've been meaning to ask," she started with a subtle wide eyed gazed. "how's Bubbles?"
"Oh, Bubbles." Michael practically beamed at the mention of his chimpanzee companion. "He's great. I've been really leaning into learning sign language to communicate with him and he's so smart. You should come over soon. I'm sure he'd remember you."
On days he couldn't see her, he'd call and they'd talk for hours on the phone. He'd recount his day and then ask about hers. In the peaceful moments where they could be completely themselves, she felt something shift.
Suddenly, she wasn't so angry at him.
She'd bravely found the courage to ask one day if he was still in contact with Diana and Michael was honest as he spoke, telling her that he would probably always care for Diana, but they weren't as close as they once were. He barley spoke to her and saw her even less. Whatever had been between them fizzled out and honestly, Michael couldn't really see her without thinking of the pain he'd inflicted three years ago.
He didn't treat her like a fool, he never pushed boundaries and the way he spoke so candidly told her that she could trust him just as he trusted her.
Returning to Hayvenhurst after three years was a surreal expierence. Nothing had really changed, but nothing was the same either. More of Michael's siblings had moved out, so entering was already far quieter than she'd imagined it would be.
Fingers threaded through his, their hands swinging between them as he guided her inside and down the hallway.
The grandeur of the home never failed to leave her speechless. The scale of the property was one thing, but the things housed inside were a complete different kettle of finish. Tall wall and elaborate light fixtures, but somehow, the warm wood tones and bright walls still felt inviting.
Michael had explained on the car ride over that Joseph wasn't around, apparently he was out handling some business in New York. The way he rolled his eyes and clentched his jaw lead her to believe that wasn't the whole truth, but she wasn't about to question him and ruin their fun before it started.
Knowing exactly where he wanted to take her, Michael lead her through the house with ease, humming a familiar tune as he passed through different rooms, he stopped only briefly as the sight of a familiar face standing in the kitchen.
"Hello, Mother." He chimed, unaware of the anxiety building in the girl beside him. Moving through the house, he pressed a gentle kiss to his mom's cheek and then smiled as he turned to reintroduce the pair. "You remember her, don't you?"
"Of course." Katherine Jackson smiled, leaning in barley an inch to bring the young women into a small embrace. "It's great to see you again." She softly spoke, pulling away and eyeing her son still holding her hand. "So this is back on then, is it?"
Unable to form words, she turned to Michael to offer up an explanation only find him vaguely attempting to stutter out a word or two, his cheeks turning pink as his brain finally caught up with the rest of him.
"N-no, Mother. I'm just taking her to see Bubbles again." He muttered, unable to make eye contact with either of them.
"Oh, I see." She laughed the way a knowing mother always does. "Well, you two have fun. I'm heading out with Janet, so you'll have free run of the house. Be sure to behave yourselves."
It didn't matter that Michael was nearering thirty, she still shot him a warning look and he smiled in return.
"Of course, mother." He nodded. "I hope you have fun. I'll see you soon."
Finally finding her voice, she turned her gaze back to Katherine and smiled. "It was nice to see you again, Misses Jackson."
The older women offered her goodbyes and once she was out of sight, Michael began to pull at her hand and tug her further through the house.
He offered explinations for nothing until they finally made it outside and standing there, idly walking by was Bubbles. His soft amber eyes and pristine fur made a sharp contrast against the blue denim of his overalls.
"Oh my God." She gasped, covering her mouth. "I can't believe he's still here."
Michael laughed and carefully brought her closer to the chimp. "Bubbles, hey, come here Buddy."
On hearing his voice, Bubbles turned and immediately began to walk towards them, happy and bright eyed as he approached.
"You remember my friend, don't you?" The chimp rewarded Michael with a small noise, but soon climbed up into his owners arms.
"I don't think it's me he's excited to see." She laughed softly, squeezing his hand and them letting go so he was able to hold on to his friend with both arms. "Can't say I blame him. You always were good with animals."
If it were possible, Bubbles looked at Michael in admiration, arms around his neck like a child being held by their father. Michael beamed a wide grin and shook his head.
"I think animals understand me better than most people sometimes." He admitted.
For the next couple of hours, the two of them entertained not just Bubbles, but various other pets. Muscles the massive boa constrictor had always always been particularly fascinating in her eyes and so when she asked if she could hold him, Michael immediately complied, watching with a fond smile as she bonded with the reptile.
Plenty of people he'd met in life thought him strange for his unwavering love of wild life. It was either seen as too much or like he'd had more money then sense.
In reality, Michael had saved a lot of these animals from various unfortunate circumstances and given them another shot at a good quality of life. His empathy crushed him and he hated the idea of any creature suffering.
These animals had become his friends in isolation and watching her not only tolerate, but actually enjoy the presence of those very same pets filled him with a warmth he couldn't explain.
Sometime later, their hands intertwined once again, Michael walked her back through the house with a specific destination in mind.
"Where are we going?" She huffed, playfully pinching his waist when she earned no reply, only for him to gasp and shove her gently. "Well, answer me."
"Girl, relax! We'll be right there." He laughed, turning a corner that eventually lead them to the faimiliar doorway of his own bedroom.
For a moment, her body froze.
The last time she'd been in his room, they'd been dating and it was a happy time. Things were playful and new, she had felt like she belonged in his space and now she worried that wouldn't be the case.
"Come on." His soft voice spoke against her ear. "I want to show you something."
Gathering the courage, she gave him a small nod and followed as he pushed open the door.
If Michael hadn't been a hoarder before, he certainly was now.
Books piled high, spilling off shelves, paintings hung on walls, but he had so many that some of them were now housed on the floor, there were ranges of records and other musical items she had no idea the names of, but felt so crucial to him.
The lingering smell that was so unique to Michael met her senses the moment she stepped inside and any doubt she felt just seconds ago faded to nothingness.
Seeing him hop over the luxe bed in the center of the room, she resisted the urge to laugh and then before she realised what was going on, Michael was approaching her with a sketch book in his hands.
"What's that?" She asked, closing the space between them.
"This is what I wanted to show you." Michael responded, flicking through the pages until he found the one thing he's been searching for. "Ah, here it is!"
His smile was brighter than any star she had even seen and it took a long minute for her to stop looking at his face and shift her gaze downward to the page he was holding out for her.
What greeted her back took her breath away.
A large scale blue and red sketch, intricate in detail and perfectly symmetrical, not a line out of place and every single pencil mark served a purpose. Some lines curved, but most were straight and there, right at the bottom, like a true artist, Michael had signed his name.
This must have taken him hours.
Sparing a glance in his direction, she offered a kind smile. "This is gorgous, Michael."
She's always known he was a talented artist. It wasn't just music where he excelled, he was creative across the board and more often than not, he always succeeded with whatever he was attempting to convey.
"But, I'm confused." She admitted, gently tracing the intricate patten with the softest touch of her fingertips. "It's a door, right?" Her wide eyed gaze watched as Michael nodded. "Where's does it lead."
"That's the thing..." Michael mused, looking down at his work and then back to her. "it hasn't been built yet."
"It doesn't exist?" She asked, eyebrows pinched in confusion.
"Not yet." He emphasised. "But it will, one day."
"Please elborare. You're making me feel dumb."
His soft laughter reached her ears and warmed her heart.
"I'm moving out." He explained and then quickly fixed his statement. "I mean, probably not this year, but by next year at the latest. I want to buy lots of land and have this amazing house built. This is my idea for the entrance."
Suddenly it all made sense and she found herself grinning back, the idea of Michael getting out from underneath the thumb of his father and finally having a space of his own made more sense than he probably realised.
"I want to call it Neverland." He confessed and then turned to her with the softest look she'd ever seen. "And it's going to be a safe space, you know? For animals, children, myself. I've spent so much time feeling caged in, this could really be my chance to create something that works for me and I know it's going to take time, but I really feel that if I do this, my whole life is going to be so much better. I'll be happier."
"I think it's a great idea, Mike." Her voice so soft, he almost had to strain to hear it.
"Yeah?"
She just nodded in conformation and stepped forward to give him a hug. Michael froze only for a second, as though he hadn't expected it, but fairly quickly he melted against her, his arms falling to her waist as hers lay across his shoulder, her face tucked against his neck so close, he could feel her breath.
"It's going to be amazing." He rambled. "A place so far away from the crazy paparazzi, from the constant barrage of nasty rumours. It'll be a happy place and you'll visit all the time, of course. Peter won't be happy unless he has his Tinkerbell to keep him company."
Lifting her head, she was taken back by just how close their faces were, but made no attempt to back away.
"Tinkerbell? I thought Peter was meant for Wendy." She breathed.
Michael shrugged, keeping her close once he set his sketchbook down. "Maybe in most adaptations, but I don't know, I think he might have been infatuated with Wendy, but she wanted him to change. When you really think about it, Tinkerbell was the only one who accepted him exactly the way he was."
You didn't need to be a genius to catch the meaning of his words.
She had never tried to change Michael, never been cruel or made fun of any of his quirks. As he accepted her for all she was, she'd done the same.
Looking into his eyes, staring back was a depth of brown she had convinced herself had never existed in another human being before. The rich espresso color belonged to Michael and Michael alone.
Unaware of how long they spent breathing each other in, she couldn't deny it anymore. She'd fallen for him again. Maybe she'd never truly gotten over him in the first place. Michael was an enigma, yes, and he'd made mistakes, but he's proved time and time again how much he valued her.
They'd spent months by each others side, laughing, joking and enjoying the simple pleasures that come along with spending quality time with someone you care for. He listened as she complained about work, comforted her when she was upset and even when she was in a bad mood and wanted to shut herself away, he stayed by her side and told her the most ridiculous stories just to see her smile.
Looking at him now, she saw it all and so she didn't need to think as she inched closer and closed the gap between them.
Her lips slotted against his with ease and not only did sparkles fly, the world completely changed from one single kiss.
Shifting out of it, Michael drew his head back though his eyes remained closed, eyelashes falling against his cheeks so delicately, she felt her heart cletch.
"Wait." He whispered, resting his forehead against her own. "Are you sure about this? Because I want to kiss you, God, I want to kiss you, but I can't do it if this is just going to be a temporary thing." Fluttering his eyes open, he could feel her warm breath against his lips. "I don't want a night, I want all of you."
"Then take me. I'm yours."
That was all it took.
In an instant, his lips melded against her own, drawing her in deep and passionate. His hands at her hips squeeze against her flesh and she played carefully with the curls at the back of his neck.
His lips against her own after so long felt like she'd been invited into heaven. The sweet taste of orange juice and something so distinctive to him. There was nothing in the world thst could replicate it.
Teeth tugged against her lower lip and it took zero effort for her to open up, feeling his tongue against her own and still wanting more.
Her hand dragged down against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the erratic beating of his own heart and she hoped he knew how perfectly it mirrored her own.
Time meant nothing as she walked him backwards, her mouth never once letting up until the backs of Michael's knees met the frame of his bed and he fell down on the mattress. For one long moment, she just looked at him. The ragged rising of his chest, the swollen pink of his lips and the way his eyes had hazed over in lust.
Guiding her, his hands at her waist brought her down to his lap, knees straddling his thighs while Michael pressed a series of heated kisses down her jaw and along the column of her throat, nibbling against her soft skin and smoothing the small bites with the wetness of his tongue.
Her breath caught in her throat, only made that much more obvious once his hand slid down and grazed the length of her tight. Slow, seductive, like he had never forgotten the way her body worked.
"You drive me crazy." She uttered, with her hand to his cheek, she guided his face back to hers and pressed their lips together again.
Firm, hungry, but not rushing. Not after all the time they'd spent apart. They needed to cherish this.
So many sleepless nights where they'd only wished the other person had been there to keep them warm. Now, they didn't have to imagine, they could indulge in one another and no outside forces could tell them to stop.
Clothes were slowly removed. Her sweater first, skirt and t-shirt. Michael greedily caressed every piece of flesh available to him, his lips following the path his fingertips made, like he had to worship her or risk losing everything.
"You're so beautiful." He spoke softly, kissing above her collarbone and then shifting so she was laid out on her back. "So fucking perfect." He continued, eyeing her like she was some kind of holy deity blessing him with her presence.
Before she could convey anything, his lips moved lower, down her abdomen, teasing against her tights. Soft breaths and whimpers of excitement only spurred him on.
As carefully as she could, she guided Michael back up and smiled once his face was back in sight. He brushed his lips against hers and then froze for a long beat as she quickly worked the buttons and pushed the blue dress shirt from his shoulder.
Face flushed and shy, he suddenly sat back and looked down, almost like he was embarrassed now.
If only he could turn off the lights.
Michael moved to pick the blue fabric back up, but her hands caught his before he had the chance.
"Don't hide from me." She whispered, resting a hand against his rosey cheek and caressing the supple skin.
Lost in the moment, he didn't know what to say. It was embarrassing. Not only that she was seeing him like this, but how he was acting too.
"I-" Hiz gaze fell down and he took a deep breath before he continued. "I don't look the way you remember." He confessed.
If a heart could physically break, she was sure that in that moment, hers had.
Rising to her knees, she crawled towards Michael and placed a hand against the warmth of his shoulder.
"Mike... you're gorgeous." She confessed, sponging soft kisses to the bare skin of his neck. "You always have been. I know things have changed... that your vitiligo has spread, but that doesn't matter to me." She assured, smiling softly once he moved his head back and let her kiss more of his skin. "You're perfect."
Michael let go then, her hands drifting lower, lingering and caressing parts of his body before pulling down his zipper and riding him of the black pants he'd been sporting all day.
With a soft push, she laid back once again, looking up at him in wanderment, her perfect body on full display and if he hadn't been hard before, he certainly was now.
Within seconds, he was back on her, mouth against hers, finding a rhythm that worked for both of them. Her body grew warm beneath him, and he lost himself the moment her hand began to tug at the waistband of his briefs. Lifting his hips, Michael helped her remove the offending piece item of clothing and didn't miss the way she glance down, awarding herself with the growing sight of him that she'd been denied for years.
A cocky smirk edged against the corners of his mouth at the blown out look that fell across her wild eyes.
He was no better.
As she looked up at him, only a slither of brown could be seen around the dark depth of his wide pupils.
Quickly ridding her of her bra and panties, Michael stopped to appreciate the sight of her bare for a moment or two. Holding himself up, a finger dropped low, sliding through the sticky, sweet wetness he'd been craving for so long now.
"Fuck." He uttered absentmindly, gathering the taste of her on his fingertips and bringing them to his mouth where he sucked her essence away and groaned in delight.
Below him, her mouth fell wide, unable to tear her eyes away from such an erotic sight. As he lowered and claimed her lips once again, she could taste the salty flavour of herself against his tongue and swore she'd never never tasted something so intoxicating.
"Please." She moaned, feeling the hardness of him rutting against her so filthy, but not enough. "Don't tease, baby."
Nodding his head, he tried hard to maintain the messy kiss, but just the idea of being inside her again was too much of a distraction.
Shifting closer, Michael moved at an expert pace to guide his tip against her opening. Synchronised moans filled the room the moment his thick head pressed inside. Lost for words, her vision blurred and as if sensing it, his lips suddenly fell back to hers.
The sensation was more than either of them could have imagined. He filled her so perfectly, it wasn't out of line to consider if they'd been made just for this.
"I'm gonna move, okay?" His words tickled her lips and she nodded almost instantly. "You're so beautiful." He muttered once again, drawing all the way out only to push back in a moment later.
Whining at the feeling, her hips rocked against his, finding a rhythm and working on it as a team. Clawing at his back, her mouth dropped fully as his speed increased, pressing against a sweet spot deep within her to drive her crazy.
"You're so perfect." He confessed, forehead falling against her own. "I missed this, I missed you."
As if to prove a point, Michael rolled through her with such precision, she saw stars. The warm weight of his body pressed to hers protecting her from any outside forces that could threaten to hurt them.
Hand against her thigh, he guided her leg around his slim waist and both of them gasped as the subtle movement had him sinking further into her warmth.
"Please." The word left her mouth as her head fell back against his pillow. "Michael, I need more."
For a moment, he basked in the sight. His lover withering beneath him, begging for more. There had been a time in his life where he thought he'd never have this again, where he'd convinced himself he had lost the best thing to ever happen to him, but here she was and he wasn't about to deny her the pleasure she deserved.
Knowing her like the back of his hand, he reached down and pressed his tumb against her swollen bud, creating perfect circles as his hips snapped against her and rewarded him with the sound of his name falling from her lips.
"Ah- I'm... Mike..." Clenching around him, her breath suttered, so close to falling off the edge as her orgasm built.
Completely at his mercy, she was loud and unbothered, so beautifully her, like she couldn't get enough of him and didn't care if anyone was around to hear it.
"Come on, baby." Michael suttered. "Cum for me, I wanna feel you."
His thrusts gained momentum, thumb pressing perfectly against her clit and with one sharp snap of his hips, she lost it. Crying out in ecstasy, absurd and draw out, she practically chanted his name over and over like a prayer.
Legs spasming beneath him, she somehow impossibly tightened further and Michael lost his focus. The rhythm he'd been holding now sloppy and broken as he worked his way through his own orgasm, loud with the call of her her name on his lips until eventually his sweaty body collapsed against hers.
Their shared, heavy breathing echoed around them for a long time until they eventually calmed. His heat still pouring in his ears, but for all the right reasons.
Pressing a gentle kiss against her neck, Michael liftened himself with one arm once enough time had passed and found himself grinning at the blissed out look of his lover.
"Well, that was something." He slurred, sloppily pressing a kiss to her lips. "You meant what you said, didn't you?" His tone quite, in need of assurance. "You're mine?"
"For as long as you'll have me." She grinned, brushing a curl from his forehead and brushing her nose against his.
The smile he rewarded her with was enough to leave her breathless. She's never met someone so captivating before and seeing him in these small pockets of privacy reminded her how lucky she truly was.
Little did she know, Micahel was thinking the exact same about her.
For the next hour or so, they spent their time frolicking in his sheets, touching, tasting, feeling all that they'd missed out on. They laughed and smiled like nothing else mattered now that they'd fallen back into rhythm and maybe nothing really did.
Eventually, they pulled themselves apart for long enough to clean up and while Michael was busy washing up in his ensuite, she made it her own little mission to look around his room.
Fingers gliding over some of his more endearing possessions: a first edition X-men, a photo of him smiling with Bubbles, a stuffed animal he's brought at Disneyland when he was twenty-one. Tiny details that painted the picture of a man bigger than the sky.
Her curious wandering eventually came to a sudden halt when she found herself standing outside his closet. The temptation too strong to resist and with an innocent shrug of her shoulders, she pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
Michael's closet could've been it's own room. Clothes of varying design went back as far as the eye could see. Sparkling, dazzling spectacles to more subdue items you would find in day to day life. She looked through the items with care, smelling him on each piece of fabric she passed. Fingertips danced over different textures and she hummed in amusement when she realised his hat collection was bigger than her entire wardrobe.
Slinking around, her eyes soon caught sight of his basics and with little room for argument, greedy hands plucked a fresh, white t-shirt off it's hanger and in the next beat, she had tugged it over her head.
No sooner had the hem fallen to her thighs did the closet door open.
Turning her head, she was greeted with the glorious sight of Michael, fresh face, wearing a silk robe of sorts that he kept tucked away near his bed.
"Should've known you'd be in here." He teased, stepping towards her. "You always were a lurker."
"Oh please, like you didn't open every draw and cupboard of my place when you first visited." She laughed as he did and then looked down at the item of clothing she's stolen. "You don't mind, do you?" Insecurities laced in her words.
"Mind?" He muttered, large hands falling to her waist to draw her in close. "Girl, don't be ridiculous. You know I always loved seeing you in my clothes."
It wasn't exactly like the one she had before. It wasn't overly worn and the neckline hadn't been stretched, but it still smelt like him. Warm and new.
If that wasn't a karmic metaphor for their relationship, she didn't know what was.
Weeks later, sitting on the white sofa in her apartment with a book in her lap and her legs resting carelessly across Michael's thighs, she tried to lose herself in the words of her novel.
Really, she did.
But his looming gaze proved to be too much of a distraction for her to keep pace.
She must have reread the same line twelve times before she let out an exaggerated sigh, throwing her book down and turning towards him.
"What's wrong?" She huffed, eyes softening a fraction as he drew delicate lines across her calf with his finger.
"Nothing." He shrugged, but the downturned smile said otherwise.
"There's clearly something." Sitting up, she shifted in her spot, sliding across the sofa and moving her legs from him so she could take his hand in her own, rubbing soothing circles across his knuckles with her thumb. "I can hear you thinking. It's really loud."
That brought a small laugh and eventually he turned his face towards her, eyes dull with thoughts he'd kept to himself.
"Tour starts in two weeks." He whispered.
With a soft laugh, she nodded her head. "Well done, genius. You only just remembered?"
Rolling his eyes, he threw himself backwards and covered his eyes with his arm. His lips sealed shut as if to say he was done with the conversation.
Looking at him for a beat, she eventually pressed her fingers against his ribs and wiggled them. And onslaught of laughter fell from his mouth. Moving his arm, Michael playfully told her to stop before grabbing both hands in his own and holding them hostage. The more she pulled to set them free, the tighter his grasp.
"Come on, Mike." She spoke softly. "What's got you so down? I thought you were excited for this tour."
"I am." He admitted almost instantly.
"It's your time to shine as a solo star now. It's what you always wanted."
"Yes." He nodded.
"And you love performing."
"I do."
Failing to see the problem, she tugged her hands out of his and placed them on her own thighs. "Then what's wrong? Are you worried about all the travelling?"
"No." Michael shook his head.
"You're not happy with the set list?"
"Of course I am." He huffed, almost offended she would suggest that. "The set list is perfect!"
"If it's not any of that then I really don't understand what's bugging you so much." She confessed, eyebrows arched slightly as she analysed the intense look he wore. "I know this is a first for you and you might be scared of that, but I think you'll really enjoy yourself once your there. You'll find your footing quick and you won-"
"Come on tour with me." Michael cut her off, a hopeful gleam swimming in the depth of his eyes.
A pregnant pause descended around them, her eyes wide in shock from his outburst. Not for a second had she expected him to say that.
"You're crazy." She laughed, pulling away out of his grasp.
Before she could get far, Michael tightened his hold on her hands and tugged her towards him so she couldn't hide away. "Am I?" He asked softly.
"Yes." She nodded.
"Am I?" He asked once again.
"Yes!"
"Think about it," he began, reaching up to brush his knuckles against her cheekbone. "you've finished the illustrations for Dick's book."
"Rick." She correct.
Rolling his eyes, he shook the correction away. "That's what I said."
Despite everything, even though it had been months since that day in the music store, he never could bring himself to like that blonde man.
"You've just started the concept art for the Man On The Moon one, right?" He asked, knowing she'd already been picked for another book so soon.
"Yeah."
"So, you show the author and the publishers that by the end of the week. They'll give you the go ahead, because you're a genius and then you can work on the full watercolor pieces while we're on the road." He explained it like it was simple, desperate to have her to agree. "You can paint on the bus and in the hotel rooms, send your work through the mail and talk on the phone when you need to be in meetings. It's full proof."
"Full proof?" She scoffed.
Maybe to him it was. Michael lived in a world where he could make things happen with the drop of a hat.
But she wasn't Michael Jackson. She didn't have that luxury.
It wasn't that she didn't want to be there. Of course she did.
Watching him on stage night after night and being able to sleep beside him would be thrilling, but it seemed impossible.
"Come on... I don't want to travel the globe alone." He confessed rather vunerably. "And I really don't want to spend so much time away from you when I just got you back." Brushing the tip of his nose against hers, he could practically feel the fight leaving her body. "Come on, baby. Say yes."
"I want to." She admitted, feeling his lips brushing against her jaw. "You're being really unfair right now."
"I'm just giving you a preview of what you can look forward to if you agree." He mumbled against her skin and then leaned forward to capture his lips with his, sucking lower top lip and smiling once she leaned into it. "Come on, I'll do anything I can to make it easier for you."
When she didn't deny him straight away, his brain conjured every critical thought it possibly could to sweeten the deal.
"I'll even have someone fly out to send your illustrations over if that's what you're worried about." Michael promised. "And if you need to physically be in a meeting, I'll make sure you're on the first plane there and the first plane back. Anything... just say yes."
Hand on his chest, she nudged him backwards and climbed into his lap, her knees bracketing Michael's thighs as his grasp fell to her waist. "You make a really good case for yourself, Mister Jackson."
"I can do that when I really want something." He confessed, large hands sliding beneath her shirt, greedily caressing her warm skin. "So, is that a yes?"
Humming, she caught his face between her palms and guided his mouth close to her own. "Let's see how well you treat me tonight. If you leave me satisfied, I'll come with you."
Instantly, Michael threw her down on the sofa, climbing on top of her to devour her mouth in a searing kiss.
Safe to say, she would definitely be joining him on tour.
summary: you have to go home for a wedding. jack comes to support. you think it's the end of your relationship, he proves it's not.
pairing: jack abbot x fem! doctor! reader, carmen berzatto x fem! sister! reader, sugar berzatto x fem! sister reader, richie jerimovitch x fem! cousin! reader, etc.
warnings: regular themes of the bear, regular themes of the pitt, jack was abused as a kid, reader was lowkey abused as a kid, talks of suicide, talks of death, talks of depression and addiction, talks of jack's PTSD, stevie is annoying, LOTS OF CURSING, fear of abandonment, lots of crying, non-sexual nudity, spoilers for the wedding episode (based on episode 7 'bears'- season 4 of the bear)
a/n: yall, this is 13k words. good luck.
banners from my good friend @no-144444 !
Everything was on fire. His leg, well, his lack of leg had been at him all night. His back was killing him from all the fucking leaning he’d been doing. His eyes were bloodshot from the double he’d unintentionally pulled. Fuck, he just wanted to go home. The last few hours had been a blur. Mass casualty events hit just a bit too close to home, reminding him of his time in the military, which was never really a good idea. He hated it, the screams he couldn’t forget, the wounds he couldn’t treat, and the faces forever etched into his memory. He hated it because he couldn’t watch fireworks, or watch any of those documentaries you so loved, or function properly sometimes. Sometimes the PTSD took over and the nightmares dragged him back, dragged him away from you.
You were always so patient. Always waiting for him, ready to pick up the pieces.
Shit, where were you? He hadn’t seen you since the beginning of the shitshow everyone had just endured.
He slid up against the nurse’s station, leaning against the desk as he gained Dana’s attention. “Know where my girl is?” he asked casually. You two had given up keeping it a secret months ago, specifically after Shen had made a powerpoint about how perfect you two are for each other and left it playing in the breakroom for a full night and day before either of you noticed. It had an AI image of you two kissing which looked far too real.
She let out a sigh, leaning in closer. Alarm bells went off in his head, but he kept calm. It’s probably fine, he told himself. She’s alright. “She’s getting some air, apparently,” She raised an eyebrow, putting a hand over his. He stiffened. He hated how often you followed his tradition of going up there for some air. Mostly he contemplated what the fuck he was doing with his life. You went up there to stop him. “Brought her phone, it was ringing. She answered it.” She shrugged and let go of his hand. That terrifying expression on her face, the one that meant she was worried. Not many things can make a charge nurse worried. More alarm bells than he’d enjoy to admit started ringing. You hated phone calls, it was just a thing with you. You texted, you listened to voicenotes, but you didn’t pick up your phone. It used to piss Jack off because calling is so much easier than texting, but he slowly understood it’s just something you didn’t enjoy, and he adapted.
The elevator was never fast enough for him, and neither was how long it took him to get up the stairs. The cold air hit him as he walked out onto the roof, your figure on the safe side of the railing. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Slowly, he approached. He caught words. No. Can’t. Mom. Sugar. Carm. Bear. Sydney. Tiffany. Frank. He didn’t pry. He leaned against the railing, and he waited.
“Rich, I’m not going,” you rolled your eyes as he kept fucking talking. “Yes! Yes, I fucking understand, thank you so fucking much for reminding me of what a terrible child and sister I am, I’m well aware, thank you!” You scoffed and the voice on the other side just got louder. “Is that Neil? Neil’s listening to this? Are your fucking joking me right now Rich?!” You gripped the railing with your free hand, a bruising grip around the cold metal. “Yes, hi sweetheart, I-I’m good… alright thank you sweetheart, bye. Fuck you Rich, no, no, seriously, fuck you. Get fucked, genuinely,” you sighed, eye closing, shoulders tense. Jack didn’t think he’d ever heard you curse so much. You rolled your shoulders and spoke again, brow furrowing. “What? I know she’s your ex-wife, but seriously? Fuck the wedding! I’m not driving for 7 hours to attend a wedding of a woman I literally don’t fucking know! Oh wow! That’s really fucking mature Rich, yes I know I’ve been living in Pittsburgh, thank you so much for fucking reminding me…- oh my god are you seriously still not fucking over that?! I had to leave! Oh, I’m so sorry did Donna try to kill you? Exactly, you fuckin’ jag-off,” you shouted over the phone, and finally made eye contact with Jack, realising he’d been standing there. Your voice evened out. “I have to go- I get it, alright, I fucking get it! Jesus, good-fucking-bye! Yeah fuck you too, alright? Love you Rich, I’ll think about it- alright, bye.” You were both quiet for a moment, just letting the energy of that call dissipate.
You pushed yourself off the railing, and turned to him. You let out a breath. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Who’s Donna and why did she try to kill you?” He asked, amusement laced in his tone. It quickly faded when that sad chuckle left your lips. You shook your head and pushed your phone into your pocket, then walked over to him and fell into his chest.
“She’s my mom and she hates me,” you shrugged as he wrapped his arms around you. He had to find out how fucking insane your family was eventually, right? “You alright?” You asked, pulling back to look at him. “Shouldn’t you have gone home already?”
He tucked a bit of hair behind your ear and shook his head. The fact that you’d glossed over the fact that you mom hates you made his heart hurt a little bit. You never talked about family or how you grew up, all he knew was that you were from Chicago, you had a sister and two brothers, and you never wanted to go back. He didn’t push, much like you didn’t push with his upbringing after he’d told you about it. “Waiting on you,” he smiled softly. “You did great today,” he cooed. “I’m proud.”
You nodded and offered him that tired smile he’d grown so used to, and he just had to lean in and kiss you. Soft lips meeting his, a gentle kiss, and a real smile on both your faces as you walked back into the ED. Dana sent you a look that you ignored, and you slipped away from Jack for just a moment to find Gloria.
But you didn’t tell him that.
The drive to Chicago was miserable, it always was. Nearly 7 hours of open road, an empty car, and a playlist that no matter how loud you turned the stereo, you still couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your chest and the thoughts in your head. You had told Jack you were sick and to avoid your apartment lest he felt the need to be consumed by the flu. He seemed to be staying away effectively, so you were going to be homefree for the weekend. The fucking wedding though, that stupid guilt trip Richie had somehow convinced you to attend, just for him. You’d see Sugar, and Carmen, and Richie, and your Mom, and everyone else you wanted to forget. You’d notice the space where Mikey should be. You’d see the empty glass that should be in his hand. You’d see the lack of floppy brown hair and stupid jokes that should entertain you all night long, and act prouder than anyone ever had. Well, maybe Mikey’s pride in you was rivaled by Jack’s, but you didn’t want to admit that to yourself.
A phone call came in, and you rolled your eyes. Still, you answered it.
“Where are you?” Jack’s voice was harsh, annoyed, angry. You fumbled with your phone for a second, debating on whether to crash into another car, or just tell him the truth.
“The highway,” you finally answered, deciding that maybe vehicular manslaughter is a bad idea, and insurance fraud is just stupid to go to jail for. “I’m going home for the weekend.”
He huffed out a sigh, and you heard something thump down on a table. “I’m at your apartment. Was going to take care of you this weekend,” he admitted, and your heart squeezed. That voice in your head that sounded a little bit like your mother’s chimed in. God, you don’t deserve him. You’ll never deserve him. Why would you think he’d ever stay with you? Not when you’re this broken. “How far are you?”
You took in a sharp breath and started. “Jack, I’m so sorry, I just didn’t want to rope you into this shit and seriously, you’d thank me if you knew them-”
“How far are you from your apartment?” He asked, enunciating every single word with that terrifyingly calm voice. The one he used with combative patients and med students, the one he’d never used with you.
“45 minutes.” You gulped.
“Turn around, come get me, I’m coming with you.” He said finally, and he hung up. The pit in your stomach only grew. You turned around. Maybe it was the selfishness of not wanting to be alone this weekend, maybe it was the fear that you would lose him if you didn’t, maybe it was just because he’d asked you to.
You were parked up outside your apartment in 35 minutes thanks to quick traffic. Jack was waiting on the curb, a suitcase, crutches, and his waterproof prosthetic beside him. With that hardened look on his face. Determination. You had seen it so many times before. Boyfriends insisted they wanted to meet your family, despite what you’d told them. You would just have to watch as the night went on. They’d go quiet, sorry, not quiet, fucking silent. They’d shrink, become less and less enthused by the idea of a future with you as they watched the past you’d had to deal with play out in front of them. A week later, you’d get some excuse about why it wasn’t working. Sometimes they were brave enough to admit it was the family baggage. Others ghosted, and others just didn’t give a reason. He opened the boot of your car, shoved his things beside yours, and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. You stared at him, and he stared back at you.
“Well you’re not driving,” he said it like it was obvious. It was to him, considering driving had never been a favourite pastime of yours. You rolled your eyes but jumped out of your seat and swung around to the passenger. So, he wasn’t completely livid with you, that was good, right? Well, he had every right to be, you had lied. “I’m not mad,” he explained as he started the car and drove off for Chicago. “I just want to understand why you felt like you couldn’t tell me. Or… bring me.” He cleared his throat after that last part, but his vulnerability had been visible anyway. Your heart sank, he couldn’t really think you didn’t want to bring him because of him, god no.
You turned to him, putting a hand over his. “God no, Jack. Please don’t think I was trying not to bring you because of anything other than the fact that my family is fucking crazy,” you practically begged, squeezing his hand. He didn’t glance in your direction. You let out a sigh and cleared your throat. “Jack, fuck, my mom’s an alcoholic, my dad died, my eldest brother blew his brains out in 2022, my twin brother is like the most mentally unwell but functioning human being, and my sister just had a baby. My cousin who’s not really my cousin-” you tried to explain it as best you could, hoping he didn’t notice the wobble in your voice. “His ex-wife is getting remarried and he’s showing up for her and their daughter, and he asked me to come, and since I haven’t been home in ages, everyone is going to be on my ass, including everyone from the Bear, and all the fucking Faks, and it’s just- it’s going to be a shitshow!” Thankfully, you were stopped at a redlight, and he could finally look at you. Notice the lip-bite that was stopping you from losing it. Notice the quick breathing. Notice the fear in your eyes, the kind that screamed ‘please don’t leave me now’.
“What’s a Fak?” He questioned, and the genuine confusion in his tone made you laugh. He was always good at that, giving you moments of light in your darkest times. Like that time you had to code a little boy who eventually didn’t make it. He’d brought you up to the roof and made some dumb joke about something Robby had done, and you laughed. You laughed until you cried, and he held you. He didn’t complain, just stroked your hair and back, and held you. Like you were precious and worth-it, and not a complete burden. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him. “And what’s the Bear?”
You huffed, sitting back in your seat, groaning. “The Faks are more cousins, kind of, and the Bear is my brother’s restaurant. It used to be my older brother’s sandwich spot, but he’s turned it into this fine-dining fuckery thing,” you scoffed, and he sent you a look. “I curse when I go home.” You shrugged.
“Noted.” He nodded.
It was past midnight by the time you and Jack pulled into the Berzatto-Kasinsky home. Ringing the doorbell seemed risky, so you just texted Pete that you were outside. The door was open in a matter of seconds, with a very happy looking Pete.
“Hey Doc-! And…?” He searched for his name (which you’d never told anyone back home).
“Jack,” you filled in. “Jack Abbot, Peter Kasinsky,” you introduced them and they shook hands. You skillfully evaded Jack’s eyeline as you both walked in. “Is Sug up?”
Pete smiled, nodding. “She’s just with the baby.” He was glowing with pride for both of them, you could tell. When Natalie first introduced Pete to the family, you’d been so confused. You were just a med student back then, but you had been so shocked that she’d picked someone so outside of the norm for Berzatto women. Now, you could see exactly why, because you had your own Pete, who yeah, maybe was a bit more rough and tumble occasionally, but he was soft. Soft when you needed him to be, kind always, and constantly there. It was nice.
“Fucking finally back in Chicagoland?” God, she sounded too much like your mother sometimes. It gave you chills. “Where have you been, Doc?” She pulled you into a hug before you knew what was going on, and you just accepted it graciously, hoping it would be over soon. “Oh my god, is this the boyfriend? I thought you were never going to bring him home?” She stared at Jack, who just waved, poorly concealing an awkward smirk. “You do know mom is going to be there tomorrow, right? She’s going to have something to say-”
You gently pushed her off. “Yes, Sug, I know. She always has something to fucking say. This is my boyfriend, Jack Abbot, meet my sister, Natalie Berzatto.” You introduced them, and she shook his hand graciously before turning her attention back to you.
“Everyone’s going to be looking for you tomorrow-” “I know.” “Have you heard about what’s been happening?” “No, Sug.” “Have you updated mom or Carm on anything recently? Because you know they think you’re mad or dying, or both-?”
“Obviously fucking not, Sugar,” you scoffed, dropping your bag on the ground (probably far too loud for the current audience). “And as you can see, I’m alive. Jack takes great fucking care of me, and as for Bear and Mom, I plan on avoiding the fuck out of both of them, all fucking weekend. Thank you for the questionnaire, but we’re both completely exhausted, and we’d love to get some sleep before tomorrow’s shitshow begins. Thanks.” You took Jack’s hand and led him downstairs to their basement guest room, and shut the door of the bathroom without a word.
You put a hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your sobs as you showered the day off you. God, you hated Chicago. You hated how much Mikey haunted everything. You hated how little everyone talked about him. You hated that Jack was here, getting a front row seat to your slow breakdown, and the insanity of your family. You hated how you already felt like you were losing him.
Knock knock.
The door was unlocked, but of course he would give you that space, give you a chance to refuse. You didn’t. “Come in.”
He was in the shower and holding you before you really knew what was happening. The tears came unexpectedly too, but he held you through them anyway, taking his time as he washed your hair, and washed your body. The words started falling from your lips. Might as well tell him now so when he breaks up with you, he’ll have all the facts. “I did some of my early residency at Rush hospital. It’s a 13 minute drive from State Street Bridge. Mikey shot himself in the head on the State Street Bridge. Someone had reported a body in the water, and when his body was fucking fished out they brought him to our coroner. I was on my second round of placement, and it was my first week of mortuary. He got wheeled in, and I knew right away. I didn’t even have to lift the sheet, I just felt it. He was meant to be picking me up from my shift, but he hadn’t been calling me to come out like he usually did when I was finished my shift, fuck Jack, he used to call me all the time,” you sobbed into his chest as he held you. “Then I had to call my mom, and Nat, and then I called Carmen but he was in New York, and when I told him, he just hung up. He just fucking hung up at me, and he didn’t fucking come to the funeral, and he’s all fucking great now, and that’s awesome. But I’m not great. I’m fucking awful, and I miss my brothers!” Your sobbing had become uncontrollable, and your words unintelligible, so he just let you cry into him, held you up when your body nearly gave out, and helped you into some pyjamas and into bed.
He was quiet. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it without it being a big deal. He was just surprised you’d never told him before, not exactly hurt, but not exactly alright with it. He’d told you everything, his war stories, his wife, his family. He’d unloaded everything of his, and yet you hadn’t so much as skimmed the surface with yours. He wasn’t mad, he just… wanted to be there for you in the way you were for him. It was only fair.
You took his silence as regret, as it had been with every other boyfriend. You lay, staring up at the ceiling, and debating how your life would look without him in it. How you two would work together despite the breakup. It filled you with a sense of rage. Not even at him. Just… at the situation. You’d grown up in a terrible home, and you had to subject him to it, then watch him leave. You lost him in every fucking scenerio. Your brain turned that idea of him leaving (idea without any probable cause) into a certainty. Then turned it into his ‘ploy to break up with you’. Your brain convinced you, in a matter of moments, that Jack had really been using this trip to break up with you. “Fuck, this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” you let out in a hoarse voice. “A fucking reason to end things.”
He shot up from his spot on the bed, confusion pulling at his features. Even in the dark you could see how offended he was. “What?”
You scoffed, turning over. “Just forget it.” You brushed his hand off your shoulder and tried to just focus on getting some sleep for tomorrow.
“No, I will not just forget it, what are you saying?” He challenged, exasperated. He turned you over forcefully, making you meet his eyes. “I love you. I love you. I don’t give a fuck if your family are crackheads, or fucking murderers. I’m not here for them, I’m here so you don’t have to go through this weekend alone. That’s all I care about. I care about you getting back to Pittsburgh in one piece. I care about you being happy. I don’t care about your sister, or your twin, or your mother. I care about you, because you’re mine to protect, alright?” He affirmed, hands cupping your face like you were the most important thing to him. He brushed away the few stray tears that had slipped out. “Alright?”
You nodded, surging forward and capturing his lips in a ;ess than gentle kiss. You were pouring all your gratitude and apologies into it, as he poured all his affection and care. You pulled back, nodding. “Alright.”
He smiled. You fell asleep against his chest.
You woke up with a bang. A literal bang. Well, a car horn. Richie’s stupid fucking car horn. Beside you, Jack stirred and tightened his grip on you. You groaned into your pillow and wrapped a hand around Jack’s wrist. “I’m sorry about today.” You frowned. He cracked a smile.
“It hasn’t even happened yet.” He chuckled, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth. He peppered kisses along your skin in that effortlessly romantic way he did everything. Sometimes you wanted to throttle him for it.
“Exactly, have to get it in early,” you gave him a grim smile, and got out of bed, though not without a struggle. The noise of the front door opening filled your ears. “Don’t come upstairs for a while, wait till I call you. Or wait till I start screaming.” You called after yourself as you climbed the stairs.
“Whatever you say, boss,” he nodded sarcastically, rolling back over in bed, pulling on his reading glasses, and turning his phone on. “It’s fucking 9am. Crazy people” He said to no one in particular before opening up the Wordle.
Upstairs, you were already being inundated with information from Sugar about what was going on with the wedding, hearing from Neil about how the restaurant is going, watching as Sammy Fak fumbled with the fridge door, staring as Teddy Fak tried to work the kettle, trying to understand the quiet introduction coming out of Sydney's mouth, and holding a baby. Somehow, still more chill than the Pitt. You continued on your journey for coffee as you introduced yourself to Sydney, while Sugar screamed at Neil.
“No, you fuckin’ bitch, I fuckin’ told you not to fuckin’ invite her and me to the same fuckin’ thing, and you fuckin’ invite her!” Sugar groaned as Neil stood there looking far too guilty. “She’s a backstabbing bitch!”
“It’s not my wedding!” He argued, faking innocence like a toddler caught with his hand in a cookie jar. You finally reached the coffee machine. Richie was already trying to talk your ear off about the wedding. Both Sammy and Ted sent you a very enthusiastic hello, swallowing you up in a too-tight hug that you barely peeled away from.
“Look, I’m glad you came, thank you, cousin. Means a lot,” He smiled tentatively. You nodded, acknowledging his gratitude. “I don’t know how I’m goin’ to fuckin’ do this.” You realised you’d mistaken anxiety for tentativeness while you watched him play with his tie. Shit, since when did Rich wear suits?
“You wear suits now?” You questioned, pouring yourself a mug with one hand. You bounced the new baby in your other arm and smiled down at the sack of soft bones, and even softer skin. If you hadn’t been an ER doctor, you would’ve been an ob-gyn. You like kids, but you love taking care of them when they’re newborn and can’t talk back. To your left, Sammy nearly opened a door in his face, but you reached out a hand to stop him, as Sugar called Francine a cunt repeatedly.
You smiled. “I know,” part of you wanted to spill it right then and there. Tell him that the only reason you looked healthy at all was because your attending-turned-boyfriend made sure you took breaks at, and from work. Tell him that days spent at overpriced farmer’s markets and in his apartment were your favourite days. Tell him that a guy you jokingly called grandpa was your favourite person. Tell him that Jack was your first real piece of happiness since Mikey passed. Tell them that while you weren’t over it, you were finally starting to build on top of it, and realise that grief doesn’t go away, it just gets less loud. You shook it off. “Who’s she talking about?” You questioned, taking a sip of your coffee and looking to Pete for an answer. He grimaced. “Don’t tell me it’s Francie-?”
Sugar whipped around faster than lightning. “Do not speak that name in my fuckin’ house!” She pointed a vicious finger at you, and you held up a hand in mock surrender. Pete offered an apologetic smile which you acknowledged, then handed his baby back. Sugar continued on her rant as Richie watched, and Sydney pretended that she cared to be there.
“Hey, I know we haven’t met before, but I’m Sydney,” she held out her hand to be shook and you took it. You quickly told her your name, and turned your attention back to the coffee. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
You grimaced. “Oh yeah? Did Carmen tell you about the time I shaved his head in his sleep or…?” You asked, afraid of the things he’d said about you. Granted, there was much worse, but still, over a decade later, the last time you checked he was still butt-hurt about the fact that you’d shaved his head in his sleep.
She laughed. “No, surprisingly, but I have heard you’re an ER doctor?” You nodded. “Great! Cause’ I’m seriously going to need you to sedate me today or something, considering how bad everyone is making it sound.” She chuckled awkwardly. You smiled. She was sweet. A little awkward, very funny, and calm. You had no idea how she got into business with Carmen, but you hoped she had good mental health resources.
“Whatever you’ve been told about these things, people always get better with age. Some of us are still reeling from the disaster of the seven fishes from a few years ago, so don’t expect anything like that. I seriously doubt Tiffany would take it-” It was pretty hard to have a conversation over the sound of the coffee machine, Sugar’s breakdown, and whatever song Pete was humming to the baby, but you two somehow did it. You watched as Pete blessed himself when you mentioned that seven fishes dinner. Fucking forks man.
“Oh, so now you know Tiff, huh?” Richie scoffed, crossing his arms. “Where was this energy two weeks ago?”
“I don’t know her. I just know she didn’t put up with your shit, so I seriously doubt she’s putting up with the family’s.” You shrugged before picking up another mug to fill it for Jack, when Richie practically barked.
“Two mugs?” He questioned, eyes wide. Everything in the kitchen stopped. Sugar was the only person you’d told about Jack. You knew anyone else would’ve spilled it to your mom, and it would only be a matter of time before she started calling you and begging for you to bring him home. Even the thought alone made you shiver. You sucked in a deep breath.
“Two mugs,” you nodded. “I brought my boyfriend with me.”
You would’ve thought you’d just told the room you had gained the ability to fly. The three Faks dropped their jaws, and Neil started yapping, Teddy started complaining, and Sammy started congratulating. Sugar stopped her rant to watch the reaction coming out of Richie, which, granted, wasn’t great. He stared at you for a minute.
“Shut up- shut up shithead!” He shouted at the Faks, who complied pretty easily and went back to their pottering. “Boyfriend? Since when have you had a boyfriend?” He gawked.
“Since a year and 2 months ago,” you admitted. His jaw didn’t drop into a long lecture about lying (like you would’ve expected from him a year ago), it set back, genuine shock filling his features. “He’s an ER doctor like me, and he’s here to meet everyone and support me. And possibly save Francine’s life if Sug decides to kill her.” You tried to sneak in the joke to break the ice, but Richie’s face just hardened.
“You kept that for a year and 2 months?” He questioned.
You nodded. “Yeah, I did.”
“Carmy know?” He had that dangerous look in his eye, the one where you really couldn’t tell if he wanted to run out of there and never look back, or hang onto you and never let go. Fuck, his eyes were piercing through you. Still, you stood tall, firm in your choice. Jack was your one good thing. Jack was your everything.
You scoffed. “He doesn’t know anything about my life. I don’t even think he knows I live in Pittsburgh.” Not the greatest thing to admit, but it was the truth. Carm didn’t reach out and neither did you.
Richie swallowed the lecture he wanted to give you about sand and stones, and nodded. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs, in bed. I’ll bring him up when we’re dressed, alright?”
You didn’t wait for an answer before running down the stairs, seriously wondering if you’d made the right choice by coming home, and moreover, bringing Jack. Some of the anxiety settled as you watched Jack pull on his suit jacket, the one he filled out so well, with a little bit of a grumble.
“Alright there, old man?” You teased, dropping his coffee on the dresser in front of him. He grunted in response, taking a sip. He loved this, the quiet back and forth you two were so accustomed to. Though, there were still things to be addressed from last night. You’d gone nearly three years without admitting that your brother killed himself. Even more, you’d gone nearly three years without asking for his help. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into him as you let out a small laugh. He buried his head in the crook of your neck, and you raised a hand to run through his hair gently. You two fit together, more than anyone else had.
“You wanna talk about last night?” He asked, his breath hot against your skin. There it was, the simple, no nonsense question. But this was nonsensical. It was emotional, it was unregulated, and it was a lot. It was too much for you to deal with most of the time, and Jack had his own baggage that he had to worry about, he didn’t need to start taking yours on. As if by magic, he opened his mouth again and gave you exactly the reassurance you needed. “Don’t worry about this being ‘too much’. I’m here for you. Literally, I’m in Chicago for you, but also emotionally. And I’m not leaving you.” He smiled, proud of his little unintentional pun.
You let out a half-huff, half-chuckle, and nodded. His arm around you fell as you pulled away to start getting ready for the wedding ahead of you. “It’s a lot.” You admitted. He nodded.
“So was my stuff. Neglectful parents, war, dead wife, PTSD, anxiety, etc,” he shrugged, crossing his arms as you started on your makeup in the mirror. God, he looked handsome. If it were any other day and you hadn’t just spent 10 minutes being surrounded by Faks and Berzattos, and Richie, you would’ve jumped his bones. “I’m also an emergency medicine doctor who has a habit of taking on too much from a patient perspective.”
You chuckled. “Molly tell you that?” You questioned, asking about his therapist. You and her were pretty friendly, especially after the few months of sessions where Jack asked you to join him so he could explain a bit about his past without shutting down. She was great for him, and he really liked how their work together made him feel. You were happy for him, glad he could work through it. He nodded with that ‘trying not to smile’ smile, and walked over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Immediately, you could feel the heat of his hand through your (his) hoodie, and it just drove you insane. He waited patiently for you to start talking. “My mom used to drink a lot. My dad didn’t care, and he drank worse, and then he died, so I guess it wasn’t much different. We weren’t close, he was always off with Mikey. Everyone loved Mikey,” a teary smile invaded your features, but you pushed it down. You wanted Jack to understand. You wanted to be vulnerable. You wanted him to stay. “My mom drank more. She got more uncontrollable. More upset. More… rageful. I was 9 when she threw a plate at the floor that shattered and a piece lodged into my arm,” you pointed out the scar with an almost disinterested gaze, and he noticed. Of course he did. His lips pursed into a line, the thought of a little 9 year old you, just playing on the floor, getting a piece of fucking ceramic in your arm for no good reason, just because someone else couldn’t control their temper, it boiled his blood. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the raised skin. You stiffened under him, but kept speaking. “Richie got mad at her, started shouting, she shouted back. Carmen got the piece out. Sugar cleaned it up. Mikey just watched it all play out. Sometimes he got like that.” You shrugged, trying to keep the wobble out of your voice.
“Like what?” He asked, continuing to press soft kisses to your shoulder and neck. He knew how to calm you. First, just letting you talk. Second, he’d kiss you all over. Third, he’d start running his hands up and down your sides. It was weirdly comforting.
You knew the medical definition for it. He dissociated. You knew the full definition, able to read it off like a script from your week long stint in the psyche ward when you were still choosing a specialty. Dissociation is a mental process where a person disconnects from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity. He’d just sit there, staring off into space. Now, you knew there were other things going on in his head, but then, you just thought your big brother didn’t care, and you got angry. You’d ice him out for days, sometimes a full week. Now, that thought made your stomach turn. “He’d…” You still couldn’t say it. It felt too impersonal to diagnose him post-mortem.
“Dissociate?” Jack filled in. You nodded. “I see.”
“My mom only got worse. More passive aggressive. More regular-aggressive,” you rolled your eyes, shaking off the emotion from before. “Everyday there was a fucking fight, and it was always my fault. When family came over, things got worse. She’d shout at us in front of people, and they wouldn’t stop her because they felt bad. She’d married an abusive drunk, and they couldn’t fault her for being upset. Got worse again when Mikey left home. He was only living in the city, and we were in the suburbs, but God, you’d think he’d moved to fuckin’ Hong Kong. She talked about him like he was dead. She’d be on her best behaviour when he was coming around, so that was good. Carmen was a real anxious kid though, and everyone just told him he needed to toughen up. He used to draw. He’d draw these incredible pictures at lunch in high school, and some dickward would just come over and rip it up. Drove me crazy,” you shook your head, remembering the fear in Carmen’s eyes, and the pride in the bullies. “I got in so many fucking fights for him. Nearly got me kicked out of school. When I couldn’t deal with the kids, Rich and Mikey would. They’d scare the shit out of them, fake jump them or something. Carmen and I used to be super close.” You explained almost dreamily, finishing off your makeup and moving onto your hair.
“What changed?” he asked, helping you with the straightening iron. He’d made you teach him how to do various hair tricks with it so he could help you if needed. It took a bit of trial and error, and a lot of being burnt with the iron, but he got the hang of it. It nearly made your ovaries explode, watching him brush your hair.
You sighed. “When Mikey died, I kind of… lost it, just a little. Mikey was my big brother and I was taking care of him, trying to get him clean, using all my spare time, which was barely anything, to help him with the restaurant, or with anything he needed. I obviously was the first one to know, and I had to call everyone. I called Carmen. I told him. He hung up. I call him a hundred times, left him voicemails until his was full, and he didn’t fucking call me back. I begged him to come to the funeral, or at least text me back so I knew he was alive. I spent 4 nights calling New York ERs to check that he wasn’t dead. Mikey's funeral came around, and I was alone. Carmen didn’t come. My mom was on the verge of losing it every five seconds. Richie was still trying to fix his marriage. Sugar had Pete. I had no one. I expected him to be there, because he always promised me that if I asked him to do something, he’d move heaven and Earth to get it done. He let me down. So, I flew to New York, called him a bad brother, a coward, and a selfish bastard. I ambushed him outside of his work, and all he said was ‘I have to get back inside’. No sorry. No dropping everything and coming back home to help pick up the pieces. Nothing. He just walked back inside. He came home four months later, and by then I was already in Pittsburgh.”
Part of him wanted to just crawl into a hole and die. His heart broke for you. Everything you’d endured, everything you’d kept silent for so long, everything you’d swallowed. He cleared his throat and made eye contact with you through the mirror. “I’m sorry.” He practically whispered, but you heard it. It hit you square in the chest, and squeezed your heart. He was good at that.
“My mom doesn’t like me in general, but she specifically can’t look at me because I look the most like Carmen and Mikey. You’ll probably see her there today, wine glass in her hand, spewing nonsense,” you laughed, but it wasn’t funny. He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice the tremble in your shoulders. “And you’ll see Carmen.”
“I can introduce myself, if it makes it easier?” He offered, finishing off your hair.
You shook your head. “Ideally, I won’t leave your side today.” You admitted, standing up and kissing his cheek, before heading into the bathroom.
The tightness in his chest had eased, and the insecurity had subsided. You had opened up, even though it was hard, and you’d told him. You explained a fair bit of what happened before he knew you, and he almost felt a little giddy that you trusted him, but any happiness was soon crushed by the realisation of what happened to you. He couldn’t help but think of a younger you, with smaller features and less medical knowledge. That scared little girl he caught glimpses of occasionally, much like the glimpses you caught of the boy he used to be. The skinny one with freckles and bruises all over his skin. He liked to think you two could’ve been friends, if there wasn’t the age gap, or distance. Maybe he would’ve helped you fend off Carmen’s bullies, and you could’ve held him when he cried like you were so talented at doing now.
“What do you think?” You asked, stepping out in a gorgeous blue dress. The corners of his mouth rose, and he felt his boxers get a little tighter. You quickly spun around, and he captured your waist in his hand. God, you constantly took his breath away, whether it was the shitty scrubs from the machine, or a beautiful dress like this, or just lying in bed in one of his hoodies, he had no idea how he got so lucky.
“Beautiful.” He whispered before swallowing your lips in a kiss.
Walking upstairs was slightly awkward. Everyone was waiting, staring at you and Jack as you emerged from the basement. RIchie clenched his jaw, Sugar smiled a little too strangely, Pete was just Pete, Neil was already rushing over to introduce himself, Sammy had an eyebrow raised, Teddy was simply staring (and whispering to Sammy), and Sydney just gave you that awkward smile.
“Neil Fak.” He smiled, holding his hand out. Jack took it, and smiled.
“Jack Abbot.” He nodded. Neil kept shaking his hand, unrelenting as he stared at the man in front of him. Jack pretended it wasn’t awkward.
“Wow, you’re handsome,” Neil blurted out before he could stop himself, and you literally faceplanted as Jack tried not to laugh. Richie finally walked over and put everyone out of their misery, moving Neil out of the way as he tried to explain himself. “I mean like, objectively, he’s a very handsome guy-!?”
Richie ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Yeah, yeah Neil, we fuckin’ get it. Richie Jeromovitch, nice to meet ya,” next, he shook Jack's hand. He fell into his easy ‘italian’ charm, cracking jokes immediately. “Doc here treatin’ you good? She can be a real fuckin’ handful.”
Jack smiled and squeezed your hand harder. “She’s stubborn but so am I.” He beamed, and you rolled your eyes.
“Alright, since all the introductions are introduced, let’s go,” you led the charge to the front door with Jack trailing behind, and the rest of the group followed. “God, they are so fucking embarrassing.” You sighed as you started your car. “It’s actually painful to be around them.”
Jack laughed. “I like them.” He shrugged, fiddling with the radio.
You rolled your eyes again. “You ‘like’ them because Neil called you handsome.”
He chuckled. “Definitely helped.”
You scoffed, and focused on driving. These streets you hadn't seen in so long but knew so damn well. Millenium Park. Your old college campus. Your old hospital. All those silly little restaurants your parents would drag you out to. All those streets you’d walked a thousand times before, Mikey by your side making some wise-ass comments about anything. God, you missed it, missed him. Even the suburbs reeked of him, and he rarely lived at home for much of your remembered childhood. The sidewalks you played on, the playground he chased you in, everything. It was all Mikey and Carmen and Sugar and Mom, and you wanted to puke.
Thankfully, the drive ended rather quickly, and you were outside Tiffany’s new home.
Unfortunately, Richie started spiraling.
Sydney stepped in, standing with him while you made Jack walk in with Sugar and Pete, then you came right back out to help. So much for not leaving his side. “Just… take your time,” she instructed as he chain-smoked like a fucking train. “You’re good.” Shit, so much had changed. Richie was actually starting to get in-touch with his emotions? Unheard of. Maybe Mikey dying had done something good.
He let out a weird strangled groan. “It’s gonna be fine.” He said it like he was trying to convince himself too, which he clearly was. You nodded.
“It’s gonna be fine.” Sydney parroted, nodding her head along with yours. Richie turned to the both of you.
“Is it, right?” He asked, taking yet another drag of his cigarette.
She jumped in before you could make a joke about a meteor hitting the house, or that nothing could be as bad as February 22nd and the week that followed. “Think so.” She offered him a soft smile. God, you almost forgot that some people hadn’t been told to push everything down until you explode.
“Everything in life is just for a while.” You added, trying to be of any assistance. Both their heads snapped to you.
“Says who?” Richie asked, offering a cigarette to you, which you took despite the voice in the back of your head (Dana’s voice) insisting that it would kill you.
You faltered for a moment, lighting the cigarette with shaky hands. “Philip K. Dick.” You explained, taking a drag. God, you knew it was awful for you, but you missed smoking, especially on days where everything is going wrong in the ED and you have to just keep going. A smoke on the roof would surely fix all your problems.
Sydney nodded and shrugged. “Well, he’s right. Y’know everything… ends, eventually.”
“That’s the truth,” Richie pointed a finger at you, and you just nodded, enjoying the cancer stick between your lips. God, Jack would fucking lose it if he saw you smoking this. Richie doubled over, trying to get more air into his lungs. “God- fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me?” He questioned, standing back up. “God,” he breathed out. “What the fuck?” He stared at the building to his left, the tall redbrick structure in the nice part of town. It must’ve at least cost a million, or close to it. Richie turned back to Sydney. “How’s your dad?” he asked, desperately trying to distract himself from the ongoing anxiety attack he was clearly having. “That’s real shit, I’m being a little fuckin’ asshole.”
You looked to Sydney. “He’s much better. Thanks. Resting. Got five days off of work which he’s loving and also kinda hating.” She explained. You guessed he probably had a heart attack, you had a weird knack for guessing heart attacks. She seemed relieved that he was alright, which you always love to see from patients' families.
“Good, that’s good. Fuck!” Richie groaned. “Fuck! Fuck guys, everythings…” He trailed off, starting into this half-groan, half- cry thing that made you violently uncomfortable. You’d held parents when their children died. You’d held mothers when their baby died coming out of them. You’d held siblings and friends who watched their sibling or friend die. You’ve held husbands who lost their wives, and wives who lost their husbands. You’d held husbands who’d lost their husbands, and wives who’d lost their wives. You’d held children who were orphans. You’d held your own fucking friends and family of the Pitt when people were lost, or people were hurt. Yet, you couldn’t fathom being there for when anyone here broke down. Everyone here was meant to swallow it, and let it fester until they either died of old age, or blew their brains out off the side of a bridge.
“Hey,” Sydney had such a soothing voice. “It’s okay to be… nervous.”
“Good, ‘cause I am.” Richie breathed out. You puffed out another cloud of smoke.
“I get it,” Sydney let out. Richie asked if she was nervous too. “I mean, not about this, obviously, but…”
“What are you nervous about?” He asked, his voice trembling despite the way he was trying to keep himself calm. She looked like she was trying to make a decision that seemed impossible. You let out another puff of smoke.
She smiled softly. “Tell you later?” She offered.
“Promise?” “Promise.”
“Fuck, Doc, will you hold my cigarette for a second, I think I’m about to throw up,” he announced, doubling over again. Sydney started to back away, repeating no over and over again. “Please?” He pushed it in your direction, and you sighed and took it.
You knelt down to meet his eyes. “Richie, I am fucking terrified to walk into that house because I know what I’m going to find. Bitchy comments and strange looks from people who used to know me, yeah?” He nodded along, spitting out some saliva at your feet. “But everyone in there knows you. They love you. Even if they don’t, there’s at least one person in there who does, and that’s Eva. She needs her dad in there, because everything in her life is fucking changing, and she needs you to be a constant, alright?” You cupped a hand on his cheek as he nodded. “Also both me and Sydney are wearing open-toed shoes, so, don’t fucking vomit.” You stood up again, dropping his cigarette to the floor and crushing it under your heel.
He stood back up, flailing his hand for a second. “I think all this shit is really fuckin’ me up and that’s why my pre-service speeches have been such fuckin’ shit, they-fuck-suck-SHIT!” He spoke almost too fast to be understood, but both you and Sydney called his name a few times to bring him back down. “I’m just a fuckin’ man! Being a fuckin’ baby!” Sydney called out his name one last time, and he finally looked at her. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth a few times, and he copied her. Hell, you fucking copied her.
“Let’s just get through this, yeah?” She said, not expecting anything. You were already impressed by her. Completely calm nature, logical thinking, and emotional intelligence? She must hate herself to have gotten into business with Carmen Berzatto.
Richie walked up to her and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you for coming with me,” he breathed out. He then turned to you. “Thank you for coming with me,” he hugged you too, and you almost pushed him away because he reminded you of Mikey. Same bone-crushing hug, same fucking coglone, same fucking cigarettes. You didn’t. You hugged him back and nodded. “Let’s do this shit.”
“Fuck yeah.” She breathed out, following behind him.
You wanted the Earth to swallow you up as you walked in behind them, discarding your cigarette just outside the door. The house was beautiful, immaculately decorated with clean white walls and artistic wall hangings on every fucking flat surface. You hated people who had their life together. Your and Jack’s apartment had paint-test strips on the wall and pictures on the floor neither of you had even thought about hanging yet. You sought out Jack first, seeing him standing beside Pete as he recounted another old law story that Jack was half-listening to.
Fuck, he did look handsome. Crisp baby blue shirt with an even paler blue blazer and matching pants. He looked stunning. You caught his eye almost immediately and he smiled as you walked up, inserting yourself beside him.
“Richie alright?” Sugar asked, coming up beside Pete, interrupting him.
You nodded. “He’s fine. Sydney calmed him right down. She’s great, by the way, I really like her.”
Sugar smiled. “Everyone likes Sydney,” she rolled her eyes. “Have you seen-?”
“Not yet.” You gritted out. Jack squeezed your waist, a common sign of affection from him. It says everything. I’m here. I’m sorry. I care. You loved it. Just then, because of course you’re that lucky, Carmen walked in the door in a blue shirt and navy blazer, eyes wide with anxiety, and he hugged Tiff. You thought back to the last time you’d seen Carmen.
You’d made a rash decision and booked a flight to New York, planning on making him explain himself. It was the least all of you deserved, you just couldn’t understand why no one else saw it like that. He’s grieving in his own way, everyone told you. Yeah, so were you. You stayed up late and sobbed for hours. You had a panic attack any time you walked by the morgue in your hospital. You picked up emergency medicine. You researched hospital residency programs hours away. You stopped eating sandwiches. Carmen was functioning just fine, especially if you were going off of the fucking New York Times article that had just been released about him. He was the biggest up-and-coming chef in the world, and everyone clearly wanted a piece of him. You wanted to shove his head into a vat of acid, hopefully it would wake him up from whatever stupid fucking trance he was in.
You showed up at his job (probably not the greatest choice), and you waited by the back door, cigarette box in hand. You smoked the whole pack before he came out, twitching and blinking like he was on heroin. For a moment, you accepted that as an answer. You felt guilty for the messages you’d sent him about how he always ran away from things the second they became difficult. How he constantly let people down and ran away because he was scared of actual communication and confrontation. How he’d broken his promise of protecting you, and always being there when you’d call. Then you remembered his deathly fear of needles, and all your sympathy was gone.
“You fucking prick!” You screamed, shoving his chef-whites-wearing ass against the back wall, dumpsters to your left. For a second, his hands went to your throat, eyes wide and almost ready to fucking kill you. Then you saw the recognition, the adrenaline still there, but aware of the lack of threat. His hands dropped. “Where were you!?” You shouted, completely uncaring of what would happen if someone found you out here with him, with him like this.
His mouth parted like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. Those stupid fucking blue eyes you shared, the ones you’d grown up beside, wild and uneasy. “Doc, come on-”
“Don’t fucking ‘Doc’ me, not now, you fucking coward!” You shouted, slamming your hand down on the metal dumpster beside you. “Explain yourself. Make me understand why you couldn’t show up for Mikey, or Mom, or Sugar, or Richie. Explain to me how you couldn’t even show up for me. Even after all the fucking times you begged me to believe your promises. After all the other times you didn’t show up.” You couldn’t hide the way your voice was breaking. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t start crying, that you couldn’t give him that. But of course you did. The image of Mikey in a fucking hospital gown with no back of his head. The image of tagging him, with your residency friends holding you up so you wouldn’t collapse. The image of his fucking funeral, him lying in that stupid fucking casket, completely lifeless. No more smart jokes or stupid fucking points about shit that didn’t matter. Just nothing. The image of your mom’s house the day you’d told her. You and Sugar had swung by, and the place was in shambles. Pictures torn down off the walls, plates broken in the kitchen, Donna curled up in his bed, holding a picture of her baby, and sobbing. You thought you would lose her too.
He didn’t have an answer. He showed up, but he couldn’t walk in there. He could believe Mikey would do this, and put him in this position. He loved his brother. He loved his sister. He loved you. He didn’t have the answer you were looking for, so he didn’t speak. His mind snapped back to the kitchen, back to Chef David, and how fucking behind he already was. The words left his mouth before he thought about them. “Doc, you have to get out of here, I’m at work-”
A hand met his cheek. In hindsight, you shouldn’t have done that, but it felt damn good in the moment. “Work is always more fucking important than me, right? You and dad are the same selfish bastard in a new fucking skin, y’know that? Y’know what I’ve had to deal with for the past fucking three weeks? Mom, calling me at all fucking hours, drunk out of her mind, and just crying until I go or Sugar goes and finds her, completely inundated with grief. Sugar has been fucking impossible to fucking talk to, because she just sees Mikey when she looks at me. She just sees you when she looks at me. And you didn’t show up,” you sniffled, tears streaming down your face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t break. He didn’t do anything. He just… stood there. Acting like this wasn’t the end of the world. Acting like your life hadn’t completely fucking changed. So you accepted it. Not prettily. Not happily. But you accepted it. “You’re a coward, a bad brother, and a fucking selfish bitch, Carmy. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t fucking come home. I won’t be there.” You pushed off him, and walked away, breaking for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Sorrow and grief swallowed you for a night in the city that never sleeps. You found a bench somewhere, and you just questioned why any of this had to happen.
He should’ve reached out and begged for forgiveness. He should’ve grabbed onto your arm and asked what you meant, making sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid. He didn’t. He straightened out his chef whites, and he walked back inside. He didn’t think about what you’d said. He didn’t think about Sugar back home, inconsolable. He didn’t think about Richie drowning his sorrows and ruining his marriage. He didn’t think about you or your residency program or how hard you were trying to hold things together when they were crumbling.
He turned inside, and he went back to the kitchen.
Your mind snapped back to the party in front of you, the sight of Jack explaining something medical to Pete, while he listened intently, and the hilarity of Sugar’s terrifying glare being used on Neil. You didn’t look at Carmen again. You didn’t want to. You smiled at the man who made you happy everyday. The man who carried your favourite protein bar in his car, jacket pocket, and cargos. The man who made you take breaks and openly admitted you were his favourite. The man who loved you, wholley. God, you hoped you weren’t losing him.
Carmen looked up from his conversation with Tiff, and he stared. His heart stopped, he was sure of it. You were back in Chicago. Since that night in New York, he hadn’t heard from you, or even about you. He didn’t know where you were. He didn’t know what you were doing. He didn’t know if you wanted to talk. He didn’t know anything. Quickly, he started to walk. Not away, not like he used to. No. He walked towards you, until he was in front of you.
You and Carmen always had the same piercing blue eyes. It used to unsettle people, how bright they were. He cleared his throat, stopping the conversation happening between Sydney, Jack, and Pete. Sugar had her eyes set on the two of you. His tunnel vision had blocked out the rest of them, just focusing on you. You looked different. Different hair, different clothes, different you. You looked older. Prettier. Happier. “You’re… here.”
You nodded slowly, face unchanging. “I am.” God, since when was conversing with your own twin awkward. This was so awful.
Carmen fiddled with his fingers just a bit, straightening his spine. “You left.” He said it like he still didn’t believe it, like it hadn’t been the truth for years.
You nodded again, hand gripping your glass just a little tighter. “I did.”
He tried to steady his voice, and Sydney started her deep breaths beside you, which you followed, trying desperately to hold onto any semblance of calm you had. Think nice thoughts, you told yourself. Takeout with Mel on a Thursday during shift change. Drinks out with Trinity and Yolanda, dragging an unimpressed Jack with you. Friday night date night where you got fucked into oblivion in your bed. Heads Up in the break room during slow moments with Ellis and Shen. Making saves. Helping people. He opened his mouth again. “W-where did you go-?” Just then the fucking Faks burst in, stealing Pete from the situation, trying to convince him to fund yet another one of their terrible ploys. The commotion was just enough for you to slip away, pulling Jack behind you.
Once you’d made your way outside of the main house, you pulled Jack by his collar, and smashed your lips against his. This wasn’t a nice kiss, it wasn’t kind either. It was serving its purpose, grounding you, reminding you that there was a world outside of Chicago, and that you lived in it every other day of the year. He pulled back gently, warm hands on your waist, and a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t,” you sighed, pulling a cigarette out of your bag (you might’ve stolen Richie’s pack inside). “And don’t fucking lecture me right now.” You pointed a finger at his chest, then turned back to lighting your cigarette. You could feel the disapproval from his fucking breath, but he didn’t lecture.
He just ran a hand up and down your back, sighing. “It’s pretty full-on in there, eh?” He questioned, pressing a kiss to your neck. You nodded as you let out a puff of smoke. “Can I do anything?” He asked, like he fucking always did. God, you didn’t deserve him. He was so good, so kind. He was always asking you what he could do for you. It drove you insane because he was so thoughtful.
You shook your head. “Don’t leave me?” You added, a pitiful attempt at humour. His jaw clenched and he physically turned you to look at him.
His heart broke, you thought he’d leave you? Insane. I couldn’t ever. “I’m not leaving you. You hear me?” He asked, a hand cradling your jaw as he stared at you with those impossibly brown eyes. You nodded. “You’re too fucking important to me, alright? I can’t live without you, yes?” He asked, forcing eye contact. You had no idea how he fucking did this, saying the most vulnerable things and keeping (forcing) eye contact.
“Yes.” You agreed, even if you didn’t believe him. You brought the cigarette back up to your mouth, but he snatched it before you could take another drag. He threw it on the floor, crushing it under his shoe. You rolled your eyes, and he gave you that look.
A voice you knew all too well came up behind you. “Can’t hide from me forever, can you?” Claire.
You both went into emergency medicine at the same time. She stayed in Chicago, you went to Pittsburgh. You lost contact mostly, sometimes she’d comment on your instagram, or you’d send her some ER meme.
“Claire,” you whipped around, smiling at her. “How are you?” She looked good, a little older, a little wiser, just as beautiful as before.
She swallowed you up in a hug. “Jesus Christ, it’s been so long!” She beamed. “I’m good, thank you. How are you?” She asked, pulling back. “And who is this?” She turned her attention to Jack, who smiled back.
“I’m good, thank you. Really good, actually,” you were lying through your teeth, but she didn’t seem to notice. When you were home, back in Pittsburgh with a few days off, you were really good. Right now, stuck in shitty Chicago with all your ghosts, you were feeling terrible. “This is Dr. Jack Abbot, my boyfriend.” You introduced and he shook her hand. She sent you a wink, and a mouthed ‘he’s hot’ that Jack definitely didn’t miss. He stifled a laugh behind his hand as you and Claire just looked at each other.
“I read one of your papers, actually,” she admitted, rocking back and forth on her heels. “The one on gender disparity in the ER and how women are often misdiagnosed?” He nodded. “It was great,” she smiled giddily. “I showed it to all my colleagues. They all loved it.”
“Well, thank you,” he smiled. “You should really read Y/n’s newest paper on-” you cut him off by literally covering his mouth with your hand, making both him, and Claire giggle.
When would this hellish conversation end? “Enough about me!” You announced. “What about you? Anything new for you? Friends, boyfriends, family?”
She smiled, laughter easing. “Well, yeah, actually. Carm and I actually dated for a little while,” she confessed, messing with a ring on her index finger. “Nothing serious, a-and we broke up pretty quick. Nothing much since then. Well, until a few nights ago when he came to my house and told me he loved me, which was kinda… a lot,” a nervous chuckle left her lips, as your own jaw was close to being on the ground. Claire and Carmen. What the fuck? She was logical, she always had been. Methodical. Clean. Calm. He was completely the opposite, and not to mention, she was entirely out of his league. “But we’re good now. Over, for sure.” She clarified.
You didn’t know if you were going to be sick, or reach over and shake her. How did she end up with Carmen? How? “Oh. You and Carmen-?” You were going to explode into a very long lecture, and subsequent questionnaire, when Neil came up, jabbering about needing you for something to do with Eva. You turned to Claire before setting off. “We will revisit this.” Claire nodded, holding a thumbs up as you and Jack followed Neil
“Is she alright?” Jack asked, trailing behind the two of you. “Did she fall? Did she hit her head? Is she on fire?”
Neil looked horrified. “No! NO! Nothing like that! God, is that where your mind went? Jesus Christ. No, she’s just… she’s under the table, and she doesn’t want to leave. And now Frank and Richie are freaking out, like on the verge of a panic attack-”
“She’s the fucking cunt-!” “No she’s the fucking cunt!”
“Is that Sugar?” You questioned, eyes wild as you searched the room for her blonde hair. You found it, screaming at Francine. “Shit, alright, umm… Jack, you stay here and try to talk Richie and Frank out of their fucking panic attacks, I’ll be right back,” you decided, walking off to try and pull the women away from each other. Jimmy was standing beside them, looking like he would rather be slingshotted to the moon than be between them. You stalked over, trying to have your voice heard over theirs. It was times like these you wished you had the capacity for volume that Robby did. “Ladies! Let’s just fuckin’, no, Francine, I swear to fuck I will rip your hair out of your head if you so much as try to bite me one more fuckin’ time. Sugar- Sug- Natalie! Stop acting like fuckin’ schoolgirls- ohhh, do not fuckin’ piss me off right now. Is this how adults act-? No! I didn’t fuckin’ think so! Francie, lovely to see you, stay in the fucking house. Sugar, lovely to see you, stay in the fucking tent. Problem solved!” You clapped your hands together definitively, one of the Faks taking Francine away as Sugar stood in her place, rage radiating off of her. You grabbed a glass of champagne from a table nearby and handed it over to her, irritation rushing through your veins. “Grow up,” you scoffed before cheersing your glasses together. “Cheers!” You fake smiled before rushing off back to Jack and the boys. God you hated this fucking family. If you weren’t already so frazzled, you would’ve noticed the three people trailing you. You didn’t, you only stopped when you found Rich and Frank standing beside a table, with the hilarious image of Jack’s legs sticking out from under the table.
Behind you Stevie, Carmen, and Tiffany all stood. You genuinely jumped, tripping over Jack’s prosthetic leg, and falling on top of him. “Oh shit, sorry baby,” you sighed, rolling up his trousers and reattaching his leg the way you’d done a thousand times before. “You alright in there?” you practically whispered.
“All good.” He responded as you stood up, turning back to the trio in front of you.
“Is he a pirate?” Stevie smirked, that stupid smirk you’d always wanted to slap off his fucking face. You sent him that look, the one Dana called your ‘scary dog look’, and he nodded. “No jokes about the leg, got it. So, how are you?”
“Great, thanks Stevie,” your voice was dripping with sarcasm, mostly because that was the only language he understood. “How’s your lavender marriage?” You shot back, smoothing out your dress.
He laughed. “Hoo-ho! You got me there! Maybe we should ask Carmy here how many times he heard me and Michelle fuck while he was staying with us in New York, shall we?” He turned his head to Carmen, who was just staring at you.
He shook his head. “No, we shall not.”
You changed your focus to the beautiful bride in front of you. “Hey Tiff, congratulations,” you smiled, pulling her into a hug. You didn’t know her well, but you knew Richie, and when they started going out, he beamed. Even when they got married and things got hard, he was so fucking in love with her. “This place is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she smiled. She was always so sweet. “How are you? How’s Pittsburgh?”
“Pittsburgh,” Carmen parroted. “You moved to Pittsburgh?”
“Yes, Carmen, PTMC had a great residency program,” you sent him a death glare, then turned back to Tiff. “I’m good thank you, yeah, Pittsburgh’s great. My boyfriend and I-” you pointed out Jack, who was still under the fucking table. “-are living together now so, yeah, it’s great.”
“Boyfriend, wow!” She beamed, holding your hands in hers. “That’s amazing, I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you, and yeah, I’m so happy for you too,” you smiled. “And thank you for inviting me, that was more than kind.” You added, still feeling Carmen’s eyes on you.
“Oh, of course. We’re still family, right?” She smiled.
“Right,” you agreed. “So what’s going on with you-”
Carmen stepped in closer, eyes wild. “You moved to Pittsburgh and you didn’t tell me?” He asked, voice cracking like it did when he was upset. Everyone was quiet for a moment. Stevie smirked at the sight in front of him, he loved getting to watch the drama unfold. Tiff just watched, then took a silent step out, mouthing a ‘good luck’ in your direction. Frank and Richie were too busy bro-ing it out to realise the shitshow in front of them.
“You didn’t seem to care about me in New York,” you shrugged, crossing your arms. “And PTMC had a great residency program. I was thinking about my future-”
He let out a strangled laugh. “S-so you can show up to my work, my future, and scream a-at me to come home, but you didn’t fucking tell me where you went, and what, I’m just supposed to fucking take that becuase it’s about ‘your future’? What bullshit is that, Doc?”
You let out a sharp breath. “I’m sorry I did that, it wasn’t the right thing to do. I was just hurting, and I wanted you to understand but I didn’t know how to say it, so I just… I had to hurt you too. In hindsight, I’ve no doubt that you were grieving in your own way, I just… I couldn’t see it, and I’m sorry.” You fiddled with your dress, wishing all of this could just be over, that you could just teleport back to your apartment in Pittsburgh with Jack.
He stared, eyes fixed on your face. He nodded, quickly. He blinked. “T-Thank you, for apologising. I-I’m sorry too.”
You were shocked at that. Your eyebrows jumped up into your hairline, mouth dropping open slightly. You just nodded, mouth dry and throat burning with unshed tears.
“I think she just doesn’t want to dance,” Jack shrugged, standing up. “I think you need to be okay with that,” he explained to Frank. He stood up to find Carmen and Stevie in front of you, your shoulders clearly trembling. He wrapped a hand around your waist, and pulled you into him, squeezing your hip. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice gruff and low.
“Yeah, I’m-”
“Wow,” Donna’s voice cut through the noise in your head, and your heart dropped into your stomach. She sounded dreamy, like she was remembering a young set of twins that she hadn’t yet ruined. Stevie fell away, not wanting to be anywhere near Donna and you together. “Both my babies are right here.” She smiled, pulling Carmen into an awkward looking hug, and then turning to you with open arms. You couldn’t do it. You ducked out, rushing out of the tent as you felt bile rise in your throat. You sat in the garden for a while, train-smoking some cigarettes as you waited for the inevitable bomb to explode in your face.
Inside the tent, Carmen was staring at Jack Abbot like he didn’t know what to do with him, and Donna was looking at him like she had a thousand questions to ask.
Carmen cleared his throat. “You’re her boyfriend?” He asked, his voice wavering. Jack nodded his head with a soft smile. He decided to give you a bit of time on your own, especially when he could ensure you wouldn’t be bothered by your twin or mother for at least a little while. “How is she?”
Loaded question, he thought. He pursed his lips together. “She’s the best doctor I have on my staff, she’s one of the kindest people I know, and she misses you,” he shrugged. “She loves her job and she dedicates almost too much of herself to it. She’s the most popular doctor in the Pitt, and she deserves every piece of praise that she gets.”
Carmen nodded, then walked off, his breaths erratic and shallow. Jack cleared his throat, taking another sip of his water.
Donna smiled at him, a curious glint in her eye. “Do you like working there? At the Pitt with her?” She asked.
He broke out into a proper smile thinking about all the time you two had shared there. From your first day where you performed a perfect crike and central venous catheterization within 30 minutes on your first shift, to the day he kissed you for the first time on the roof, to the days now, where the only good thing in that building is you. “I do, very much so.” he grinned. She nodded.
“I always wanted to be a nurse, y’know,” she smiled that tight-lipped smile he was getting more used to. He saw the similarities in features, just when she tilted her head the right way.
“Oh really?” he coaxed, wanting her to talk more so that he didn’t have to.
“Yeah, I did. I did a course back in high school about CPR and everything, and I was… wow, it was a lot,” she chuckled. “I have no idea how you guys do it.”
He nodded, a goofy grin on his face. “Yeah, it’s… it’s still a lot sometimes, even for us.”
“I don’t think that ever changes,” she shook her head, playing with the ring on her finger. “So, she’s… she’s good?”
There it was, the question he was waiting for. “She’s… yeah. She’s great. She’s an attending now, she did her exams a few months ago, so… yeah. She’s great. I love her a lot,” he confessed, trying to keep a little bit of the pride out of his tone. “She’s so smart, and so quick, and… she was just made for it. She really cares about the people who walk in everyday, and she, she always knows what to say. She’s always trying to make things better for everyone else, including our staff. She just… she cares a lot. She’s nice to med students and new interns which is shockingly rare,” he chuckled, thinking of your relationships with Whitaker and Santos and Javadi, and how close you got with Mel. “She’s just… she’s so special. All her patients rave about her, all her collegues rave about her, hell, I fucking rave about her. What she does is special. Obviously, there’s moments where it’s hard, especially because she’s so hard on herself, but she’s incredible at what she does, and half of that is how she speaks to people. She just… she cares,” he shrugged, his heart swelling with pride. “She is just incredible and we are more than lucky to have her. I’m more than lucky to have her.”
She let out a fond laugh. “Really?” She pleaded, hoping what he was saying was true. He nodded. “That’s wonderful! I always knew she would be a doctor. She always wanted to fix things, that’s why we all call her Doc, because she was always bandaging scrapes and helping out Carmy with his…” she trailed off. “And how did you two meet?”
“I was her attending at the same hospital while she was finishing out her residency and we became friends, and then it just turned into more,” he shrugged. He knew this would come up, especially with the age difference and everything. She nodded. “We live together now, which is great. She's, unsurprisingly, a great cook.” He chuckled.
She was quiet for a moment, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Wow. You really… you really see her, don’t you?”
“I try to,” he breathed out. “She doesn’t always want to be seen.”
She shook her head, covering his hand with hers. “You see her, just like Mikey did. You understand her,” she smiled, one stray tear falling down her cheek. “That’s special.”
He smiled back at her, and nodded.
“Take care of my girl, alright?” she asked, voice breathy and full of emotion. He nodded, a solemn promise he’d made over a year ago, to himself. “Thank you.”
And she left. So he left and found you outside with a half-empty cigarette box, and tears streaming down your face. He helped you up, warm hands on your waist as he guided you through the party to your car, forgoing any and all proper goodbyes or thank you’s. You needed space. You needed time. He buckled you up into the passenger seat of your car, and set off for Sugar’s house.
“Thank you.” You whispered out, eyes already droopy after your very emotionally draining day.
He shook his head, squeezing your thigh in his hand. “Always.”
That was it. He’d always be there for you.
I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me
All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving
Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again.
You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out.
Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands.
Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading.
Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop.
They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out.
Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove.
Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her.
That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.
Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying.
You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”
He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in.
Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”
Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”
Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”
“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”
“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense.
“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”
He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile.
The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic.
“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him.
Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”
“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before.
Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”
Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you.
Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”
Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”
A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”
“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.
He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey.
You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”
He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”
“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him.
The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”
You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it.
Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”
Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”
Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him.
His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw.
It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married.
He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt.
“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?
“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed.
He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips.
“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra.
Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room.
“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed.
“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises.
You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway.
The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night.
You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease.
Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now.
Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…
Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift.
He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye.
The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless.
You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”
You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”
“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”
You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”
He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”
Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away.
You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?”
When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face.
You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him?
A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you.
Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago.
He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore.
With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.
You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn.
“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme.
“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich.
It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon.
Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle.
You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours.
Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out.
You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”
Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag.
Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash.
Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive.
Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly.
One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-
“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”
Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life.
Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire.
That has to count as worse news, right?
No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you.
That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?
You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.
Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you.
Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off.
You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work.
“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring.
He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”
You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it.
Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief.
Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”
“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him.
However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs.
You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other.
You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel.
“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security.
His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to-”
“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off.
You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”
He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”
“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down.
For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car.
There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars.
Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect.
When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you.
“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you.
“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him.
“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water.
Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him.
You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is.
He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”
He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand.
Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”
Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”
“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”
Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug.
You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns.
But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can.
He’s pulling away before you can make your decision. “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife.
When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of.
You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks.
You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries.
Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you.
Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”
“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”
Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you.
“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”
“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.
“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”
You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”
You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet.
“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress.
Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming.
“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”
Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”
Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”
Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”
“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”
“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car.
Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him.
You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face.
There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut.
And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t.
It just doesn’t seem right.
In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate.
Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave.
You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb.
You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back.
You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore.
Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine.
“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart.
Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave.
Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy.
He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him.
You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him.
He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.
Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever.
You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids.
Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask.
She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar.
“Mariella?”
“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now.
“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”
You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”
Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”
“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water.
You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show.
For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work.
Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance.
Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp.
You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”
“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak.
“How?”
“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look.
“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”
In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”
You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.
Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh.
“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”
Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”
She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”
“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”
Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”
“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”
Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky.
“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look.
Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily.
“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare.
The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension.
Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner.
“What does illegitimate mean?”
Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.
Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”
Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”
Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”
Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself.
Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him.
Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself.
“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”
Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly.
“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”
“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt.
“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?”
You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.
Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use.
“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot.
You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you.
“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”
“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”
Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”
“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”
You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.”
Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you.
You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”
You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off.
“How far along?”
Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”
Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers.
You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”
“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation.
He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real.
“What are you going to do?”
You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”
“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip.
“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”
He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now.
“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off.
You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter.
God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real.
His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you.
Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”
“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”
You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it.
“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”
“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”
“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely.
You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”
“Not even a crib,” he demands.
You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”
Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”
You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”
“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face.
“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”
“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?”
You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”
“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”
Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”
You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea.
“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”
“You offered me your couch!” He argues.
“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare.
Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.”
“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out.
If only he could have done that five months ago.
Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment.
Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”
Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”
Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap.
“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside.
“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”
“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos.
But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices.
“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on.
His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him.
Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels.
“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside.
Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door.
“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment.
“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless.
Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in.
“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace.
“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”
“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm.
You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.
You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.”
He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff.
For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.
By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home.
At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago.
“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby.
“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!”
Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”
“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.”
You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.
Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go.
It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months.
The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this.
You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him.
Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day.
Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”
You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over.
Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room.
You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you.
This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks.
You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”
Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”
“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”
“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”
You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months.
You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it.
“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”
As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son.
His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”
You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done.
Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies.
“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”
Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face.
Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft.
“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human.
“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up.
“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”
You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.
“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile.
“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”
“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.
“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”
You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens.
You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady.
Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”
The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly.
You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both.
“What?” You sigh at the look on his face.
“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs.
“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are.
You’re enjoying it far too much.
Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head.
“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”
“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you.
With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”
Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant.
You feel way too exposed and you hate it.
“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal.
Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”
“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.
Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”
Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name.
You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”
Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny.
“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects.
“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan.
It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch.
Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”
Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet.
Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station.
You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks.
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is.
“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”
He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”
You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”
Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes.
You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”
“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts.
Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this.
“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet.
“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him.
“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”
You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop.
“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him.
“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?”
Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off.
Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”
Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes.
“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut.
“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him.
“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”
Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight.
Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”
Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts.
“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”
Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once.
Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach.
“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?
You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm.
“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”
Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for.
He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder.
Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”
Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again.
And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day.
What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself.
You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you.
You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you.
“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen.
“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”
He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face.
“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver.
Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching.
Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?
You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift.
You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with.
“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one.
“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin.
“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”
Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him.
“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”
You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”
He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target.
He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate.
“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is.
“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”
You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile.
“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben.
You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands.
“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello.
“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either.
He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”
“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”
He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?”
“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh.
“Yeah, give me half an hour.”
You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”
“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him.
He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”
Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers.
“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”
Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down.
Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything.
Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing.
You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out.
But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps.
The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks.
“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles.
“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them.
“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you.
“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over.
Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes.
“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up.
In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done.
Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”
“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both.
Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare.
“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”
“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him.
You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital.
Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff.
“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids.
Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?”
“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you.
“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”
“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”
“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap.
Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”
“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”
He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face.
He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you.
“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus.
“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car.
“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside.
“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace.
Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push.
They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed.
Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere.
You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms.
People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile.
“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man.
“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”
Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger.
“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.”
“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs.
You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing?
Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep.
One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”
Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand.
“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”
He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”
“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter.
Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you.
“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing.
“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would.
“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter.
Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”
The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss.
Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes.
You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”
She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.
“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”
Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”
Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”
“You know you’re a nerd, right?”
You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”
It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s.
You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?
You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more.
You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby.
Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery.
You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time.
Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib.
It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here.
You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times.
But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you.
Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you.
“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point.
Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”
You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”
Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day.
Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you.
Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits.
You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet.
Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it.
You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this.
You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong.
You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need.
Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this.
“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion. You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye.
“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”
Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”
Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” you croak out.
His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.
“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”
Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”
“What-”
He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share.
You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately.
“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”
You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope.
“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself.
You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip.
Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match.
Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?
You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft.
“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat.
Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got.
“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team.
At least they get along.
“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”
He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges.
With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”
He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”
“So?”
Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”
“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut.
“Crap, I meant-”
“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again.
“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said.
“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing.
Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously.
With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know.
“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off.
“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.
Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”
Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”
Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”
Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”
Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”
Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born.
“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”
“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy.
“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”
Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous.
“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?”
Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting.
“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women.
You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”
Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey.
You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining.
“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school.
“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”
“A daycare?”
Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole.
“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”
Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon.
“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”
Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack.
“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”
“Hey-”
Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”
You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.”
Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.”
Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”
“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you.
You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station.
By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him.
He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t.
“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer.
But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out.
Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”
“Myself?” Sammy asks.
Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate.
You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise.
Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back.
“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton.
“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh.
“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”
Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you.
“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly.
Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists.
Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”
You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months.
His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.”
Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs.
“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”
Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him.
Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you.
What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?
A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you.
part one | part two | part three | masterlist | ao3
jack abbot x reader, michael robinavitch x reader
summary: You’re Robby’s favorite reward. When his staff earns it, he doesn’t hesitate to offer you up. Jack takes you home, and the lines you thought were drawn in the sand start to blur.
|| smut MDNI 18+ angst, heavy flirting, free use kink, cuckholding, widower!jack, annoying!robby lol, arguing, possessive behavior, reader does not act like she ought to in this fair warning, pinv, fingering, dirty talk, pet names like baby / sweetheart, mama dana as always, mentions of blood and needles (v brief), complicated feelings, eating and also forgetting to eat, im gonna be so real neither reader or jack are all that well behaved in this, mentions of langdon x reader, , mateo x reader & crus x reader 👀, canon suicidal ideation, fainting, mentions of jack's prosthesis, jack is a little bit of a soft dom here ||
a/n: first time writing these characters please forgive me !! jack has been the hardest by far to write for me but I hope I made you proud lol I did one good read over / edit of this so !!! im sorry if there's mistakes!!
wc: 12k sorryyyyy I got carried away!
“You’re looking mighty proud, Dr. Langdon,” you sang as you stepped into the locker area, fresh off the elevator from hospice care.
You often visited them upstairs. Around a year ago you found it actually helped to see the people that would feed you, keep you sane, and talk to you some of the hardest days. At first you avoided it, would get nauseous just thinking about stepping onto the fifth floor. But over time you realized how much they had been there for you. And now, between Robby and his attendings and residents, and the nurses and doctors upstairs… you really had a community here.
It was still early morning. You’d hitched a ride with Robby on his motorcycle, your hair still a little messy from the helmet now shoved into one of the lockers. The ED was shifting between night and day crews, tired nurses drifting toward the doors with bags over their shoulders while fresh coffee smell started creeping in from the lounge.
When the elevator doors opened, you spotted Frank heading towards you from the opposite end of the hallway.
There was a real smile spread across his face when he looked up at you. Not his usual tired little shy grin you'd gotten used to seeing the past month or so he'd been back for. It warmed your cheeks to look at him like this. Bright enough it immediately caught your attention as he walked past with something close to a bounce in his step, one hand hooked around a Red Bull already cracked open.
“Hey, you,” he chuffed a laugh, ducking his head with a shrug, “yeah—I mean—”
Another breath left him quick through his nose, eyes lit up despite trying to hide his pride.
You turned towards him as he passed, and he did the same—the two of you circling each other through the narrow row of lockers. He grabbed something from inside his and shut it again with his hip, taking another sip of his energy drink and still smiling.
You paused, smiling widely up at him, "Tell me."
He looked so handsome like this: glowing, forehead a little shiny with dappled sweat, tips of his hair hanging in front of his pretty blue eyes.
“I, uh…” he smiled again, almost disbelieving, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Just did a reduction on a diaphragmatic rupture.”
Your smile dropped instantly, eyes widening. “Are you serious?”
"You know what that is?"
“I mean, Robby told me about it—holy shit, Frank.” You stared at him, lost for words for a second before going on. “I read about one in last month’s Emergency Medicine Journal that Robby gets, and he kinda explained it to me, ya know, in civilian terms.”
Frank nodded, still trying and failing to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Sixteen year old kid,” he said. “Dirt bike accident. Came in satting like shit. Everybody thought tension pneumo at first.”
"That must've been so intense."
“First night shift since I've been back and I’m apparently supposed to go home and sleep after that somehow.”
“Says the guy drinking a Red Bull.”
He looked down at the can in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it, laughing quietly before taking one last swig before turning and tossing the can into the trash across the room.
"How are you?" he asked, turning back to you.
You leaned back against the lockers, letting out a long sigh.
"I…" you pursed your lips. "I'm fine. Probably not as good as you are at the moment." it was meant as a tease, a joke, but came off a little sadder than you meant.
He tilted his head, the smile easing from his mouth as his eyes moved over your face more carefully. “Wanna talk about it?”
You couldn’t help but smile up at him a little. Always attentive, Frank Langdon was. Always patient enough to stand and wait for you to say what you meant, even when you didn’t really want to.
“Not really. Just…” You looked down, folding your arms over your chest. “Not sleeping super well.”
Partial truth. The other half of it was something you weren't entirely sure how to name. You couldn't put your finger on this feeling wriggling around in your head the past few weeks.
Frank nodded, stepping a little closer to you, "You can always talk to me, ya know?"
You looked back up at him, softer now. “I know. Thank you.”
“Mhm.” He leaned a shoulder lightly against the lockers beside you. “Though for the record, I don’t think hanging out upstairs counts much as therapy.”
You laughed quietly through your nose. Of course he knew. “And what does Dr. Langdon prescribe instead?”
“That depends.” His eyes flicked over your face again, brow furrowing in mock concern. “How severe are the symptoms?”
“Hm.” You pretended to think about it, bringing your forefinger up to tap on your chin. “Trouble sleeping, a little irritability. General sense of doom.”
“Ooof,” he nodded seriously. “That’s bad.”
“Mm. Terminal, probably.”
That got another laugh out of him, head ducking for a second before he looked back at you again, something warmer settling into his expression now. He made another face then, one of his thinking faces, though there was a little amusement too.
“What?” you laughed. “What’s that face for?”
“Guess I know how to take your mind off things for a bit, is all.”
“Oh?” your smile widened.
Frank pushed off the locker so he could brace one hand against the locker beside your head, leaning in as he looked down at you. The hallway light caught against the tired lines beneath his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw after too many hours on shift.
“Guess I was just hoping since…” His tongue darted out over his bottom lip absentmindedly. “Since I saved that kid’s life, maybe…”
You smiled slowly, a glint of delight coming back to your eyes. “Do you only save lives so you get rewarded, Dr. Langdon?”
His mouth twitched upward immediately. There was something almost competitive in the way the two of you looked at each other suddenly, both waiting to see who would crack first and say the thing sitting plainly between you. It felt playful. Easy. For one, you were grateful for the subject change. On the other hand, you couldn’t remember the last time Frank flirted this openly with you. Or maybe it was because he usually wasn't so obvious. Though, maybe it was the fact you were laying it on just as thick now.
“Only when I know you’re coming in,” he teased, his voice lowered and warm enough to send heat creeping up your neck.
You lifted an eyebrow, chin tipping up as your eyes dropped to his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to come by more often then. Make sure you’re not neglecting your patients.”
“Guess so,” he murmured.
He leaned closer. Only inches away now, close enough you could smell the fruity aftertaste of Redbull on him, the antiseptic of sanitizer, and lingering scent of his aftershave buried beneath twelve hours of hospital air. You watched with bated breath as he tilted his head, eyelids lowering. He began to dip down toward you, your lips nearly—
"What's goin' on back here?"
Frank pulled back fast, though not completely. His arm still caged you against the lockers. You turned your head toward the mouth of the hallway to find Robby standing there with a stack of papers in one hand, brows drawn tight enough to carve a line between them over his reading glasses.
“Just talking to Dr. Langdon,” you said innocently.
Frank finally stepped back fully under Robby's glare, the warmth of him leaving with it. The confidence he’d had moments ago seemed to drain out of him all at once, shoulders tightening beneath his scrub top.
“Maybe you can let Dr. Langdon get back to work now,” Robby said sharply, pretending to look over the papers in his hands. “West Bridge is rerouting patients to us. Flooding incident. Gonna need all hands on deck.”
“Shit,” Frank muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
But he made no move to leave yet. He just stood in front of you, looking a little out of place suddenly, like he’d gotten caught somewhere between staying and going. You wondered what this past year of meetings and evaluations and drug screenings and apologies had really done to his confidence. If Robby had ever actually sat down and talked to him honestly, or if he’d done what he always did and buried it beneath work until the silence made it impossible to bring up. He sure as hell never wanted to talk about it with you, no matter how gently you'd ask.
The silence stretched.
When the three of you just stood there too long without anyone making a move to leave first, Robby finally spread his arms a little, papers still in hand as he looked between the two of you.
“Now?”
Frank gave a small nod at the dismissal, finally stepping away from you to head down the hallway with him. Robby had already started to turn when you reached out and caught Frank gently by the jaw, your fingers brushing along the stubble there as you turned him back toward you.
“We’ll talk later,” you murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
The flush that climbed into his cheeks was immediate, and he brought his hand up to catch at your elbow, giving it a light squeeze. He didn't say anything, but smiled a little, almost sheepish but lighter somehow, like the reassurance settled his nerves even by a fraction.
As you started to follow behind him out into the main open area, Robby suddenly planted a hand against the wall in front of you with a loud smack, cutting you off before you could pass through the doorway.
"What exactly was that?"
"We were just saying hi."
"Hi and a goodbye kiss?" Robby asked sharply.
You shrugged, unbothered on purpose, even as the suddenness of him blocking the doorway made your pulse jump beneath your skin. “You used to like when I flirted with your residents.”
“Don’t play dumb.”
Your stare hardened.
“Oh, I see,” you said slowly, folding your arms over your chest. “So there’s suddenly rules now? What else would you like to add?”
“That’s not what I said.” he said, pulling his glasses off and tucking them into his shirt collar.
“No?” You tilted your head, “Cause last I checked, you didn’t exactly mind sharing.”
“Langdon’s different.”
Ah, of course.
“Because he went to rehab?” you asked. “Because before that you had no problem letting me—”
"He's unstable—"
“And you’re not?” you shot back before you could stop yourself.
You saw it in the way his stare sharpened on you, his jaw ticking under his beard as he looked down at you without answering. The morning shift noise carrying faintly from out in the department beyond the archway.
“He’s been back two months,” you said, hissing quietly through your teeth as the irritation grew. “You let him come back. You let him stay. He’s doing everything right and you still look at him like he’s one bad day away from sticking pills in his mouth again.”
Robby shifted the subject, as always. “You seem awfully concerned about him lately.”
And maybe a month ago, you would've backed down. Maybe you would've softened to him, let him steer the conversation away from himself and onto you, but today was different. Hell, the last few weeks had been different. That wriggling in your brain was something ugly, just sitting under your skin since your time with Brendon Park.
You lifted your chin. "What's that supposed to mean?"
“It means,” Robby said carefully, “I don’t think Langdon’s in a position to get attached to things that aren’t his.”
Your eyebrows shot upward and before you could stop yourself, a short disbelieving laugh escaped you.
"Oh my god," you scoffed, "this is about ownership, isn't it? And you're marking your territory."
Robby’s head was already shaking before you finished, one hand pinching briefly at the bridge of his nose. "Why are you acting like this?"
"Like what?" you snapped.
“Like we didn’t already agree to this.” His voice dropped lower still. “To me calling the shots on our… relationship. I think I’ve let you get a little too comfortable lately.”
The word sat strangely between you now. Relationship.
“That’s because, Dr. Robinavitch,” you said, your own voice tightening now, sharpened by defiance, “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t belong to you. Actually—” you laughed once without humor, “—I don’t belong to anyone.”
Something shifted faintly across Robby’s face at that.
“And also,” you continued before he could cut in, “you agreed to this too. To me flirting. To me choosing sometimes. There was never a problem with it before. And you know what I think?”
Your pulse was beating too hard now. You could feel yourself getting too wound up, too close to saying something you wouldn’t be able to take back. But the irritation sitting under your skin the past few weeks had finally found somewhere to go. You felt petty, and suffocated, and—and—
"I think you are just too prideful to admit you’re more angry at yourself than Frank. Because he fucked up, and somewhere in your head you think that means you—”
"Enough!' he snapped, voice cracking down the center. You both looked at each other for a long time then, silence heavy and stretching until it became harder to look at him directly.
You could feel him looking at you then in a way that made heat creep up the back of your neck, like he was seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.
“Think it’s time you went home,” he said flatly. "Don't you?"
You held his stare another long second before slowly dropping your arms and smoothing your expression back into something sweet.
“No,” you said softly. “I don’t think so, Dr. Robinavitch.”
Then you stepped around the arm still braced against the wall.
“Think I’ll stay awhile and see what night shift is up to instead.”
The noise of the ED buzzed around you as you walked out into the open area of the desk, the last of your adrenaline flicking through your fingers as you shook them off. Phones rang around you, monitors beeped in an off rhythm, and someone was laughing loud near the lounge, the doors opening and nurses coming in and out. The whole department had that strange early morning feeling to it, night shift hanging on by threads while day shift slowly poured in to replace them, everybody tired in different ways.
Dana was planted in front of the boards, reading glasses low on her nose as she scribbled something down onto a chart balanced against her forearm.
“There she is,” Dana called once she spotted you. She pulled the glasses down fully and opened her arms wide. “Thought maybe Robby chained you to that motorcycle of his or somethin’.”
You snorted, stepping into her quick squeeze before leaning against the desk once she let you go.
“Morning to you too.”
“Mornin’, angel girl.” Dana capped her pen and pointed it at you. “Hey. You busy?”
You opened your mouth to answer before realizing you actually didn’t know. After the weird tension with Robby in the hallway, suddenly the idea of finding somewhere else to be sounded pretty appealing.
“Why?”
“We’re hosting a blood drive downstairs,” she said. “Red Cross is beggin’. Critically low supply again. You should donate if you can.”
Honestly, it sounded perfect. Downstairs, quiet, away from Robby and whatever the hell that conversation had just been.
“Yeah,” you nodded slowly. “Actually that sounds kinda nice. Who's running it?”
“Mateo and Javadi.” Dana narrowed her eyes immediately after saying it. “Nobody’s ever said a blood drive sounds nice.”
You saw her eyes flick over your face and behind you before she handed you the flyer. The paper crackled softly between your fingers as you skimmed over dates and eligibility requirements and little cartoon blood drops smiling in the margins.
As you read over the flyer, your attention snagged suddenly on the feeling of warmth near your shoulder, so close that the fine hairs along the back of your neck lifted before you even turned around. The smell of Irish Spring and coffee suddenly embraced you as a voice said low by your ear:
“Hey.”
The single word slid down your spine.
You turned and found yourself nearly chest to chest with Jack Abbott.
Jesus Christ.
You’d always thought he was handsome, obviously. Everybody did. But up close after a night shift he had this worn roughness to him that somehow made it worse. Dark circles beneath his eyes, jaw shadowed from not shaving for a day or two, black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His curly salt and pepper hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times overnight.
His eyes, though, his eyes were focused on you with intent, a small smile pulling the corner of his mouth.
You leaned back against the desk, "Hey yourself."
Amusement flickered across his face, his hands behind his back as he loomed before you as he swayed on his feet, "How are you?"
You couldn't help the way you licked your bottom lip as you inhaled, "Good."
He nodded once, his gaze dropping to your mouth and then over your face slowly enough to make your pulse stumble.
“Good.”
"Oh brother."
You smiled, shoulders dropping at Dana's voice behind you. You could just picture her eye roll as she watched the interaction.
Jack smiled too, barely glancing behind you at all. The thought occurred to you suddenly that he was almost as intimidating as Dr. Park, but an entirely different way. Brendon's attention felt sharp, invasive, like being circled by something dangerous. And with Jack, it felt warm but in a lighter way. Your spine tingled when he looked at you like that—knowing, cheeky even, a twinkle in his eye—your chest pushing out as your flesh lit up in goosebumps, legs beginning to feel wobbly and unstable under his gaze. Where you didn't know Park's intentions when he pierced you with that shark like gaze, you could read almost every thought across Jack's.
"Long night?" you asked.
He let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You could say that.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That finally got a real smile out of him, brief but enough to crease the corners of his tired eyes. God, he had a nice smile.
Dana moved around the desk so she could catch your eye as she pointed at you both aggressively with her pen.
“Absolutely not. Nope. I know that look.” She pointed toward the hallway. “Go donate your blood and let this man go home and sleep before he has to be back tonight.”
Jack's gaze never left yours.
“Can’t yet,” he said quietly. “Still got a few patients I need to sign off on. Couple discharges.”
“You’ve been here fourteen hours,” Dana snapped.
“Fifteen,” he corrected absently.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Geez.”
He shrugged one shoulder, swaying a bit in front of you, though there was something almost sheepish about it under your attention now, like he suddenly realized how wrecked he probably looked. His eyes only left yours to look at the flyer behind you.
“Donating?” he asked you.
“Dana’s bullying me into it.”
“Good,” he said simply. "The vampires upstairs in their ivory tower are getting restless."
You laughed softly through your nose while the approval settled warm in your chest in a way that felt embarrassing, considering it was something so silly. Despite whatever hard night it had been, Jack always had a way of lightening the mood, even if it was with terrible jokes.
"Hey, Abbot!" someone called, and Jack’s attention finally pulled away from you and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Dr. Henderson approached from down the hall, ipad tucked beneath his arm, navy scrubs still clean despite the long shift.
"Hey, trouble," he said, nodding his head up to you, his charming gap in his teeth showing as he smiled on his approach.
"Hey, Crus," you smiled, leaning back further against the desk.
Dana made another exhausted little tsk noise as she sidled back behind you at the desk.
Crus looked back at Jack, expression shifting more serious. “Ms. Jones from triage has been waiting ages for that arm x-ray. I’m gonna pull ultrasound down here and clear her myself. No reason for her to sit in this hellhole longer than she needs.”
Jack nodded once. “Cool. See if you can dispo a few more stragglers while you’re at it too so you can get home in one piece.”
Crus nodded, but then paused. So did Jack. There was a bit of an awkward silence.
"Anything else?" Jack asked, eyebrows raised.
Crus glanced down at you, smile turning cockier. “Just wanted to say hello to my pretty friend here.”
“You already said hi,” you teased.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jack's jaw ticking.
“What’re you doin’ after this?” Crus asked.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Dana cut in sharply. “Get your butt downstairs before I gotta start carryin’ around a god damn yardstick to beat these brutes back.”
You stood quickly, grabbing the flyer from her again and turned to Crus, "If you happen to be here when I'm done, I'll come find you."
He smiled even wider at that.
You glanced at Jack then with a little wink before turning away without waiting for anything from him. The last thing you caught was the pursed set of his mouth, his eyes narrowed faintly at your back.
The thing about Jack Abbot and you…was, well, that there was nothing about you and Jack Abbot at all.
Which was strange, considering there had been something with most of Robby's closest residents and attendings. Not everyone, obviously—but enough that you knew that Jack knew what you were to those around him too. Nobody in the ED was exactly subtle.
And then there was the black ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. The one he twisted absently when he was talking to residents, one he never took off, one that seemed to sit between him and everything else like a hazard sign bolted into concrete. Even if his wife had died years ago.
But Jack was flirty with everyone. That was just who he was. Playful, funny, forever making terrible old man jokes just to get a laugh out of somebody during a hard shift. He liked making you laugh especially. You’d noticed that early on.
And while his stares could make heat creep all the way down your chest and settle into your belly, and looked at you sometimes like he was already halfway through some thought he shouldn’t be having, you also knew he never meant anything by it.
Because he never did anything about it. Ever.
You wondered sometimes if Robby had ever even offered, or if there was some invisible line between the two of them that wouldn’t allow for it. They’d known each other so long they were closer to brothers than coworkers. Maybe there were just certain things you didn’t touch when it came to Jack Abbott. The idea of anything being off limits in Robby's mind made your jaw tick again.
You knew you shouldn't have been so defensive earlier, of Langdon or of anyone else. You did have a nice arrangement with Robby, one that made your mind shut off when he took the reins, an arrangement that made you feel wanted and needed and…
You didn’t even want to think the word.
Loved?
Please.
As if any of this meant anything deeper than helping the staff blow off steam after brutal shifts, letting them forget for a little while about dead patients and screaming families and all the things they carried home. That’s all you were. A cute little distraction around the ED.
And in return, you got to feel like you belonged somewhere. You got to feel like even Robby—
"Juice box?"
You blinked hard and looked up.
A curly headed mop of hair tilted down toward you, warm brown eyes and pretty tan skin and a thick-lipped smile waiting patiently while he held out the little apple juice box toward you.
You smiled automatically, fidgeting in your chair as you reached out to take it. “Thank you, Mateo”
He nodded, dark curls falling around his forehead. “I’m about to head out, but you were lookin’ a little pale over here.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “V’s gonna take over now.”
You glanced toward Victoria Javadi helping someone else tape gauze over the inside of their arm, smiling brightly while she thanked them for donating.
“Cool, yeah,” you nodded quickly, forcing your thoughts away from handsome attendings and complicated arrangements. “Sounds good.”
He paused in front of you, "You good?"
"Mhm, sorry—" you shifted around the reclining chair, "just, tired—I think I was starting to fall asleep."
"…or pass out." he corrected knowingly, "I'll get you a sandwich."
You smiled sheepishly, "Okay, fine, thank you."
He winked before stepping away toward the snack cart, and when he came back a minute later with a wrapped sandwich. Instead of leaving again, he dropped down onto the little rolling stool in front of you.
“Gotta take this out first.” He said, reaching for your arm, his fingers warm against your skin as he peeled the tape back from the crook of your elbow. “Can’t let you wander around the hospital still attached to us.”
You laughed softly, welcoming the touch.
"I uh…" Mateo's eyes flickered towards the doorway before coming back to your arm, "I heard you and Robby earlier."
Your stomach tightened, "Oh."
He still wasn’t looking directly at you, focused instead on removing the needle smoothly before pressing gauze firmly against your arm.
“I just wanna say…” He shrugged a little. “I think you’re right to defend Langdon.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“He’s earned the right to be back here,” Mateo continued quietly. “And I know you…” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Well. You’ve helped me through some pretty shitty days too.”
Your eyes softened. People knew Langdon had gone to rehab, though maybe not everyone knew the full story of what happened a year ago, how ugly it had gotten by the end, or the way everything between him and Robby had blown apart afterward. Still, it made something in your chest ease, knowing there were people here besides you willing to stand behind him.
“That being said," Mateo went on, "I don’t want you thinkin’ people only want you around because of…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flushing faintly. “You know.”
You smiled, a chuff of soft laughter spilling from you, but you let him go on.
“People actually like you,” he finished simply. “You’re cool as hell to have around.”
You reached out without really thinking about it, hand wrapping gently around his forearm. You weren't sure why that made your throat tighten suddenly as you said, "Thank you."
He smiled back at you before finally securing a rainbow bandaid over the little cotton pad at your arm.
“There,” he patted your elbow lightly, “no heavy lifting.”
Without overthinking it, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his neck before you could leave, sitting up and bringing him in closer. He hugged you back immediately, warm hands settling against your spine before curling around your waist, holding you against him.
“Don’t let Robby’s shit day stop you from comin’ around here, yeah?” he murmured.
You ducked your face briefly into the side of his neck, warm spice and bergamot filling your senses. Your brain betrayed you immediately with flashes of those same hands gripping your thighs months ago, his mouth against your stomach, the low sound of your name on his tongue.
“Yeah,” you sighed softly.
Then when you finally pulled back and looked over his shoulder, you caught Javadi watching the two of you from across the room. The second your eyes met hers, she looked away sharply, mouth tightening as she threw something into the trash harder than necessary.
Your stomach dipped, and you let go of Mateo quickly after that, standing up and thanking him again before making a fast escape out into the hallway.
By the time you made it back upstairs, the little cotton pad taped to the inside of your eblow was starting to itch beneath the rainbow bandaid, your half-finished juice box crinkling softly in your hand every time you squeezed it. The sandwich Mateo gave you was nowhere to be found now, left forgotten probably on your recliner downstairs while you got distracted spiraling through your own thoughts.
Which, apparently, was becoming a habit lately.
The department had picked up since earlier. Stretchers lined parts of the hallway now, triage louder than before, somebody coughing hard near the waiting room while a monitor alarm chirped steadily from one of the trauma bays. You could smell the burnt, forgotten coffee from the lounge in the air and the floor cleaner by the 'wet floor' sign in the middle of the room.
You slowed near the desk, eyes drifting automatically through the movement around the department.
Mostly looking for Crus.
Partially avoiding Robby.
Which was stupid, because the second you thought it, your eyes snagged on him across the department anyway.
He stood in front of Dennis Whitaker, both hands clutching the tubes of his stethoscope while he listened to the resident presenting. Robby looked exhausted already, dark circles beneath his eyes and a pained look across his face as he stood there.
But then he looked up, the eye contact so sudden it made your stomach dip. His attention was caught on you completely, something shuttering carefully across his face as he forced a neutral expression. Whitaker was still talking, oblivious to the sudden change in his attending's attention, and after a long moment Robby finally looked away, turning his attention back towards the chart in Whitaker's hands.
“Look who survived her heroic blood donation,” Dana called without looking up from the computer.
You wandered toward the desk with a quiet sigh. “Barely.”
Dana snorted.
“Crus still here?”
“Mhm. Went up to radiology with one of the nurses maybe ten minutes ago.” She clicked through a chart before looking at you over her readers, “He’ll wander back down eventually."
Well, you sure as hell weren't going to wait down here for Robby to find you.
“I’m gonna go up,” you muttered.
Dana pointed at you immediately. “You wanna eat somethin’ first?”
You waved her off anyway and headed toward the stairwell before she could mother you any harder. The elevator dinged somewhere down the hall and you glanced toward it hopefully, only to find a crowd of transport staff immediately flooding doors again with a patient bed.
Yeah, nevermind. The stairs it was.
Heading up the stairway corridor, the noise of the ED dulled to muffled echoes behind you, the stairwell smelling of dust and stuffy industrial metallic. The only sound accompanying you the further you got was the sound of your footsteps and heavier breathing.
By the third flight, your legs felt heavy, chest heaving in lungfuls that usually wouldn't have winded you so much. Your head felt a little floaty, and you had to tighten your grip to haul you up onto the next landing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while you stood there a second, listening to the distant hum of hospital life vibrating through the walls around you. Somewhere above, a door slammed shut.
Two more to go.
You pushed upward again.
When you finally reached the radiology floor, you stepped out into the quieter hallway with another long breath, smoothing your hair back from your forehead. The halls up here always felt strange compared to the ED—slower paced, colder, less frantic.
Before you closed the door of the stairwell, you glanced back and saw something peculiar.
The door across on the landing was propped open with a towel just next to the small sign bolted to the metal.
ROOF ACCESS
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Why was it open?
Something about it made your stomach do a little dance. It wasn't exactly fear, but maybe curiosity. Worry, even. You knew who liked to spend time on the roof, after all.
You stared at it another second before turning toward it instead of the radiology department. The heavy metal door groaned softly as you pulled it open wider, another narrow staircase stretching upward above you. You glanced back once, making sure the towel still sat wedged near the hinge to keep the door from locking behind you, before starting up.
Your lungs burned with every breath, the climb catching up to you all at once. Cold sweat prickled along the back of your neck beneath your hair, the rooftop shifting faintly beneath your feet when you stopped moving too suddenly.
Too many damn stairs.
The air was still cool for a Pennsylvania morning, late summer clinging stubbornly to the afternoons but finally starting to ease, mornings carrying the promise of fall again. The breeze skimmed over the sweat dampening your skin and raised goosebumps along your arms as you stepped fully onto the rooftop.
And there he was.
Standing near the edge with his beck to you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tan cargos. He didn’t turn around when the door shut behind you, and for a second you wondered if he already knew it was you or if he was just too lost in thought to care.
"What're you doin' up here, Jack?"
His shoulders sagged slightly at the sound of your voice, head dipping forward for a second, chin nearly brushing his chest before he let out a long breath through his nose.
“Thinkin’ about throwin’ myself off,” he muttered.
You walked closer slowly. “Mm. Bit dramatic.”
He huffed a little amused laugh at that, though you couldn't see his face. You stood just behind him at the railing. He was so quiet your chest had started thumping against your ribs. Play with me, you wanted to beg, joke back, please.
Down below, an ambulance siren wailed somewhere out on the street while another backed into the bay beneath you, the sharp beeping echoing upward between buildings. A car alarm chirped a few blocks away before abruptly cutting off.
The city moved on while you stood in silence.
"That bad?" you murmured after a moment.
He looked up at the skyline, "You know...I always liked sunrises more than sunsets. Sunsets get all the attention, but there's nothing like seeing the sun rise again and again. Despite how shit it may seem, it just keeps coming, doesn't it?"
"Like you?"
You maybe shouldn't have said it, but you couldn't help it. You wished he'd just look at you. The nausea twisting in your stomach had gotten worse now, your vision still faintly shaky from the climb, but you kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on the broad line of his back beneath the black cotton stretched over his shoulders.
“Had a little girl this morning,” he said instead of answering you. “Left in a hot tub too long. Came in with burns all over. Her little heart was giving out before we could even get her onto high-flow and start pushing fluids.” He shook his head slowly. “Always the kids, man.”
Your eyes dropped toward the rooftop gravel below your shoes. The ground shifted faintly again and you closed your eyes briefly, fingers clenching together as you leaned harder against the railing.
“Shit,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”
"Me too." he whispered, almost too quiet against the wind. "Why are you up here?" he asked, barely glancing back.
But the second his eyes actually landed on you, you saw his expression change. He did a double take to look directly at you, his eyes widening as he took you in.
You opened your mouth to answer him but your vision had gone completely fuzzy. You couldn't hold onto the railing, all your strength feeling like it had zapped from you in a moment's notice.
Oh—
Oh, fuck—
Jack turned fully toward you at the exact moment your knees buckled.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—hey—!”
The world dropped violently sideways before a pair of strong hands caught you hard around the waist and shoulders, hauling you against him. You weren’t even sure how he’d gotten to you that fast, only that suddenly there were two of him swimming in your vision.
“Jesus Christ,” Jack breathed.
Your vision came back in strange pieces. Pink and gray sky, his black t shirt. The feeling of his hand gripping the back of your neck.
“Easy,” he muttered, and somewhere in the back of your mind you felt his thumb softly caressing the column of your throat. “Easy, easy. I got you.”
“I’m okay,” you mumbled automatically.
“Bullshit.”
You could feel his breath against your skin, minty from whatever gum he'd brought with him on his shift. Irish Spring soap flooded your senses stronger than before. His body radiated warmth through the thin fabric of your shirt.
"You donated blood this morning, right?" he said, asking quietly.
"Mhm," you said, closing your eyes for a minute.
Jack closed his eyes briefly like he was physically containing his irritation.
“So you climbed seven flights of stairs after donating blood?” His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “Did you eat anything?”
"Forgot my sandwich. Mateo, he…" you sighed, content in his hold, letting your head rest on his shoulder. "Juice box too."
"Okay, baby, we're gonna get you home."
Baby. Jack had never called you that before. He'd flirted with you, made eyes at you, but never the pet name. And with him holding you so close, your stomach was rolling again, but not from the nausea.
You hummed contentedly, and he held you there for a long moment. When you opened your eyes, he was still staring at you.
"You're right" you said gently.
"Yeah?" he breathed, "Why's that?"
"The sunrise is so pretty."
Jack glanced behind him automatically toward the skyline, the sky dusty blue now with long streaks of pink still dragged through the clouds. Morning light painted the side of his face pale gold when he turned back toward you again.
“Makes you look pretty too,” you added, a faint smile pulling at your mouth.
Jack stared back down at you for half a second before he mirrored the look.
“Okay,” he groaned, carefully easing you upright again while keeping one hand firm at your waist. “Definitely time to get you horizontal before you start hallucinating.”
Jack kept his hand against your waist as he guided you back toward the stairwell, watching you carefully every few seconds like he didn’t fully trust you not to tip over again. The rooftop door whined and slammed shut behind you.
“No more stairs,” he muttered immediately, steering you toward the elevator hall instead.
You smiled faintly. “Bossy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Eventually you made it back down to the ground floor, the ED exploding with noise once the doors opened. The morning rush had hit, the elderly from the nearby nursing homes being wheeled in quickly and codes being called around you.
Jack reached for your hand, guiding you through quickly. It was warm, rough around the palm, fingers curling firmly through yours.
"I gotta tell Robby—" you tried to say, but as you glanced around looking for him, you saw Robby standing with a gown half on him, gloved hands pulling it over his shoulders as him and a group of others stood around a patient. Jesse was there, cutting off a patient's shirt as they began moving quickly.
"Looks a little busy." Jack muttered.
You looked to the main desk, spotting Dana and calling to her as you approached.
"Can you tell Robby I'm heading home?" you asked, jerking your head to the trauma bay he inhabited, "Jack is gonna take me. I feel like shit."
Something gentled slightly across Dana’s face then, less curious than before.
“Yeah, honey. I got it.” Her eyes flicked over your face once and immediately narrowed. “Jesus Christ, you do look awful.”
Before you could defend yourself, she reached into one of the patient nourishment carts, yanked out a wrapped sandwich, and tossed it directly at you.
Or, well, at your head.
Jack caught it one handed without even looking.
“Make sure she eats the whole thing.” Dana snapped.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jack answered, back turned to her.
You laughed quietly under your breath while he tucked the sandwich beneath his arm and started guiding you toward the exit again, still holding your hand.
And then that strange prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again. Awareness, a sixth sense someone was watching.
As Jack guided you out the doors, you turned around to peak at the ED one last time, and realized people were watching you.
Dana stood behind the desk now talking quietly to Robby, who had stepped partly out of the trauma room. His gloves were gone now, one hand braced against the doorway while he listened to her, but his eyes stayed fixed on you.
Langdon stood farther down the hall beside a patient room, ipad tucked beneath his arm while an older woman spoke to him from the stretcher. But his attention had drifted completely past her shoulder now, blue eyes caught on you too.
Crus had reappeared near the lockers, backpack slung over one shoulder as he headed toward the opposite exit. He slowed slightly when he saw you.
Even Brendon Park, who hardly ever wandered down here, was halfway down the hall with Yolanda Garcia beside him flipping through imaging on a chart. He had looked up at your departure too.
The whole thing felt suddenly surreal.
All these people.
All these tangled little relationships and secrets and conversations and hands on your body and soft moments everyone knew about.
They were all looking at you, with your hand in Jack's, leaving with him. It made your chest tighten oddly, holding onto his hand harder as he guided you out.
“Better?”
You licked the last crumb from your thumb, crumpling up the plastic sandwich wrapper with a sigh as you leaned back into the passenger seat of Jack’s truck.
“So much better.”
Your head still ached faintly, but with actual food in your stomach now, you finally felt like your body was catching back up to itself. The cold shaky feeling had mostly faded too. When you checked yourself in the visor mirror, there was finally color back in your face instead of that ghostly gray pallor from earlier.
You looked over at Jack with a little smile.
He was already looking at you.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“You finally stopped looking like a Victorian child with TB.”
You snorted a laugh immediately. “But a cute Victorian child, right?”
"Very cute," he said, not yet turning on the car as the two of you settled in to the warm leather seats.
You licked the last bit of salt from your lips and slumped further into the seat, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. He was still looking at you a little strangely.
"What?"
His hazel eyes softened slightly. “You scared me a little up there, y’know.”
“So did you.”
He looked away then, one hand settling onto the steering wheel while you studied him quietly from the passenger seat. The salty shade of his scruff that had grown in, the exhaustion still sitting in his eyes despite the teasing. His wedding ring caught dimly in the morning light where his fingers rested against the wheel.
The police scanner clipped suddenly to life near the dashboard.
“—I 376—multiple vehicle MVC, possible ejection—”
Both of your heads turned automatically toward it.
Jack’s posture changed instantly. It was subtle, but immediate— shoulders straightening, his eyes sharpening as he reached over, the static crackling through the speaker.
“—three critical, one pediatric—”
“Shit—sorry—” he muttered, quickly shutting it off.
You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, willing the thoughts and the memories from your head. Not now, today was already such a mess. Not now. Your stomach twisted unpleasantly, threatening to send the sandwich right back up again.
“Hey.”
You felt his hand wrap around yours then, only realizing afterward how hard you’d dug your nails into your own thigh.
“Hey,” he repeated softer. “I’m sorry.”
“Why do you even have that thing?”
Your eyes cracked open again to see Jack leaning across the center console now, still holding your hand, thumb moving against your knuckles.
“I, uh…” He sighed, glancing down toward the space between you before looking back up again. “I don’t like the quiet.”
"You n' me both," you muttered. "But a police scanner? You couldn't try like, white noise? An audiobook?"
He smiled a little at that, "Boring."
“Right. Well I’m sure your cortisol levels are just phenomenal listening to active disasters all day.” You shook your head slightly. "Not to mention your weekend hobby of being shot at."
That pulled a real smile out of him now, teeth flashing briefly. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."
You rolled your eyes, "And fishing wouldn't have sufficed?"
"Too quiet. You're starting to see my dilemma now."
“Oh, I can think of a few things that could keep your mind occupied better than this.”
The second the words left your mouth, heat rushed up your neck. You rolled your lips together, wishing you could've shut your mouth sooner. Shit.
Jack opened his mouth to say something, his eyes dropping to yours, and then he slid away.
You looked away immediately, staring hard out through the windshield toward the concrete pillars of the parking garage while your stomach twisted itself into knots. You could still feel the warmth of his hand around yours, which somehow only made it worse.
God. You wanted to crawl under the truck.
"You know why I haven't given in?"
You blinked, turning your head slightly. “What?”
Jack tipped his head back against the seat, eyes fixed somewhere up toward the roof of the cab now instead of at you.
“Why I haven’t…” He swallowed once. “Been part of all that. With you.”
Your heart was suddenly lodging itself into your throat.
"No." you whispered.
He looked over at you.
"Same reason why everyone else was looking at you when I was holding your hand as we walked out." he said.
His voice had gone softer somehow, lower now, like he was trying not to say too much and failing anyway. Every word came out careful and quiet enough that it made you want to lean closer just to catch them. You’d never imagined this with him—not really. Not beyond the flirting and the long looks and little moments between shifts. This kind of honesty from Jack Abbott felt almost frightening.
You didn't really understand what the meant by that.
He held your gaze for a long second before looking down at your joined hands still resting near the center console.
“But it’s not—” You tried to laugh lightly, though it came out strained. “It’s just hooking up, Jack. Just blowing off steam.”
He gave you a knowing look, "I don't think so, sweetheart."
Your skin felt hot and as awake as a live wire under his watchful stare—the way he could see it all so clearly, the thing you'd been trying to not name in the past few weeks, the thing that made you spit venom at Robby this morning.
"If I…If we—" He stopped himself, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip while his jaw tightened. Your heart was hammering in your throat now as he went on: "I'm not exactly built for anything casual."
You tipped your head to look at him, trying to keep your face relaxed, forcing a small smile that you didn't feel, "Jack—"
“I’m serious.” His voice sharpened slightly for the first time since getting into the truck. “I can’t do casual. I’ve never been able to.” He looked away briefly, his mouth opening to inhale like he couldn't catch a steady breath. “And after my wife…”
The cab of the truck suddenly felt too small.
“Since Eve died,” he said carefully, “I’m not really right in the head, sweetheart.”
Your chest twisted at the sound of his honesty, the exhaustion not just from the shift but from whatever he was dealing with inside, whatever all the long nights and the police scanner and the active duty seemed to distract from.
"It doesn't have to be like that," you murmured, turning to fully face him, "We don't have to do anything, I like being friends. I've never asked you to—"
"But fuck," he let out a harsh breath, eyes boring into you, "I want to."
You stared at him for a long moment without blinking. Part of you wanted to change the subject immediately, to laugh it off, to rewind the entire conversation before either of you started saying things that couldn’t really be unsaid. Brendon Park's face suddenly appeared behind your eyes:
Because one day someone’s going to slip up and you’re going to realize it’s a lot less about the sex than you think.
You looked away from Jack and back out toward the concrete beams of the parking garage.
“I can’t be your girlfriend, Jack.” Your voice had gone strangely stiff now, every consonant sharp. “I can’t be Robby’s either, and he knows that. That’s why this works.”
"I'm not —"
“The last time I was somebody’s girlfriend,” you interrupted, “my parents died.”
Jack went completely still beside you. Your throat tightened immediately, like your body regretted saying it the second the words were out, but now you couldn’t stop them.
"I had taken them to my boyfriend's house, and his parents were so fucking drunk when we arrived they could barely hold a conversation," you said quickly, your eyes beginning to burn at the corners. "His dad kept getting angrier and angrier, shouting over my mom every time she tried talking, and his mother was making comments about my body, about how I should ‘lock her son down before somebody else does.’” Your laugh came out thin and shaky. “And my boyfriend just sat there letting it happen, laughing at their awful comments.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“I was so hellbent on convincing my parents they weren’t always like that, that he wasn’t always like that, but they wouldn’t listen.” Your breathing had gone uneven now, tears thickening your voice. “They kept telling me I deserved better, and I thought they were judging me for planning to move to the city with him, so I just—I snapped.”
You let go of Jack's hand to press the heels of your hands hard against your eyes.
“I told my own dad I hated him.” The words cracked coming out. “That was the last thing I ever said to him.” Your shoulders shook harder. “And he turned around with this look in his eyes, and that’s when that fucking truck—”
Jack’s arms were around you instantly.
One second you were sitting there trying to force the words out and the next he was leaning hard over the center console, pulling you into him so quickly it knocked the breath from your lungs. You sobbed against his chest, and you could feel his mouth pressing against the top of your head as he said: "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything—"
You could barely speak, you were crying so hard. You'd never told anyone all of that. Robby only knew pieces, but he never knew why you'd blamed yourself. He was the only one who ever understood without having to know. It was why it worked with him, why everything had been good until now. Both of your own darkness tucked underneath this feeling of being wanted and seen and understood, his and your own.
You clutched onto Jack’s shirt, tears staining through the soft black cotton, until eventually your breathing began to even out into uneven little pulls of air instead of outright sobs.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered finally, dragging the back of your hand hard across your cheek as you tried pulling away.
But Jack wouldn’t let you go.
His arms only tightened around you instead, one hand spread broad against the middle of your back while the other stayed firm at the nape of your neck.
As you sucked in air and tilted your head up to look at him, to try to get him to understand, you stopped when you saw the look in his eyes.
You became suddenly, painfully aware of how close he’d gotten.
His face hovered only inches from yours now, your knees pressed against the center console while his body leaned over it to hold you. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the rough drag of his thumb where it rested against the back of your neck.
He whispered your name.
And then was leaning in.
His lips tasted like faded coffee and old minty gum, like a low burning fire— the warmth of standing out in the cold too long, even though it was a tepid day outside the windows of his truck. You parted your lips in surprise, and he leaned in deeper immediately, kissing you harder now, but still so careful you could feel him holding himself back. You could’ve sworn you heard a broken groan slip from his throat at the feeling of you opening for him, his body otherwise perfectly still around you.
He pulled away. The light of the mid morning sun began to paint his face so you could still see just the barest speckle of hazel outlining the pupils that had blown wide with desire.
"That was stupid." he said, only just a whisper.
"Uh huh," you murmured, and then dove back in.
You pressed yourself against him harder, breath hitching as you moaned against his mouth, hands fisting into his shirt, pulling him closer. It felt frantic, like you'd been possessed with a newfound hunger. He only broke away long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere blindly into the backseat before his hands were on you again. He was slipping them under your shirt before downright pulling you on top of him. You went willingly, knees sinking awkwardly into the crux of the seat on either side of him, straddling his hips. The position pressed you flush against him and your breath caught at the hard bulge beneath the cargos pressing against you.
He was kissing you again, and jesus, he kissed like he fucking meant it—tongue plunging into your mouth, suckling at your top lip and letting his teeth graze over it. Your hands went to his hair, fingers carding through like you could only just get him close enough, hips pushing down onto his, and you could feel a bulge in his cargos that only made your brain fuzzier. You tangled your fingers into his hair, over his shoulders, anything to try and drag him even closer while your hips rolled down against him.
"Fuck, Jack—" you whimpered as you ground down again. He let out a pained moan, his hands going to your face, before he pushed you away.
The two of you sat there panting into the same air for a second, his eyelids heavy but still fixed on you completely while your hands stayed curled against his shoulders.
"Are you sure about this?" he whispered, calloused hands at the sides of your face with his thumbs imprinting into your cheeks. He tilted your head this way and that, and you wondered, with the way he was looking at you now, if he was cataloging this all to memory in case you said no.
You nodded, letting your own hands travel up to his face, feeling the scruff of his graying stubble along your soft digits.
Jack’s eyes fluttered shut briefly at the touch. And then he was opening them again, a fire sparking behind his pained look, and he suddenly pulled your face down so you were mere milometers away from him, feeling the way he spoke more than you could hear it, "Say it."
"Yes, Jack," you whimpered, "I'm sure."
"And Robby?"
Fuck.
“I’ll talk to him,” you whispered, your breath catching when Jack’s mouth brushed slowly against your bottom lip again. “Tomorrow."
"Tonight."
You nodded frantically, "I’ll explain everything tonight.”
“What a good girl you are,” he murmured, and kissed you harder. His hands left your face to push your shirt up over your head, and you couldn’t help glancing around before your hands fell to the clasp at the back of your bra.
Jack’s hands were already there, undoing the hook and eye without fumbling once. “Tinted windows, sweetheart.”
You smiled against his mouth and let the bra slip free, breasts bare beneath his hands. He cupped you gently at first, then rougher, palms working over you with a greedy sort of focus that made your stomach tighten. He broke the kiss again to take one into his mouth, and your lips fell open at the feeling of his tongue against your pebbled nipple, a moan shaking out of you as his other hand kept a tight hold on the other.
“What a cute little thing you are,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the valley of your breasts before taking the other nipple into his mouth fully. You watched his brows pull together almost painfully, his eyelids fluttering as he groaned low against your skin.
"Jesus Christ, Jack, please—I need more—want more of you—"
He unlatched himself from your breast with a pop and nipped your chin, "Backseat."
You scrambled off his lap with a yelp when his palm cracked against your ass, laughter bubbling out of you as you climbed into the wide backseat of his truck.
He followed after you, and you only caught the quick flash of metal from his prosthesis as he climbed over the console before he muttered a curse and dropped down beside you.
"Lemme take this damn thing off—" he muttered, annoyance in his voice.
"Do you need help—"
He shook his head, already working at the straps, cargo pant leg shoved up high over his knee so you could watch him unfasten it. You’d only really seen it a handful of times before, usually when he was adjusting the socket after it rubbed him raw through the day or messing with the suspension during a shift.
It was off soon enough. He set it carefully in the footwell before leaning back against the window, his leg swinging up onto the seat. The fabric of his pants was pulled back down over his shin, sagging slightly once the prosthesis was gone.
“C’mere,” he murmured, giving a small tilt of his head. You started to scoot toward him, but he stopped you with one finger pointed your way. “Those off first.”
You smiled knowingly and unbuttoned your denim shorts, shoving them down your legs until you were left in nothing but your panties. Jack let out a slow sigh, eyes dragging over you in open appreciation.
“Seen enough?” you teased.
“Not even close,” he said with a grin, reaching out to pull you back onto his lap.
He pulled you down onto him with both hands, one settling firm at the back of your thigh while the other cupped your jaw, guiding your mouth back to his before you could even laugh again. The kiss turned messy fast, all heat and teeth and the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, and you could feel the way he exhaled through his nose when you shifted against him, the low sound he made vibrating right into your mouth.
Jack’s hand slid slowly up the inside of your thigh, broad palm dragging over warm skin until his thumb hooked beneath the waistband of your panties.
“You're a squirmer," he said against your mouth, "Nervous?"
You laughed at first, "And you are a tease—"
But the word broke into a gasp as his fingers slipped beneath the lace of your panties, his rough fingers sliding easily against the supple, wet skin, arousal you'd made in the time from your first kiss to now coating his digits. You grabbed at his shoulders harder, letting him nip and kiss at your jaw, the sharp pricks of stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His fingers moved slowly at first, just sliding back and forth as he cursed under his breath.
"Gonna let me take care of this?" he asked, though his voice was thin and hoarse.
You nodded, gnawing at your bottom lip as you jerked against his touch. He kissed you again while his fingers worked between your legs, slower than you wanted—seemingly on purpose—with teasing circles that had your breath stuttering into his mouth. Jack seemed to enjoy every little reaction out of you, every jerk of your hips, every soft noise you failed to swallow down. You could feel him smiling faintly against your lips each time.
"You make the prettiest sounds, baby," he said. "Wonder what you'd sound like with my cock in you."
"Oh, please please please," you whimpered, dropping your forehead to the broad crest of his shoulder.
“Gotta get you ready first,” he tsked softly, the pads of two fingers sliding from your pulsing clit down to your entrance, making you shudder.
He pushed both in at once, the stretch making you wince. You lifted your head to look down at him, and saw his brows pulled together in a little cooing face.
"Ohhh, I know. But if you can't take my fingers, how will you ever take my cock in this tight little pussy, huh?"
Jesus fucking Christ he was going to kill you with that mouth of his.
You whined as he pushed deeper, knuckle-deep now, and just as you settled against his palm, your clit rubbing against the meat of his hand, he crooked his fingers inside you and your eyes nearly rolled back.
"Oh fuck!"
“That’s it,” he coaxed again. “S’alright, c’mon baby, ride my fingers.”
You whined, petulant, unable to help it. He had you like putty in his hands, fingers hitting that perfect spot inside you that only left you wanting more and more and more. You started lifting yourself off his hand only to sink back down again, your breasts bouncing softly in front of his face. It was so good, just the right amount of stretch and friction, each drop down making your clit swell and brush against his hand.
"Jaaaackkk—" you whined as your impending orgasm came rolling towards you quicker than you expected.
He must’ve felt you tightening around him because suddenly he held you still, stopping your hips before easing you back against the bench seat, crowding over you.
“Hey!” you squealed, the orgasm nearly there before he snatched it away. You watched as he sucked on his fingers before looking back down at you.
“You’re not coming unless it’s on my cock right now,” he growled, kissing at your neck while fumbling with his cargo pants, shoving them down enough to free himself.
You managed to smile, breathless albeit, and snake your hand down between the two of you.
His cock was thick—that was the first thought, girthy and like velvet in your hand. He hissed in a breath as you wrapped your hand around him, and you watched as his eyes rolled back.
"How long has it been, Jack, since you were with anyone?"
His heavy lidded gaze dropped back to you. “Long, long time, baby.”
"Since—?"
He nodded once. “Just me, myself, and my best friend Righty here,” he said with a rough little laugh, wiggling his hand between you.
You laughed with him softly. “Cornball.”
He smiled crookedly down at you before wrapping his hand around himself again, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. Your back bent up in euphoric bliss as sensitive skin touched sensitive skin, both of you moaning at the contact.
"Tell me again," he said, "I need to make sure you're—you're— oh shit—"
"I'm sure, please for the love of god, fuck me."
"Now who's bossy?" he chided, and then notched his cock at your center, and both of you hitched a breath. Your hands flew to his biceps, toes curling.
“Need you to breathe, sweetheart." he said, though his voice was tight with restraint, "Let me in.”
You looked at him suddenly wide eyed, worry pinching between your brows. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t think you’re gonna—”
"Fit?" he teased with an eyebrow cocked, and pushed another inch.
"Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod—"
He laid himself over you then, elbows braced on either side of your head so he could cup the back of your skull, kissing you slowly. “Breathe, sweet girl. Tried to tell you I had to get you ready, didn’t I?”
You nodded against his mouth and forced yourself to exhale. The second you did, Jack pushed fully into you until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressing softly against you.
"Ohhhhhh…" you moaned, head craning back as your eyes disappeared behind your lids.
He kissed you again, letting you adjust, "Jesus, you feel so fucking good." His mouth dropped into the crook of your neck, suckling the skin there as he groaned. He pulled out barely an inch, and you clung to him immediately, arms looped tight around his neck, ankles crossing behind his back.
"No-no—need—need a second,"
“I know, I know, just a little,” he soothed, kissing your ear. “Fuck, this is not gonna last long.”
He pushed himself up just enough to slip his hand between your bodies again, one hand still holding the back of your neck. The second his fingers brushed over your clit, your whole body jolted.
"Ohmygod—"
"How's that feel, pretty girl?"
"So—so good. S'like you're splitting me in half, you're so big, Jack, oh—god—"
He chuckled, kissing your chin before fully kissing you on the mouth, breathing you in, and he began to move.
You whined and moaned and gasped for breath as he slowly began to saw his hips, until you were boneless beneath him, fully adjusted, and he finally began to fuck you in earnest.
His fingers still pressed back and forth over your clit, and he went between watching your face and kissing you, as if he couldn't decide which he liked more.
"Oh fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good," he groaned, jerking his hips up into you "can't believe I waited so fucking long to do this—ah, ah—"
All you could do was moan, as if every word you'd ever learned had melted from your brain. You were molten beneath him, moans and lewd mewling of pleasure spilling from your mouth, his cock pushing deep inside, stretching you open. His breath was heavy, moaning along with you, not a care in the world. Somewhere in the haze, you noticed the truck windows had fogged over completely, the concrete walls of the parking garage barely visible beyond the glass.
"Fuck, fuck fuck, please tell me you're close—can feel her tightening up on me, I'm gonna come, please, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck—"
"Yes, Jack, please, come for me, I'm gonna—me too—" The words finally came back to you just enough to urge him on, your hips lifting to meet every thrust until he hiked your leg higher around his waist and drove deep enough to make your spine bow off the seat.
White burst across your vision at the new angle, making you cry out as the pressure finally tipped you over the edge. His fingers never left your clit while you came around him, gushing and tightening hard, every pulse of your body dragging him right after you as his own finally snapped tight.
His head bent back onto his neck, mouth open, a guttural sort of noise leaving him. You felt the shudder that went through him before he finally let himself collapse into you fully, broad body heavy against yours, his forehead tucked against your neck while both of you fought for air.
The truck felt stifling now, windows completely fogged over, the air thick with heat and sweat and sex.
You stayed like that for a while, your fingers tracing the freckles of his shoulders, the large planes of his back. Eventually his breath evened out and he lifted his head enough to look at you.
“Hell of a first date.”
You stared back at him with a flat expression, though a smug little smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“Get off, old man,” you teased, giving his shoulder a playful slap.
He laughed under his breath and finally peeled himself off you, both of you damp where sweat had gathered between your skin, though in your hazy state you could barely bring yourself to care. Getting dressed felt strangely intimate. Every now and then one of you would catch the other staring, and when you pulled your bra on his hands were already on you, straightening a twisted strap.
By the time you both climbed back into the front seat, the truck didn't smell so sweaty as Jack cracked the windows briefly, letting late morning air pour in while he started the engine.
The drive back to your place was quiet, but not in any awkward way. You let Jack turn the police scanner back up, static crackling between dispatch calls while he translated bits and pieces for you as they came through.
He’d asked if you had any lunch or dinner waiting for you at the house, and you told him you did, that you’d probably spend the rest of the day reading or trying one of those YouTube Yoga routines you always saved but never did.
One of his hands stayed loose on the wheel while the other rested on your thigh almost the entire time, thumb dragging back and forth absentmindedly over your leg whenever he stopped at a light. And before you knew it, you were turning down the street into your neighborhood—Robby's neighborhood—and Jack was idling at the driveway.
“You gonna talk to him?”
You exhaled slowly through your nose and nodded once. You knew who he was talking about. “Yeah.”
“Tonight?”
Your fingers twisted together in your lap for a second before you forced them still. “I said I would.”
Jack was quiet, but you saw him nodding out of the corner of your eye.
"Have a good day, Jack." you said gently, hand already at the door handle.
"Hey—hang on."
Your fingers loosened against the door handle as you turned back toward him, nerves fluttering low in your stomach all over again.
“Just wanted to say…” He rubbed at the back of his neck briefly before looking at you again. “I understand. What you meant earlier.”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
“About being casual,” he clarified quietly. “I’m gonna try.”
You nodded, gnawing at your lip a bit, "Good. But...if it's too much, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. I like being your friend."
He smiled, but didn't answer that. Instead, he said: "I appreciate you letting me in. About—everything."
Your eyes settled on him, softening. "Same to you." you said quietly.
He held your gaze for a long moment after that, a small smile pulling at his mouth, almost…a little sad. Like the both of you knew something, but weren't saying it out loud.
“Go to bed, Jack,” you murmured, breaking eye contact first as you pushed the truck door open. “I’ll see you soon.”
Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love.
Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed…
Word Count: 20.3k
A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.
I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!
For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to!
Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡
You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet.
You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.
Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes.
You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it.
So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.”
Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics.
You must want his money, then.
But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”
You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine.
He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything.
But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it.
There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help.
Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor.
“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.
For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.
But he doesn't think that's it.
You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up.
Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking.
You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze.
You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?”
“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle.
That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused.
“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”
“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl.
But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.”
“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens.
“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media.
You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago.
“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?”
You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.”
You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.
“Does it look good to you?”
Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”
“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money.
Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.
He could buy you the world if you wanted him to.
What a strange thought.
Why did that pop into his head?
Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.
“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?”
“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants.
Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?
You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.”
You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine.
“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside.
Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him.
“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out.
“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.”
Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with.
“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet.
“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”
“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?”
You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!”
The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him.
“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…
He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him.
That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you.
This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before.
“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.”
“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.
“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.”
She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case.
Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling.
Should he see you?
Why does he want to see you?
You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you.
But he calls anyway.
“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today.
“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name.
And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.”
“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on.
Why is he acting like you're special?
Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”
“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?
“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!”
“You would do that?”
“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.”
Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless.
Would you do this for anyone?
He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general.
He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention.
“When do you get off work?” He asks.
“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question.
“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.
Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea.
“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.
But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.”
“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.”
He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket…
“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.
But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!”
Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before.
And now he's invested in you.
His lovely new obsession.
“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone.
You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”
You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up.
You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.
There goes your cheap rent…
You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car.
You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car.
You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days.
You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit.
But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically.
You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online.
You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay.
That's about to change real quick.
Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?”
“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner.
“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?”
“Yeah. I booked his reservation.”
“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”
“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time.
“Do you not know who he is?”
You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here.
“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”
You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.
“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours.
“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus.
You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.
So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.
“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.”
“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange.
“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff.
“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”
“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”
“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”
You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens.
What can you do about it but move on?
Titus can't seem to move on, though.
He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.
But the person serving him isn't you.
The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it.
But you aren't the one serving him for some reason.
So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.”
Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”
“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours.
“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”
“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box.
He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag.
With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡
You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again.
You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you…
But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution.
There's so many stars out tonight.
You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.
You turn your head to see… “Titus?”
How did he find the employee parking lot?
It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.
Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left.
There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again.
He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way.
“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.”
“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left.
“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back.
But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason.
For you. To be next to you.
Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?”
“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car.
“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.”
Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into.
But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.
You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second.
“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again.
“I don't really look up.”
You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”
“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually.
But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.”
“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know.
“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.”
“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst.
But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now…
“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.”
“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior.
You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him.
“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”
Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him.
He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand.
Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”
Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing.
“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love.
“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants.
Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.”
You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long.
Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you.
So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”
He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now.
Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.”
“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?”
“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.
Maybe even without a condom.
You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before.
“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.”
You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did.
“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you.
“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.”
“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again.
“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”
Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded.
You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…
You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible!
Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him.
You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work.
Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate.
You're making more money now than you have your entire life.
You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay.
“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in.
“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you.
“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle.
It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir.
You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up.
But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances.
You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion.
That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room.
Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed.
That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now.
“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.”
“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace.
“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week.
Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss.
Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss…
“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on.
It's packed on the island right now!
“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide.
You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.”
“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately.
“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.”
“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question.
“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”
“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep.
“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.
Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you.
Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around.
But you aren't careful at all.
You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.
Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”
“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for.
“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.
It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.
“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.
“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.”
It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless.
As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything.
“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage.
Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry.
You're a breath of fresh air.
Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.”
Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste.
“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.
Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.
“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.”
You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.
But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”
Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours.
You don't know what's going on.
You've never been kissed before.
Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you?
His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do.
Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss…
A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you.
Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was.
“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again.
You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant.
But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”
Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time.
“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it.
Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer?
“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.”
“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding.
There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade.
Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up?
You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!”
He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.
“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.”
The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner.
You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?”
Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.
Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours.
The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten.
Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily.
Though, should you be shocked?
You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before.
But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you.
Is this…lust?
Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him.
Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole.
“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.”
“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy.
You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot.
That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory.
That's all you'll be.
And you don't want that.
You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly.
“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips.
“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before.
“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused.
That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear.
They're…from sadness.
Longing to be specific.
Yearning, more like it.
“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”
“Why?” He doesn't understand.
How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet?
You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”
You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.
He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.”
You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest.
“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you.
“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it.
“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.
But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”
“She was just a maid.”
“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible.
“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him.
He wants you.
“Did you break her heart?”
“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.
“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then?
“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.”
“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”
“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”
“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.”
You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin.
But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter.
“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him.
“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.”
You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife.
He just wants you to be his.
And you can do that.
You can be his.
But it will hurt you tremendously in the process.
Is he willing to do that to you?
Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk.
“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.”
“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.
Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned.
Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.
And now, he doesn't anymore.
Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason.
He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him.
When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”
“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now.
“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.”
And that's all it is.
Work.
Because that's all it will ever be, right?
“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.”
“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her.
She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time.
“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.”
“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.”
Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”
“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.
But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.
He just goes straight home to you.
Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone.
It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else.
But maybe that's his heart getting in the way.
You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him.
You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't.
It's killing him inside.
Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?”
“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper.
You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having.
You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”
“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave.
Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it.
“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.”
“We can go right now.”
You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.”
Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word.
He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever.
You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long.
He knows you've been looking for another job.
He knows you've been talking with other men.
Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it.
He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.
He needs this to work.
Titus cannot live without you.
So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to.
Then, he will make you his.
But plans never do go the way he thinks.
Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council.
“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug.
Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten.
“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.”
“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down.
“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—”
When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word.
Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”
“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns.
“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?”
“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours.
Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event.
“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it.
Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”
Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him.
And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him?
He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.
Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before.
But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before.
From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is.
“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.”
“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't.
“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?”
“Is that…surprising?”
Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”
That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to.
“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.”
Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.
The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”
“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that.
“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”
“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to.
Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to.
But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.”
And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.”
You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people.
Have you been harboring envy this whole time?
You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now.
But that ends today.
You can't keep doing this.
You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed.
“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.”
But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.
Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event.
“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”
“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before.
It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before.
He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you.
You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.
“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded.
It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees.
You're trapped beneath him.
You're at his mercy.
You can't let him do this.
You'll never be able to leave if you do.
You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”
He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.”
“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.”
“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.
You're everything to him.
He'd rather die than ever let you go.
What will it take, though?
Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you.
You both falling into the trap that is one another.
“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.”
You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod.
“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”
“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.”
“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”
You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.”
He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out.
“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you.
“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this.
“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now.
Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”
“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.”
“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile.
So, you consider his apartment home.
He likes that a lot.
“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.”
“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core.
Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst.
“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response.
He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on.
Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight?
He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it.
But first, he needs to show you how good it feels.
“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?”
“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious.
Because he wants to fuck you up even more now.
His sweet little innocent girl.
“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good?
“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”
You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode.
“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically.
The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes.
You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue.
“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”
“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed.
“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry.
“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.”
He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly.
But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.”
“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips.
And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.
With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.
The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse.
Then there's the traffic. So much traffic.
It's going to take forever to get home.
Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered.
That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.”
“What?” You don't know if you heard him right.
“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.”
“Titus…” You glance around.
You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in.
“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments…
“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon.
You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.”
If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it.
“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time.
Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long.
Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier.
“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.
You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better.
“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles.
“Cum with me.” He's getting close.
And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.”
His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now.
You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him.
Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips.
Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?”
“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking.
You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it.
“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”
Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”
You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock.
“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.
“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.
“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.”
You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm.
You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck.
“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response.
You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you.
“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness.
You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.
“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.
You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again.
“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped.
“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm.
You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive.
But a strange pain pricks you inside.
You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home.
Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped.
“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is.
“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you.
Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things.
But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart.
“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his.
He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel.
“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.
It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away.
At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before.
This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone.
You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special.
You're about to learn the truth.
When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache.
Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”
Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear.
You just mumble out, “I don't know.”
“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”
“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer.
How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has.
So, what are you to him?
“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this.
“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you.
“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction.
“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?”
“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn.
At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go.
“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about.
The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?”
“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from.
“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk.
There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you.
“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know.
“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.”
“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you.
It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?”
“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud.
“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts.
“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well.
“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response.
“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”
“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.”
“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom.
“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?”
“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute.
“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before.
He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.
But you want to now.
Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before.
“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!”
He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder.
“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.”
Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up.
But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible.
He might just fall in love with you…
Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that.
You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him.
You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love.
Do you believe that?
You're…unsure about that.
If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh.
Or how much he loves you.
He loves you.
He does.
He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins.
You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways.
And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you.
Because that must be what love is, right?
To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time.
“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list.
He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.”
You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.”
Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you.
He can't wait any longer.
Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.
You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times.
You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before.
You wish this could last forever.
So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days.
You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away.
“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him.
He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you?
“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.
“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!”
You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh.
But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features.
Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡
Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck.
And he has never kissed you so quickly before.
You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.”
“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.
You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.”
Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret.
“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is.
He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness.
Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.”
Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth.
But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.”
And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth.
He's just Titus.
And Titus is in love with you.
“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise.
“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…”
“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think.
Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today.
Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.”
You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.”
You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together.
“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore.
You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?”
“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting.
“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.”
“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?”
“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.”
He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.”
“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into.
Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before.
He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this.
But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week.
Maybe the next month.
Maybe the next year.
He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.
Maybe he will. Why not?
He's one of the richest men in the world.
He can spend his money however he wants.
“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now.
Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring.
Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach.
“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.”
“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this.
“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does.
You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”
And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that.
“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.
He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you.
“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?”
He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?”
“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?”
“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.
“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does.
“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”
“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder.
“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.
“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”
“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.”
“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet.
“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.”
“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.”
Now, he is officially done waiting.
Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is.
He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible.
He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love.
“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.”
“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”
“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much.
“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?”
Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already.
“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?”
“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size.
He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand.
“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt.
So, he needs to make you cum a few times.
You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.
He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit.
The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight.
“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.”
Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair.
“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air.
That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer.
“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.”
“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now.
“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion.
It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will.
So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again.
“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you.
“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free.
He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum.
“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to.
And Titus rewards you well.
Maybe a little too well.
You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go.
Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially.
You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much.
You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed.
“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it.
“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.”
You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too.
“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap.
You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest.
Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”
You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit.
He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin.
“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared.
He wants you to fully enjoy it with him.
But can you, when you keep thinking about…
“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him.
But he's okay with the slow death.
Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.”
“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now.
“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense.
“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.”
“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth.
“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right.
“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?”
“Well…yeah…”
He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.”
“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right?
“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?”
“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…”
“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.”
“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation.
“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.”
“What?” That surprises you.
“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.”
“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only.
“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.
“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.”
“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss.
You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer.
He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach.
“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.”
You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him.
But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”
“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you.
“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile.
“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”
“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?”
“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough.
From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever.
And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.”
You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours.
You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again.
And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance.
“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”
You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on.
You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response.
He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”
“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you.
Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun.
But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you.
You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness.
The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go.
“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him.
Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock.
He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.”
“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon.
You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before.
“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?”
“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.”
“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure.
“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle.
“Cum with me?” You really want him to.
“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm.
So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm.
He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time.
But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too.
Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together.
You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before.
And he desperately wants to do it again.
“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you.
“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?
“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion.
You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.
“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.”
Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”
He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.”
Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes.
“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though.
Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden.
“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips.
You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release.
“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”
“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.”
You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves.
There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again.
This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you.
“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer.
Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus.
You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside.
“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.”
“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still.
“What?”
You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”
“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”
“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine.
You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.
Truly his equal, in every way.
“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked.
“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.”
“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him.
“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”
He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.”
“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him.
“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this.
He has truly met his match.
Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you.
A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡
Balancing your final year as a resident while raising a five-year-old is hard enough. Co-parenting with your ex Michael Robinavitch? That’s a whole different challenge.
warning/tags: smut, minors DNI, porn with plot (lots of plot), age gap (but reader’s age isn’t disclosed) jealous!robby, co-parenting, Robby is sooo girl dad coded, attempt of slowburn, they're down bad for the other, inadequate medical terms, longing, unprotected piv, pussy eating, fingering, handjob, creampie, multiple orgasms
“Robby,” you repeated for the millionth time, staring at the way his focused eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “Robby, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Your words went in one ear and straight out the other. His attention was completely locked on the patient charts, as if the world had temporarily ceased to exist.
You let out a quiet sigh, then reached over the nurse station counter, fished a latex glove out of the open cardboard box, and with a quick movement, snapped it right against his back.
“Ouch!” Robby exclaimed, finally jerking his gaze away from the screen. He rubbed the spot where the glove had stung him, looking equal parts surprised and betrayed. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because I’ve been trying to talk to you!” You fought to keep your voice from snapping, though the frustration was definitely leaking through. “Did you call the bouncy castle people already?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “Yeah, already did. They’re charging me two hundred extra for switching from the unicorn castle to the capybara one with less than a week’s notice, by the way.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite land. Michael loved his daughter far too much for that. If he had to build a goddamn capybara bouncy castle with his own two hands so she could have whatever she wanted in the entire world, he would do it without hesitation. Instead of irritation, his expression softened into something almost endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile at her latest demand.
“And you’re paying for it without complaining because you’re a great father,” you said matter-of-factly, unable to hide the fond smile tugging at your own lips. “Remember, the party’s at three. You still good for setup?”
Robby exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "They're delivering the capybara monstrosity at one-thirty. Said they'd set it up in the backyard." He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if he was remembering what other arrangements he’d made. "Also confirmed the balloon guy with a helium tank, should be there by two."
You nodded, feeling the relief you always felt whenever Robby managed to take care of everything. Co-parenting with Robby has always been like this, efficient, practical, and competent. No missed pickups, no forgotten appointments. He'd never once let your daughter down, even when work tried to swallow him whole.
"And the cake?" you asked because you can't help it, even though you knew the answer.
He gave you a side-eye, the one that said do you even have to ask? "Chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra sprinkles. Pickup at two-fifteen, I'll swing by after my shift ends, already talked to Shen and he’ll cover for me.”
Five years ago, you were a fourth-year med student rotating in this very department, terrified of screwing up in front of the mighty Dr. Robinavitch. Then Dr. Robinavitch slowly became Dr. Robby to you… and eventually he was just Michael when you were moaning his name under the weight of his body in his bed.
What you and Robby once had was simple, and you both liked it that way. It was the comfort of each other’s company after a brutal shift when neither of you wanted to be alone. No strings, no labels, no complications of being a real couple. No whispered rumors in the hospital about Robby seeing a med student outside of work. No pressure on Robby’s well-known inability to commit to anything more than passionate sex at night and coffee in the morning.
But simple things didn’t always stay simple, especially not when two adults knew exactly how risky it was to keep skipping protection, and neither of you ever felt much enthusiasm about pulling out. “Fuck, this is the last time, Michael,” you’d said more than once, breathless and frustrated. “Why are you nagging me?” he’d reply with a half-smirk, still catching his breath. “I had every intention of pulling out before you wrapped your legs around me like that.”
And that’s exactly how, six months after the first night you slept in Robby’s bed, you found yourself staring at the most terrifying sight you’d ever witnessed in your life: two pink lines on a plastic stick.
The conversation that followed was painfully awkward. You told Robby you were pregnant, and Robby, being who he was, decided it was time to put on his big boy pants and play his cards right. Life had handed him something he never thought he’d get, a baby, a real chance at a family. So he did what any traditional man would do in his position: he settled with you.
You’d moved into his house, and Robby and you had settled into a routine, not as two people who casually slept together on lonely nights, but as partners, and soon-to-be parents.
Robby took you to every single appointment. He insisted on every test to ensure his child’s safety, blended you the best prenatal smoothies, disgusting carrot-and-spinach concoctions that made you gag but that he swore were just what you needed, and even pushed hard for you to take early maternity leave. But of course, you refused, determined to finish your last year of med school before the baby arrived.
The day your daughter was born was the happiest day of Robby’s life. Even now, it still brought him to tears whenever he thought about it, the moment his entire life changed forever, the day he met his greatest love, his reason to keep going, to keep living, to try harder every single day.
But even as Robby put in his best effort to be a boyfriend, it didn’t take long for the fantasy to crumble. It wasn’t all sunrays and paradise, and after endless long shifts in the ED, endless diapers, and all-night cries that never seemed to stop, you were both running on fumes. It became painfully clear, day after day, that the only reason Robby had decided to settle down with you was because he’d gotten you pregnant.
You could see how unhappy he was. He barely spoke a word to you when he got home from work. He’d just sit on the couch with distant, lost eyes staring at the wall like he was the most miserable person alive. The only times he laughed or smiled were in the presence of his daughter. You couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt for trapping him in a relationship he never truly wanted. Robby had longed for a family and for company, but once he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.
That’s why, after five months of fights and desperate trying, you decided it was time to do the most noble thing you could: let him go. Set him free instead of keeping him trapped beside you in a pretend marriage he’d only started because he was too considerate to let you raise his daughter alone.
Hannah Robinavitch had never once envied her friends whose parents were still married. She never got sad or asked why the three of you couldn’t just be a normal family. Because she already knew you were one, a little different from the others, maybe, but still a family nonetheless. And having separate parents actually had its perks. It meant two houses, twice as many birthday presents, and two different vacation destinations every single year.
Sunlight slanted through the tall maple trees lining the backyard fence, painting patterns across the grass. Your yard was huge, the short green grass always perfectly maintained, and the swimming pool sparkled with crystal-clear water that seemed to catch every ray of light. It was the kind of house you could never have afforded on a resident’s salary in a million years. But Robby had made sure you and Hannah had it anyway the moment the two of you decided to part ways and break up. He’d never blinked at the money when it came to his daughter. If giving her (and you) the nicest possible place to live during your half of the week with her, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood full of every comfort meant making his baby girl happy, then he would do it without hesitation.
Because fuck, Robby was such a good father. The kind who puts his little girl first and everything else second. He finally had a real reason to take days off work and actually go on vacations. He finally had something to look forward to, a future worth living for: taking care of his daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her things, just being needed by this helpless little angel who still demanded he check under the bed for monsters every single night.
You’d read once that when it came to having children, women should look for a man who would make a good father, not necessarily a good husband. Because love could run out. People broke up. They got divorced. But a child was a lifelong commitment. And you’d won the lottery with Michael, even if sometimes you still wished he could have been as good a partner as he was a father.
The enormous capybara-themed bouncy castle Hannah insisted on dominated the grass as screams of delight and the rhythmic thump-thump of small feet echoed from inside it. All her kindergarten friends chased each other in circles as their parents clustered near the patio tables, drinking iced tea and making polite small talk about preschool and summer camps.
You were on snack duty, refilling the chip bowls, and right on cue, the side gate swung open. Robby stepped through, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, the sleeves catching on the muscles of his forearms, revealing Hannah’s name tattooed on his wrist.
He was carrying a large gift box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it. The second Hannah’d spotted him, the entire backyard might as well have disappeared.
“Daddy!” She launched herself down the slide so fast the inflatable nearly tipped. She was sprinting with her bare feet on the grass before she even landed properly.
Robby dropped to one knee just in time to catch her as she collided into his chest like a missile. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground for a second, even though she was getting too big for it. She squealed and buried her face in his neck.
“You came! You came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it, babygirl.” He set her down but kept one hand on her shoulder. “Happy birthday.”
She was s already eyeing the box. “Is that for me?”
“Depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “You been good?”
“Super duper good! Ask Mommy! I only ate two cupcakes and I shared my shovel in the sandbox with the other kids!”
You caught his eye over her head, and Robby gave you the tiniest smirk, yeah, he knew “two cupcakes” was probably an undercount.
“Guess it’s yours then.” Robby set the box on the grass, and Hannah attacked the paper. A brand-new bike glints in the sunlight, purple with whitewall tires, training wheels already attached, and even a little bell shaped like a flower.
Hannah froze for half a second, then let out a shriek that made half the parents jump. “A BIKE! Daddy, a BIKE!”
She flung herself at him again, hugging him so hard he had to brace himself. He laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed a hand over her back. “Figured it was time for you to have some riding lessons.”
“I can ride it now? Right now?”
He glanced at you for a quick check-in, the way he always does when big decisions happen, and you nod once.
“Yeah, angel,” you said, walking over. “But helmet stays on, and daddy’ll hold your seat until you’re steady.”
Hannah was already trying to climb on, so Robby steadied the bike with one hand, using the other to guide her foot to the pedal. She wobbled the second her weight hit the seat, but she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.
Robby shot you another look and then crouched beside Hannah again. “Ready?”
She nodded furiously, and Robby started walking her forward, keeping one hand on the seat, the other hovering near her shoulder to steady her in case she fell. She pedaled hard, poking her tongue out in concentration. The bike lurched, straightened, and lurched again. Robby kept pace easily as you watched from the patio steps. The man who once told you, half-asleep after a fifteen-hour shift, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anyone’s dad, was now the same man who walked backward in front of a wobbling five-year-old, talking her through every turn.
“Push harder with your right foot… there you go. Look where you want to go, not at the ground. Yeah, just like that.”
Hannah laughed when the bike finally held a straight line for more than three seconds, and Robby let go of the seat, just for a heartbeat, and then grabbed it again when she tipped.
“I did it! I almost did it!”
“You’re doing it,” he corrected her, encouraging like he’d read in so many parenting books. “Keep going.”
They made a loop around the bouncy castle. Parents pulled out phones to snap pictures of her, and someone even started clapping, making Hannah beam like she was crossing a finish line. You felt eyes on you, Robby’s, briefly. He didn’t say anything, but the look told enough: we made this kid. Look at her.
After another lap, he slowed her to a stop near the bouncy castle. She was flushed and sweaty, but utterly triumphant. “Can we take the training wheels off?” she asked immediately.
Robby exhaled a laugh. “Tomorrow, maybe. Today we celebrate the fact you didn’t eat pavement.”
He ruffled her hair, then stood, brushing grass off his jeans. Robby walked over to you, watching Hannah show off her new ride to anyone who’ll listen.
“You good?” He asked you. “You’ve been running this circus solo all afternoon.”
“I’m fine. Exhausted, but fine.” You paused, then added softly, “She’s having the best day. Because you’re here.”
He looked at you then, and something about his eyes reminded you of the way he used to look at you when you were falling asleep on his couch with a newborn between you. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
Hannah zoomed past again, ringing the little flower bell. “Five,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How the hell did that happen?”
You didn’t have an answer, you just stood there beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his, watching your daughter ride circles around the backyard.
Two hours later, you were cutting slices out of the chocolate cake while Robby stood right next to you, handing them out to the sugar-desperate kids swarming the table.
You passed another slice to Robby. He took it from your hands, brushing his fingers against yours for a brief second.
“You know, I didn’t see Vet Guy over here,” he said, pulling on a dramatically disappointed face. “Bummer. I was really hoping to finally meet the guy.” You decided to ignore the sarcastic, obviously ill-intended comment. Robby, never one to let silence win, kept going. “I suppose he was busy. Did he have a labradoodle to give a haircut?” He let out a loud, self-satisfied chuckle that rumbled into a deep “Ha!”
“That’s a pet esthetician, you know?” You mumbled, aggressively slicing the knife through the cake. “Vets don’t do haircuts.”
“Oh, you’re right,” he mock-apologized, not even pretending to drop the subject, not when he had weeks’ worth of jokes lined up. “Then I guess he had some high-risk procedure. Open-heart surgery on a hamster, maybe?”
“You’re hilarious, Michael,” you said with your biggest deadpan face. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”
“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from,” he replied, grinning. “Do you even call him Doctor? I mean, vets aren’t even real doctors.”
“Of course they are!” you shot back with sudden, exaggerated respect for the veterinary profession, purely to piss him off.
Vet guy was nice. You’d met him at the hospital after he came in with a nasty dog bite on his leg. You’d tended to the wound while he respectfully flirted with you, not too hard, not desperate or aggressive, but just enough to make you feel seen. He asked genuine questions about you, shared funny stories from his own job, and somehow managed to pull real smiles out of you even after a brutal shift.
When he asked for your number, intending to take you to what he swore was the best Thai restaurant in Pittsburgh, you’d hesitated. You didn’t need more distractions from residency and motherhood. But Dana had insisted you accept. She said you needed to spend time with adults outside the hospital, to do something just for yourself, and to let yourself be treated nicely for one night. Secretly, you knew she was cracking up at the way Robby’s jealousy flared every time Vet guy flirted with you, the way he clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes like a petulant child.
You’d gone out with him a couple of times. It was fun. He was a gentleman, smart, funny, handsome, the type of man most women would be thrilled to stumble upon. But then your stupid, stupid brain did that awful thing it always did whenever you started seeing someone new: it compared him to Robby. Robby would’ve ordered that. Robby would’ve said that. Robby would’ve done that. As if your brain had never gotten the memo that you and Robby had broken up. That it hadn’t worked. That you were supposed to be looking for a guy who wasn’t like him at all.
“Oh, please. WE are doctors. They’re frauds.” Robby scoffed. “What’s that guy’s biggest life achievement? Getting vomited on by a dog?”
“You’ve clearly thought a lot about a guy I’ve only gone out with like two times,” you offered him your fakest smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one dating him, not me.”
Robby’s expression, which up until that moment had been mocking and sleazy, changed completely. His smile flattened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes turned serious. “Funny,” he mumbled as he handed another slice of cake to a waiting kid.
“And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t gonna bring some random guy I had dinner with a couple of times to my daughter’s birthday. You know me better than that.”
He didn’t say anything else. Robby knew you were right, you weren’t the type of person who introduced someone new into Hannah’s life unless it was truly serious. But behind all the mockery and cheap jokes, there was something dangerously close to jealousy. The thought of you deciding another man was better than him, more worthy of your time and interest, the idea of Hannah ever having a stepdad, of him no longer being the only male figure in both your lives… it infuriated him.
Was he an asshole for wanting to keep you all to himself when he had no right to demand to be the only man in your life? Maybe. Was he stupid to pretend that a gorgeous, smart, and amazing woman like you would stay single forever, living on the memory of what you two once were, waiting for him to finally grow a pair of balls and give you what you deserved? The same thing he’d had every chance to give you years ago, but had been too scared to reach for, letting it slip away Definitely.
As the party came to an end, kids hugged, and parents collected backpacks and stray shoes, mumbling thank yous to you and Robby.
You stood by the gate, waving and promising playdates. Robby was on Hannah duty now, helping her say goodbye to each friend, crouching so he was eye-level, reminding her to say “thank you for coming.”
Most of the crowd thinned out quickly, a few stragglers lingered, one of them was Ethan, father of Mia, one of Hanna’s closest friends from the four-year-old room. Divorced last year, or so the gossip went. Nice enough guy. Tall, with an easy smile. He was hanging back near the patio table, helping stack chairs while his daughter ran one last lap around the bouncy castle.
You walked over to grab the last of the empty cups. “Great party,” he said, straightening up. “Hanna’s in heaven. That bike was a killer gift.”
“Thanks. Robby picked it out.” You smiled, tossing cups into the trash bag. “She’s been begging for one since she saw the big kids riding at the park.”
Ethan nodded, lingering his eyes on your face for a second. “Smart move.” He paused, then added, softer, “You pulled this off like a pro. Solo hosting a kindergarten party? Respect.”
You laughed lightly. “Not entirely solo. Robby’s been here all afternoon.”
“Yeah, I saw.” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, maybe appraisal. “You two seem… good. Co-parenting goals and all that.”
“We manage,” you said neutrally.
He stepped a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Listen, if you ever want a break from… all of this. I just… figured it might be nice to talk to someone who gets the single-parent thing.” He smiled warmly. “Mia talks about Hannah nonstop. Be good for them to have more playdates. And for us to… catch up. Maybe you could give me some tips for this whole co-parenting lifestyle.”
It wasn’t subtle at all. The way he held eye contact a beat too long, the slight lean, the casual brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a stray napkin. You felt heat creepong up your neck. It wasn’t interest, exactly, just the awkward awareness of being seen that way.
You opened your mouth to deflect politely. But before you could, behind you, a voice cut in.
“Ethan, right?” Robby was there suddenly, casual as anything, holding Hannah’s new helmet in one hand. “Mia’s dad.”
Ethan straightened, his smile faltering only a fraction like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Hey, man. Good to see you.”
Robby nodded once. “You too.” He flicked his gaze to you, then back to Ethan. “We’re starting to clean up over here. You need help finding her shoes? Think they’re by the slide.”
Ethan blinked, then laughed it off. “Nah, we’re good. Just saying goodbye.” He looked at you again. “Think about what I said, okay? No rush.” He waved, called for Mia, and headed toward the gate.
You exhaled slowly, but Robby didn’t move. He was quiet for a long minute, then: “Sooo. Ethan.”
You snorted as you started gathering stray plates from the patio table. “Yeah?”
Robby followed, picking up cups without being asked. “Seemed chatty.”
“He’s friendly.”
“Very friendly.” Robby stacked the cups. “Animated, even.”
You glanced at him. His face was neutral, almost too neutral, a sign of how secretly annoyed he was. “Robby.”
“What?” Innocent. It sounded too innocent.
“You’re being nosy. First with vet guy, and now again.”
“I’m making conversation.” He set the stack down. “Guy was all secretive talking in your ear. What’d he want?”
You laughed despite yourself. “None of your business.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad. Just… standard divorced-dad. He wanted to organize some playdates. The usual.”
Robby nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “Huh.”
You waited, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he picked up a stray balloon string, winding it around his fingers. “Guy’s got some nerve. Hitting on you in the middle of our kid’s birthday party.”
Our kid. He didn’t say it possessively, just as a fact. You turned to face him fully. “Jealous, Robinavitch?”
He met your eyes without flinching. “Curious,” he corrected. “Big difference.”
“Sure.”
He didn’t deny it. “Anyway,” he said, his voice back to normal without the edge of jealousy in it. “I’ll help deflate that monstrosity in the yard before it blows away. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
After Robby had helped the bouncy castle guys, he hauled the last of the folding chairs back to the garage and carried out three trash bags without being asked. He stepped back into the kitchen through the sliding door. “Hannah's out cold,” he said, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her. “Tried to get her to brush her teeth, but she rolled over and kept sleeping.”
You laughed under your breath. “She’ll be up at six tomorrow demanding to ride the bike again.”
“Good luck trying to talk her out of it.” You felt the weight of his gaze as he pushed off the counter. “Anyway, I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”
You turned the faucet off, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for everything today. Seriously. She had a great time thanks to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks to both of us. We’re a good team.”
You walked him toward the front door. At the door, he stopped, with one hand on the knob as he turned back to you. For a second, he just looked, not at your face, but at all of you.
His eyes started at your bare shoulders where the thin straps of your sundress sat, tracing the line of your collarbone, then they dropped deliberately down the front of the dress. You felt suddenly aware of every inch it covered, and of every inch it didn’t. Robby lingered his gaze on your waist, the flare of your hips, and the hem brushing just above your knees. Then lower, to your legs, and back up again, slower this time, until he met your eyes.
There was heat in the way he looked at you, nothing subtle about the way his eyes roamed your body. It was the look of a man who was remembering exactly what you feel like under his hands, what you tasted like, what sounds you used to make when he was inside you. The kind of look that said he wanted to back you against the nearest wall, hike that dress up around your waist, and fuck you until the only thing either of you could hear was your own breathing and the wet sound of skin against skin.
He didn’t say anything, there was no need for words. Your mouth went dry as the heat coiled in your lower belly, the same way it had many nights before. Five years since you stopped sleeping together. Five years of boundaries, separate beds, separate lives. And still one look was enough to make your body remember.
He exhaled through his nose, almost an incredulous laugh, “Happy birthday to her,” he said quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We made something good.”
“Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “We did.”
The weeks slid by in the same rhythm you’d grown accustomed to: long shifts at the hospital, trying to be a present mom whenever you weren’t buried in charts, and the handoffs with Robby at your house.
It was a Saturday afternoon, the day of Hannah’s ballet recital. You arrived a little early because she had been buzzing about it for weeks, her first real performance after long months of practice. Plus, you appreciated every rare opportunity life gave you to wear something that wasn’t scrubs. You’d gotten your hair done, put on soft makeup, slipped into a nice dress and high heels, and for once you felt like a whole different person. Someone confident. Someone who could take on the world.
You loved Hannah. You loved being a mom. But sometimes you missed the person you used to be before all of this. You missed being seen as more than just “Mom.” You missed conversations with adults that didn’t revolve around kindergarten, tantrums, or pediatric appointments. You were still young, and even though you’d always been mature for your age, you’d had to grow up fast the moment you became a mother. You had never imagined yourself with a child before you even became a doctor. You certainly hadn’t pictured managing residency at the same time you were raising a tiny human being.
But even if life hadn’t turned out the way you’d once planned, you didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought you here in this auditorium, about to watch your daughter’s ballet recital.
You spotted Robby near the front row, saving seats for the two of you. When he saw you, he stood, waving you over with a half-smile. “Hey,” he said as you slid into the seat beside him. “She’s backstage, losing her mind. Kept asking if both of us were coming.”
You laughed softly, settling your purse on the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it. Was she nervous?”
“Not one bit. She made me practice clapping in the car.” He glanced at you, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “You look nice.”
You couldn’t avoid feeling the heat creeping up your neck, but you brushed it off. “Thanks. You cleaned up nice, too.”
Before he could reply, the lights dimmed, and the ballet instructor, a woman in her sixties, welcomed everyone, and then the curtain slowly parted.
There she was. Hannah stood front and center in her pink leotard and tutu, her hair,the same brown shade as Robby’s, pulled into a slightly lopsided bun secured with a sparkly clip. She immediately scanned the audience, spotted the two of you sitting side by side, and her whole face lit up like sunrise. Forgetting every rule about staying still, she waved at you both with both hands.
The routine was equal parts adorable and chaotic, little arms waving with enthusiasm, a few spins that turned into giggles, and tiny dancers bumping into one another. But when it came time for her part in the middle, Hannah nailed it, twirling with maximum concentration, poking out her tongue slightly the way it always did when she was trying her hardest.
You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached as you recorded the whole thing on your phone, careful not to miss a single moment. Beside you, Robby was doing the same, leaning forward in his seat like he was afraid to miss even one second of his little girl shining under the stage lights.
When it ended, the room erupted in applause. You and Robby were on your feet first, clapping loud enough to drown out half the parents. Hannah beamed, blowing kisses at the audience, then bolting offstage the second she was allowed.
Backstage, Hannah launched herself at you both at once, her arms around your legs and Robby’s in a group hug.
“Did you see me twirl, Mommy? Daddy, did you see?”
“We saw everything,” Robby said, scooping her up in his arms. “You were the best one up there, angel. Hands down.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning to place a big and loud kiss into her hair. “So proud of you, baby.”
Hannah tugged at your hand. “Can we get ice cream? To celebrate?”
Robby raised an eyebrow at you as if awaiting to see what your answer would be, and silently hoping it’d be a yes.
You smiled. “Ice cream sounds perfect.”
He set Hannah down on the floor, then crouched so she could climb onto his back. She wrapped her little arms and legs around him tightly, her favorite perch. With a soft grunt and an easy smile, Robby straightened up, carrying her like she weighed nothing.
The three of you headed for the exit together. You walked beside Robby, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his every few steps, but neither of you pulled away. There was something about the way the three of you looked, almost like a picture-perfect family to anyone glancing from the outside. It made your mind loosen the reins on old fantasies: how different life would have been if the three of you had managed to make it work. If being together had been a choice made out of love instead of obligation, the only option he felt he had at the time.
God, how much you still wished things had worked with Robby. What wouldn’t you give to see him truly happy to be with you, instead of miserable the way he looked every time the two of you came home from a long shift.
The ice cream shop had a neon sign flickering “OPEN” in red letters, sticky vinyl booths, and the widest variety of ice cream flavors you’d ever seen. Hannah insisted on extra sprinkles and chocolate sauce on her cone. She was perched between you and Robby on the bench seat, swinging her legs and recounting her ballet routine for the third time.
“I did the spin and everyone clapped SO loud! Did you hear it, Daddy?”
“Loudest ovation in the room,” Robby said, wiping a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. “You owned that stage, babygirl.”
You watched them as you ate your strawberry ice cream cone drizzled with hot fudge. It was uncanny how much Hannah looked like Robby, like he had been cloned into a tiny, feminine version of himself. The same soft brown hair, the same big, puppy-brown eyes that were easily the warmest you’d ever seen in your life. Eyes you could never say no to, because one single look from them melted your heart every time.
She was already slowing down, the adrenaline from the recital and the sugar rush from the ice cream finally catching up with her. Her head rested heavily against Robby’s shoulder as she munched the last bites of her ice-cream, her little eyelids starting to flutter.
The walk home was only ten minutes, but Hannah's steps turned sluggish halfway there. Robby scooped her up without a word, and she curled against his shoulder as she’d always belonged there, tucking her head under his chin as she fisted her little hand on his shirt.
At your front door, Hannah was completely out, her rosy cheek smooshed against Robby’s collarbone, with her mouth slightly open. You unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside.
Robby carried her upstairs like she weighed nothing. You followed, watching the careful way he lowered her to the bed, tugged off her ballet slippers and pink tutu, and pulled the covers up.
Downstairs again, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was without her chatter filling it. He stopped a few feet away. “She’s wiped..”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “She had a big day today.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you… in that dress. You’re punishing me. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Robby.”
He didn’t back off. Just looked at you in the same way he did the night of the birthday party. Tracing his eyes over the neckline of the dress, the way it hugs your waist, the bare skin of your breasts.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you intended. As if part of you didn’t really want him to stop. You longed for the validation, for knowing you were still the woman who drove him insane, the one who made him feel things no one else could, his soft spot, his weakness.
And for Robby, you still were. Until this day, you were the only one who could bring out the most vulnerable side of him. It wasn’t just the physical part, though God, your body drove him insane. He could still feel the ghost of your skin against his every night when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the sex either, though in fifty-four years of life he’d never found anyone who felt quite like you did, anyone who made him feel so many things, who woke up the most primitive, most virile part of him.
It was simply you. Your strength when you carried a pregnancy and still worked your ass off for your career. Your quick mind and the way you could deliver a witty comeback that put him in his place when he deserved it. Your competence, something he found extremely attractive, both at work and as a mom. And watching you raise his daughter with a patience and love only you could give, loving her so fiercely with every bone in your body… it made him feel things he’d never felt before.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
He huffed a half-laugh as he stepped closer. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.”
You swallowed, using all the self-restraint you had in your body to stop yourself from jumping into his arms. “Every time we’re close like this, I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.”
He tilted his head. He knew you too well, he could see how much you were trying to be strong and how much you wanted it too. “And why’s that, exactly?”
“Because we tried. We crashed. We hurt each other. We’ve got a kid now, it’s not just us we gotta think of, but her. And we’ve got a good thing going on, we’re good at this.” You gestured between you. “At being her parents. At not screwing it up. Adding… whatever this is… risks that.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Don’t think. Just do what you want.”
You stared at him. “Is that your new motto? ‘Don’t think, just do it?’”
He took another half-step, close enough you could smell the mint from his ice-cream on his breath. “One night,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean more. Doesn’t have to change anything tomorrow. We used to be so good together. You remember that? Because I do, I remember it every single night.”
Your pulse hammered in your throat, a rhythm that matched the sudden heat blooming in your belly. You remembered it too, every vivid and overwhelming detail.
The kind of chemistry you and Robby had in bed had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way your bodies responded to each other was like they were made for it, instinctive, almost frightening in its intensity. Every single touch felt magnetic and electrifying, sending sparks racing across your skin even from the lightest brush of his fingers. The way he knew exactly how to unravel you, and how you could do the same to him. You had both cried out in pleasure every single time, sounds that echoed in the dark of his bedroom, your bodies slick and trembling, chasing that peak until the world narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.
It was the kind of fire you only find once in a lifetime. But you couldn’t do it.
You couldn’t risk setting that fire loose again and burning down the delicate, carefully manufactured system you had built together. For Hannah’s sake, you needed to keep Robby exactly where he was: your co-parent, your reliable partner in raising your daughter, not your lover anymore. One wrong move, one night of giving in to the pull that still crackled between you, and everything could crumble, the peaceful handoffs, the shared birthdays, the stability Hannah thrived on. You refused to gamble with her sense of security just because your body still remembered how perfectly he once fit against you, how his voice sounded when he fell apart because of you.
“Of course you’re horny. You just want a quick fuck. I should’ve known.”
His expression flickered, showing a little of something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “Come on. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe I do want sex,” Robby admitted, “but come on, don’t pretend you don’t want it too. You remember how much fun we used to have.”
He found your waist, pulling you gently against him. You gasped softly as he slid his palms lower, cupping your ass through the fabric, possessive squeezes that send sparks straight through you. He massaged your flesh deliberately, pressing his thumbs in just the right spots, drawing you closer until you were flush against his chest.
“God, I want you,” he murmured against your ear. “So fucking much. Always have. Always will, probably.”
He dug his fingers a little harder into the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh with confidence. You were so close that you could already feel the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach. He was hard for you, just from being this close, just from a few lingering touches. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to give in, not to reach down and palm him over his pants until he groaned into your mouth the way he used to.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Robinavitch,” you warned, trying to sound threatening. It came out breathy and weak instead. You couldn’t fool anyone, least of all him. You wanted this, maybe even more than he did.
“You don’t want my hands where you can see them,” he replied with that stupid, cocky tone he always slipped into when he knew he had you right where he wanted you. “You want them in places you can’t see. You haven’t forgotten how good I am with them, have you? Nah… some things these hands did to you are impossible to forget.”
You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling. Cocky motherfucker.
Finally, with the last scrap of self-control you could muster, you pushed him away. “You had your fun. Time for you to leave.”
“I was barely starting to have fun,” he said with a wicked smile as he took a step back, rubbing one hand over his face. “You, cruel, cruel woman.”
“You’ll live,” you muttered. “Go chase some nurses. They love you. Well… the ones who don’t actually work with you do.”
“You hurt me,” he exclaimed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I don’t have any nurse to chase. And even if I did, nobody could compare to us. You know that.”
“You broke things off with the last one?” you asked in mock surprise, playing dumb. “What was her name? Nora? N… Natalie?”
You knew Robby had had his fair share of affairs throughout the years, nothing too serious, nothing that ever deserved a real conversation, and definitely nothing meaningful enough to introduce to Hannah. Still, it stung. You couldn’t exactly throw it in his face, you’d gone out with people too. But you wished the asshole would keep his flings away from the hospital, away from the place where you had to watch him flash those stupid little smiles and do his little shoe-lace trick for whatever nurse had caught his eye this month. The same way he’d once done it for you.
“I won’t answer to those accusations against me,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle. Robby stepped closer again and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Have a good night. I’ll see myself out.”
You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips as you watched him walk toward the door and finally leave the house. Five years later, and your body still caught fire whenever his hands were on you. Five years later, and you still loved your silly arguments and the way he could make you laugh even when you were pretending to be mad at him. Five years later… and you were still deeply enamored with Michael Robinavitch.
The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when the first cry cut through the dark.
It wasn’t not the usual sleepy whimper or the “I had a bad dream” whine. It was a sharp sound, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.
You were out of bed before your brain fully registered it, rushing down the hall. Hannah’s room light was already on, and she was sitting up in bed, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs, her face shiny with sweat, and her eyes glassy because of the tears. There was a small puddle of bile on the rug beside her, and another streak down the front of her pajama top.
“Mommy—”
“I’m here, baby.” You dropped to your knees beside the bed, lifting your hand to her forehead. She was burning, her skin hot enough to make your palm sting. “Oh, sweetheart.”
She leaned heavily into you, her body trembling as another wave hit her. This time it was dry heaves because there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. You lunged for the small trash can under her desk just in time, holding it steady beneath her chin while your other hand gathered her soft brown hair back from her face. With gentleness, you rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, murmuring the same comforting nonsense you always did in moments like this.
Your voice stayed calm and steady for her sake, but inside, your mind had flipped into full doctor mode, racing through the mental checklist at lightning speed. Fever. Persistent vomiting. She had been fine at bedtime, tired from her long ballet practice, a little sniffly maybe, but nothing that had raised any red flags.
“Mommy… tummy aches,” Hannah mumbled weakly.
Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You scooped her up immediately, blanket and all, and carried her to the bathroom. You ran a washcloth under cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the back of her neck, hoping the chill would bring some relief. Then you offered her a small sip of water from the cup on the sink. She took it obediently, but almost instantly spat it back out, coughing and whimpering.
Reaching out for the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, you grabbed it and slipped it under her tongue, holding her close while you waited for the beep. 103.8. You managed to get a dose of Tylenol into her, but she could barely keep it down, her whole body shuddered as she fought the nausea, and her teeth chattered from the fever chills as she curled into you even tighter, shaking hard.
Helpless, that’s how you felt, completely helpless. And as a mother, feeling helpless was the worst torture imaginable. You were a doctor, and yet here in your own house, with your own child, there was only so much you could do. The cold washcloths weren’t bringing her temperature down fast enough. The medicine wasn’t staying in her long enough to work. Nothing seemed to help.
You couldn’t stand seeing your baby like this: so pale, so tired, her usual bright energy drained away, her little body trembling in your arms.. In this moment, more than anything, you wished Robby were here. Robby would know exactly what to do. He always did. He’d take one look at her, assess the situation and figure out what was wrong with Hannah right away. He’d fix it the same way he fixed dozens of people every single day in the pitt.
You sat on the edge of the tub with her in your lap, rocking her slowly, trying to keep her calm while you dialed Robby.
He picked up on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert when he realized you wouldn’t be calling this late at night if there wasn’t something really urgent going on. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Hannah’s sick. Fever’s 103.8, she’s been vomiting for the last twenty minutes. Won’t keep anything down. She’s shaking.”
There was the rustle of sheets and the immediate creak of a bedframe on Robby’s end. He was already moving, even half-asleep. You could practically see him sitting up in the dark.
“Okay,” his voice came through the phone. “Did you give her Tylenol?”
“Yes.”
“Motrin too? You should alternate if the fever’s that high.”
“I only have children’s Tylenol here,” you answered. “Motrin’s at your place.”
There was a brief pause, then a quiet “Okay… okay. Alright.” You heard him exhale slowly, the sound of fabric shifting as he moved. “Cool clothes? Cold washcloth on her neck or forehead?”
“I’m trying the cloth right now, but I’m not seeing any changes. The fever won’t come down at all.”
“Are you hydrating her? Give her small sips of water, tiny amounts so she doesn’t throw it right back up.”
“I am,” you said, glancing at the half-empty cup on the bathroom counter. “She’s spitting most of it back up. She can’t keep anything down.”
Another pause stretched between you. Even for a man who could keep ice-cold composure during the most chaotic live-or-die codes in the ED, something in Robby’s voice betrayed how uneasy he really was. You heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on quickly, then the unmistakable jingle of keys.
“So, fever’s still not budging?” he asked.
“Not yet. She’s miserable, Robby. Keeps saying her tummy hurts, and the dry heaves are getting worse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.”
You heard loud, hurried footsteps crossing his floorboards, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing with a firm sound.
“Take her to the ER. Now.” There was no hesitation left in his words. “I’ll meet you there.”
Your stomach dropped. “You think it’s that bad?”
“I think 103.8 in a five-year-old who can’t keep meds or fluids down is worth getting checked. Could be viral, could be something else. Better be safe.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll get her dressed. We’re leaving in five.”
“I’m already in the car. Text me when you’re on the road.”
He hung up, and you moved fast, changing Hannah into fresh pajamas, wiping her face, and wrapping her in the softest blanket she owned. She was listless now, her soft head lolling against your shoulder as small whimpers left her lips every time the nausea rolled through her again. You grabbed her insurance card, your wallet, a spare change of clothes for her, and the little stuffed unicorn she’d been sleeping with every night.
You placed Hannah in her car seat, with her blanket tucked around her. You buckled her in carefully, kissing her hot forehead. “We’re going to see the doctors, okay? Daddy’s meeting us there. You’re gonna feel better soon.”
She just nodded with her eyes half-closed. The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour through the dark and empty streets. You kept one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching back to hold hers. She was quiet except for the occasional gags into the bowl you’d wedged beside her seat.
You pulled into the ambulance bay lot, killed the engine and unbuckled Hannah. She was burning up, her usually light body now felt heavy and limp because of the fever. You wrapped the blanket tighter around her and lifted her carefully into your arms as you hurried toward the sliding glass doors.
They whooshed open, and Lena, the night-shift charge nurse, looked up from the desk. Her face immediately softened with concern the moment she recognized you.
“Hey… oh, honey.” Her voice dropped gently. “Is that Hannah?”
“Fever hit 103.8 at home,” you rattled off, shifting your daughter’s weight higher on your hip, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you were presenting a case, not describing your daughter’s symptoms. “Persistent vomiting, abdominal pain. I gave her Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but no improvement at all.”
Lena nodded briskly, already waving you over. “Bay six. We’ll get vitals right away.”
“Who’s on tonight?” you asked, walking fast down the familiar hallway. “Shen?”
“Dr. Abbot. I’ll send him your way as soon as he’s free.”
“Oh, thank God,” you exhaled, the relief hitting you so hard it made your shoulders sag for a moment. If there was anyone in this entire hospital you’d trust with Hannah besides Robby, it was Jack, Hannah’s godfather. You still remembered the day Robby had asked him to be his daughter’s godfather. The way Jack’s eyes had filled with tears, the two men pulling each other into a tight hug like brothers, like two men who were the only ones who truly understood the weight of this life, the long shifts, the losses, and the rare moments of hope like that one. Abbot had promised right then that he’d always have her back, no matter what.
You were halfway down the hall when Robby rounded the corner. The second his eyes landed on Hannah in your arms, his entire expression shifted to fatherly fear.
“Hey, angel,” he said softly, stepping close. He brushed a gentle hand over her back. “Mom said you’re not feeling good, huh?”
Hannah managed a weak, cracked little “Daddy…” before turning her face back into your neck, hiding from the bright lights and the unfamiliar sounds.
Robby flicked his gaze up to yours, doing that assessing scan he always did, checking not just Hannah, but how you were holding up. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you whispered, though your voice trembled as the tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Just… scared. I hate seeing her like this. She’s never been this sick.”
He nodded once. “I’ve got her.”
You handed her over without hesitation. Hannah clung to him immediately, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder like he was her safe place. Robby carried her the rest of the way into the bay. He laid her down gently on the hospital bed, keeping one hand resting protectively on her stomach while the other smoothed damp strands of hair off her forehead with tenderness.
One of the night-shift nurses stepped in right away and rechecked her temperature. “It’s up to 104.1 now.” Her oxygen saturation was still holding steady, but she was clearly dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes a little sunken, her usually rosy cheeks pale.
A couple of seconds later, Abbot strode into the bay, sweeping his eyes over the scene: little Hannah lying on the bed, Robby standing guard on one side, you on the other.
“Hey,” Abbot said, pulling Robby into a quick, one-armed brotherly hug, clapping his back once, and giving you a nod. “Heard our girl was here. Sorry, I was tied up with a gunshot wound, perforated lung. It’s chaos tonight.”
“She’s been throwing up everything, couldn’t even keep the Tylenol down,” Robby reported, giving the facts the way two attendings would, except this time his voice carried an edge of helplessness he rarely showed. He wasn’t the doctor tonight. He was the father. “Fever’s up to 104.1. We should get an IV going, more Tylenol, Zofr—”
“I’ve got this,” Abbot interrupted gently but firmly, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he stepped closer to the bed. He looked down at Hannah with the softest smile, dropping his voice into that sweet, playful tone he saved only for kids. “Hey, Hannah Banana… we’re gonna get you feeling brand new before you even realize, okay?” He offered her a warm smile and the gentlest pinch on her cheek.
“Uncle Jack…” she mumbled, her voice cracking pitifully as another wave of nausea rolled through her.
The nurse started the IV in her tiny hand. Hannah cried out at the poke, a heartbreaking whimper that twisted something deep in your chest. Robby was right there, holding her other hand tightly, talking her through it in that calm voice he used with every scared kid who came through these doors. “Just a little pinch, angel. You’re being so brave. Almost done… that’s my good girl. Daddy’s right here.”
You stood on the opposite side of the bed, holding her foot gently in both hands and rubbing soothing circles over her ankle with your thumb, as if your touch alone could somehow absorb her pain and make it yours instead.
“We’ll keep her under observation for a while, wait for the fever to come down,” Abbot told you both. “I’ll come back in fifteen to check on her again, but she’s in the best hands tonight with the two of you right here.”
“Thank you, Jack,” you said quietly with gratitude. He gave your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping back.
“Thanks, brother,” Robby added right after you, his hand never leaving Hannah’s hair.
Robby didn’t leave her side for even a second. He didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t step out to grab coffee, didn’t let himself get distracted by anything else. He stayed right there, anchored to the bed, resting one large hand gently on Hannah’s forehead, occasionally stroking her damp hair back from her skin. Every few minutes he’d lean in and murmur soft, ridiculous nonsense to her sleeping body, telling her she was tougher than any superhero, that the doctors here were the absolute best because they all knew her dad, and that meant she was getting the royal treatment, the best care in the house. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Even after everything, this was still who he was when it mattered most: steady, devoted, completely focused on the tiny human you’d made together.
The hours dragged, and eventually, after the second round of meds, Hannah’s fever finally started trending down. It had dropped to 100.7, and for the first time all night, some color began creeping back into her pale cheeks as her chest rose and fell more peacefully under the blanket.
You and Robby were slumped in the two chairs pulled up beside her bed. Robby broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking. You did everything right.”
You let out a shaky breath, staring at Hannah’s sleeping face. “Maybe I should’ve brought her sooner. She would’ve gotten better faster.”
He shook his head slowly. “You waited until it was warranted. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.” He reached over without hesitation, covering your hand with his on the shared armrest. His palm was warm and grounding in a way that made your throat tighten. “It’s just viral. She’s gonna be okay.”
Without thinking, you turned your hand over beneath his and laced your fingers through his, holding on tightly. For a moment, you didn’t care what it meant, or what anyone walking past the bay might think if they glanced in and saw the two of you like this, exes, co-parents, sitting together holding hands. The exhaustion of the night had stripped everything down, and right now, all that mattered was that Hannah was improving and Robby was here.
“Thanks for coming,” you whispered, even though you knew the words weren’t really necessary. Robby would drop everything and be anywhere either of you needed him, that had never been in question.
“Always.” He brushed his thumb slowly over your knuckles, a gentle motion. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
By the 6 a.m. check, Hannah’s fever had already dropped to 99.8. The IV fluids had done their job, and she hadn’t vomited anymore, even managed a few sips of apple juice without it coming right back up.
She shifted under the blanket, blinking up at you both. “Mommy? Daddy?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair back. “How’s your tummy?”
“Better,” she mumbled. “Did uncle Jack cure me?”
“He did.” You smiled, feeling a wave of relief flood through you. “You’re doing great now.”
Robby reached over, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Morning, angel. You scared us.”
She managed a tiny smile, then winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her temple, lingering there for an extra second. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”
Jack came back a moment later for a quick exam and a review of vitals and labs, thankfully nothing alarming. Viral gastroenteritis, most likely, with a febrile response.
“Thanks for curing me, Uncle Jack,” Hannah said softly with that radiant smile that could melt absolutely anyone in seconds. “You’re the best doctor ever.”
Abbot grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. “Well, thank you, Hannah Banana. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
Robby cleared his throat dramatically from the other side of the bay, crossing his arms. “Second best,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.
“Second best,” Hannah agreed immediately, turning that same sweet, dimpled smile toward Robby now, like she was bestowing him with the highest honor.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Jack said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I won’t tell your dad that you actually think I’m the better doctor.” He glanced sideways at his best friend with a mischievous glint. “A man with a fragile ego like him couldn’t take it.”
Robby let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. “Is she clear to go back home?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more serious, though the corner of his mouth still twitched. “See? I’m asking for your professional opinion and everything.”
Jack nodded, glancing once more at the monitor readings before looking back at both of you. “I’d say she can go home. Fever’s trending nicely downward, and she’s keeping fluids down now. Just keep checking her temperature regularly to make sure it stays down. If she starts vomiting again or the fever spikes back up, bring her straight back, but you two already know that better than most.”
Robby stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I should head out,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Shift starts in thirty. Gotta change, grab coffee, pretend I’m human.”
You looked up at him, still holding Hannah’s hand. “You’re going in?”
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Someone’s gotta run this place. You—” He nodded toward Hannah, then you. “—should take the day. Go home with her. Get some sleep, keep an eye on her. She’s fine now, but she’s still wiped. And you’ve been up all night.”
You opened your mouth to argue, out of pure habit, mostly. The words were already forming on your tongue, something about not wanting to burden the team, about pulling your weight like everyone else. But they died the instant your eyes landed on Hannah.
She was curled up small on her side in the hospital bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. You couldn’t stay away from her, not today. The thought of leaving her for twelve long hours, of being stuck in the ED while she was at home, possibly starting to feel worse again without you to notice the fever creeping back up made your stomach drop. You wouldn’t be able to focus. You wouldn’t feel at ease for even a second. Every patient you saw would be overshadowed by the constant fear that Hannah might need you and you wouldn’t be there to catch it, to bring her right back in.
And honestly… part of you simply wanted the day off. You wanted to take her home, wrap her up in her favorite blanket, and spend the whole day curled together on the couch. Just the two of you. A Disney marathon playing in the background while she rested her head on your chest and you stroked her hair.
So instead of arguing, you closed your mouth and let the silence settle. The decision had already been made the moment you looked at her.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Okay.”
Robby nodded, satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Hannah’s forehead again. “I’ll come by after shift to see how you’re doing.” He straightened and hesitated for half a second, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder, brushing the side of your neck, just once, before he pulled back. “Text me updates. I’ll turn off silent mode.”
“Will do.”
He lingered for another beat, like he didn’t quite want to leave the room, then turned toward the door. “See you later, angel,” he called softly to Hannah, who was already drifting again.
“Bye, Daddy,” she mumbled, half-asleep.
He gave you one last look, longer than necessary, before slipping out into the hallway. You exhaled slowly, while Robby and Jack handled the last few details with the nurse, you gathered Hannah’s things.
Home sounded like the best idea you’d had in hours. If there was one thing you truly hated about this life, it was how little time work left you to be the kind of mom you desperately wished you could be. Residency had already demanded so much, and motherhood had taken the rest. Every free moment you managed to carve out, you longed to spend it with Hannah. You didn’t want her to grow up one day and feel like you had missed it, like you weren’t there for the special moments. You didn’t want her to remember a childhood where her mom was always rushing, always tired, always halfway out the door.
By the time you pulled into your driveway, Hannah was already dozing in her car seat again. You carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch. The house felt wonderfully quiet after the night chaos of the ED. You changed into new pajamas, made her a nest of pillows and her favorite fuzzy blanket, then crawled in beside her, pulling her body against your chest. She stirred just enough to wrap one arm around your waist and mumble, “Mommy, will you stay today?”
“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Today is just us.”
The rest of the day unfolded slowly. You started with her favorite movie, Encanto, because she never got tired of singing along to every song, no matter if she was just recovering. Hannah curled up with her head in your lap, as you gently played with her hair while she hummed to the songs.
When the movie ended, you made a simple lunch together, something easy on her stomach, a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries. She only ate half, but she kept it down, earning praises from you. After lunch, you moved on to Moana. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in her blanket like a burrito, occasionally lifting her head to point at the screen and say, “Look, Mommy, the ocean! Can we go to the beach too?” You laughed softly and pulled her closer, letting her rest her cheek against your shoulder.
Robby’s shift ended late, as usual, and by the time he signed out, he was bone-tired, but the pull to check on Hannah overrode everything else. He texted you: Just got off. Coming by to check on her. You home?
Your reply wasquick: Yeah. She’s asleep. Door’s unlocked.
He let himself in quietly, finding you on the couch where you were curled up with a blanket. “Hey,” you whispered. “She crashed about an hour ago. Fever stayed down all day, no more vomiting.”
Robby exhaled, shrugging out of his jacket and walking over. “Good. That’s good.”
You nodded toward the hallway. “You want to peek in on her?”
He did, already heading to Hannah’s room. She was sprawled on her stomach, with one arm flung out and her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep and even, Robby stood in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her chest rise and fall.
When he came back to the living room, you’d poured two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough to keep the boundary.
“She looks so much better,” he said quietly. “Color’s back.”
“Yeah.” You tucked your legs under you, pulling the blanket tighter to your body. “I was terrified last night. Thought… I don’t know. Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head.”
He nodded. “Me too. When you called, my heart stopped for a second.”
You took a breath, then another. “You’re a great dad, Robby. You know that, right?”
He glanced at you, surprised by the sudden moment of honesty. “Trying to be.”
“No. You are.” You met his eyes so he could see how much you meant every word that left your lips. “I always knew you would be. Even back when… everything was a mess. When we were still figuring out how to be parents instead of just two people who accidentally made a kid. I saw it in the way you held her the first time. You stepped up. Every single time.”
He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a callus on his palm, like he didn’t know how to take the compliment.
“We might not have planned her. But Hannah got the best possible dad out of the deal.”
Robby swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. For giving me her. For making me a dad when I didn’t even know I could be one. When I didn’t even know if I wanted to be alive.” He exhaled, sounding almost like a laugh without humor. “I look at her sometimes and think… how the hell did I get this lucky? She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s fearless. And half of that’s you. But the other half… I get to be part of it. Every day. Because of you.”
The air between you thickened, it was full of years of shared history, good, bad, messy, beautiful. “I still love you for that,” he said quietly. “Not like… not trying to cross lines. Just… I’ll always have love for you. Because you gave me the best thing in my life. And you trusted me with her. That means more than I could ever express.”
“I know. I feel the same way.” You rolled your head to the side, trying to loosen the knot that’d been building since last night. The motion made your neck crack loudly, and it pulled a wince out of you.
Robby lifted his brow. “You okay?”
“Just the couch napping. My neck’s killing me.”
He didn’t hesitate, standing up right away. “Come here.”
You did hesitate for half a heartbeat, long enough to consider the offer. You were too tired to argue, and you knew how good Robby’s hands were, so you stood up from the couch, then turned so your back was to him. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before his hands even touched you.
He settled his fingers on your shoulders first, pressing his thumbs into the muscles along the tops of your traps, working in slow circles. You couldn’t help dropping your head forward on a soft exhale, closing your eyes as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.
“God,” you murmured. “You’re still really good at that.”
He huffsed a quiet laugh against your hair. “Muscle memory.”
Robby moved his hands, working down the column of your neck, tracing the tense line on either side of your spine, then out across your shoulders again. You melt into it without meaning to, dropping your shoulders and slowing your breath as the ache unwound thread by thread.
For a minute, it was just that: his hands on your shoulders. Then he slid his palms lower, intentionally, until they settled at your waist. He pulled you back gently, just enough that he had your back pressed against his chest.
He brushed his lips along the side of your neck, teasingly soft at first. Then, firmer in a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
Your pulse jumped immediately at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Robby.”
He didn’t stop. Another kiss, lower this time, along the curve where neck meets shoulder. He tightened his hands on your waist, slipping his thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing your bare skin.
“This is a bad idea,” you whispered but it came out unsteady.
Robby moved his mouth over your skin. “Then why does it feel so good?”
You didn’t have an answer, you couldn’t think of one that made sense. He kept going, trailing kisses along the side of your throat, sliding one hand up your side, splaying his fingers across your ribs, the other staying firm at your hip, holding you against him.
You tipped your head back against his shoulder in instinct, and he took the invitation, kissing the exposed line of your throat. Robby drifted his hand higher, brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric. Your hands came up in response, half to stop him, half to hold on, and they landed on his forearms, gripping them.
He murmured against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t stop it. Not one single part of you wanted to. Maybe if you weren’t so bone-deep tired, physically drained from years of resisting him, of constantly convincing yourself that you didn’t want this, that you weren’t aching for this every time he got too close, you might have found the strength to push him away again. To remind yourself of all the careful boundaries you’d built for Hannah’s sake. To remember why this was dangerous.
But right now, none of that mattered. Right now you needed Robby. You needed his warmth, you needed his touch, those large, capable hands that knew every inch of your body better than anyone else ever had, or ever would. You needed the intoxicating pleasure only he could ever give you, the rumble of his voice in your ear, and the way he could make you forget every careful reason you’d built to keep him at arm’s length.
The resistance you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold anymore. In this quiet moment all you wanted was to let go. To stop fighting the pull that had never really gone away. To let Robby remind you, just for tonight, how good it felt to be wanted like this.
Under your shirt, one of Robby’s hands cupped the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra. He traced slow circles over the peak, teasing the nipple into a tight point, making you arch without meaning to, and he rewarded you with a soft bite at the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuck,” you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.
Robby exhaled a rough laugh against your throat. “There she is.” He sounded proud of getting this reaction out of you, of remembering your body even if it’d been years since the last time he’d touched you.
He palmed your other breast now, both hands working in tandem to knead your flesh, brushing his fingers back and forth until the friction through your bra was almost too much. Your nipples ached, already feeling oversensitive, and every pass of his fingers sent heat straight between your legs. You could feel him behind you, his thick cock rigid, pressing against the small of your back through his jeans. The size of him, the heat of him, the way he rocked forward just enough to let you feel every inch, made your thighs clench.
You should stop this. You knew you should. But your hands were already reaching back, curling into the fabric of his shirt at his hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.
He growled with approval, leaving one of your breasts to slide his hand down the front of your body. He was slow, giving you every second to say no.
“When was the last time someone fucked you the way you deserve?” he murmured against your neck, slightly tightening his fingers once he reached your thigh, dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.
You stayed silent, like part of you didn’t want to admit the truth. Robby didn’t pull back, he kissed your neck again. “Tell me, baby. When was the last time you were properly fucked? Deep and hard like I used to… Until you couldn’t think straight?”
You swallowed once, then answered honestly, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time we were together. About four years ago.”
Robby stilled completely. He lifted his mouth from your neck like he was waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”
You shook your head. “I’m not.”
He stared at you for a moment, processing the new information. Then he let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “What about those guys you’ve dated? The vet? That other guy a year ago, what was he? An engineer? What about him?”
“Two dates, maybe three at most with any of them,” you said quietly. “Never went further. Never slept with any of them. Being a mom and a resident… there’s no time. Between Hannah’s schedule, shifts, studying, and trying to keep everything together, sex just wasn’t a priority.”
Robby tightened his jaw, and a fix of emotions flashed through his face, surprise, heat, and a fierce kind of possessiveness. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t just tell me you haven’t been fucked in four years and expect me to act like it’s nothing.”
Before you could respond, he dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then under the elastic of your panties. “Four years. Four fucking years without anyone touching you the way you need. Without anyone filling this perfect pussy. I’m gonna leave you so fucking wet and satisfied when I’m done with you tonight. You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else after this.”
There was no hesitation now. He parted your pussy with two fingers, finding you already slick with arousal, your lips swollen, and he dragged his digits up through your folds in one long stroke, making your knees nearly buckle.
“Jesus,” he whispered against your ear, already sounding wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”
Robby circled your clit, it was light at first, his touch feather-soft, just enough to make your hips jerk. Then it turned firmer, pressing down in tight circles the way he always knew you liked. The exact pressure, the exact rhythm. Muscle memory for him too, apparently.
You tipped your head back against Robby’s broad shoulder, fluttering your eyes shut so you could focus entirely on the intense pleasure flooding through your body. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his fingers worked you open with precision.
He kept his other hand on your breast, tugging your bra down roughly so he could give your nipples the attention they craved. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging in perfect time with the slick strokes between your legs. The dual sensation was devastating in the best way, making your pussy clench and flutter around nothing.
He slid one thick finger inside you, stretching you carefully, opening you up with a patience that drove you insane. When you pushed your hips back greedily, silently begging for more, he added a second finger, sinking them deeper. You were so tight, clenching hard around the intrusion, and Robby let out a guttural groan against your ear, like the feel of you was almost painful for him too.
“Still so fucking perfect,” he rasped with want. “Fuck… the way you grip me. Like you never want to let go.”
He curled his fingers deliberately, hooking them forward until he found that spongy spot inside you that made your vision flash white for a second. A broken moan tore from your throat as he started stroking your g-spot with every thrust. The sound was loud enough that you both froze for half a heartbeat, listening for any noise from upstairs. The house stayed quiet. Hannah was still fast asleep. Robby didn’t waste another second, he resumed his movements, going deeper now, fucking you steadily with his fingers while his thumb kept the pressure on your clit.
Robby alternated the pace just to torment you, slow and deep, then faster and harder, then dragging it back to that torturous slow rhythm again. Teasing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over it.
You rocked back against his hand, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. Every curl of his fingers and every swipe of his thumb made your clit throb and your walls flutter around him. You were soaking his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet room.
Your breathing turned ragged. Small and desperate sounds slipping out despite your best efforts, whimpers, half-moans, his name once or twice when he hit the spot just right.
He kissed your neck again, sucking lightly and then soothing with his tongue. Robby couldn’t stop his hips from rocking against your ass in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of his fingers, allowing you to feel how hard he was, painfully so.
Your thighs started to tremble. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. You were close, so close, and he knew it, still remembered how your body shook, how your pussy pulsed and clenched when you were about to let go.
“Come on,” he murmured against your ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his thumb harder on your clit, and crooked his fingers again, stroking that spot in quick pulses. “Let me feel you cum. Please, baby, I want it so bad.”
It hit you like a wave. As you orgasmed around his fingers, your back arched, throwing your head back against his shoulder, opening your mouth on a silent cry that turned into a choked moan when the pleasure finally broke. You came hard, shuddering and clenching around his fingers. He had to tighten his arm around your waist to keep you upright when wave after wave of pleasure hit you, until your legs felt like liquid.
Robby’s arms stayed locked around you for a long moment after you came down. Slowly, he turned you in his arms until you were facing him. Your legs felt unsteady, so he steadied you with his hands on your waist.
When he lifted the hand that was inside you, the one still slick and shining with you, he brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with you.
Robby licked his fingers slowly, first one, then the other, dragging his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every bit of you.
“Fuck,” he murmured, humming as if the taste of your slickness pleasured him. “Still taste the same. Sweet. So goddamn good.”
Heat flooded your face, your chest, everywhere. You couldn’tlook away, the sight of him, with his lips wet and his eyes locked on yours, while he savored you like that, made your core clench again. It felt so aching and empty without him inside you, and you desperately needed to be filled again, to feel the stretch of his cock impaled inside you, to have his weight over you while he made you feel owned.
The words slipped out before you could think them through. “Fuck me, Robby.”
His mouth curved almost predatory. The words he’d longed to hear for so long. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, allowing you to feel his hot breath on your lips. “Ask nicely.”
You narrowed your eyes with defiance even through the haze of want. “Go to hell.”
He laughed, the same laugh he used to give you in stolen moments years ago, when you’d push back just to watch him unravel. “Still stubborn,” he said, almost fond. “Good to know some things don’t change.”
Robby didn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nd your arms around his neck, as he carried you up the stairs. His mouth found your neck again on the way, kissing and nipping while he navigated the familiar hallway in the dark.
He pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, and turning the lock with a click. Robby set you down on the edge of the bed but didn’t step back. He stood between your spread thighs, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.
“Fuck… I feel like I’m dreaming,” he cupped your face, stroking his thumb over your cheeks. “You, here, letting me touch you again after all this time. After everything.”
Then he was on you, Robby climbed onto the bed, his knees bracketing your hips, and pressing you back into the mattress with his weight. He crashed his mouth down on yours in a desperate kiss while he ran his hands over your body.
He groaned like a man starved, staring at your chest. “These tits… God, I missed them.” His mouth descended immediately, devouring you with almost frantic need. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue roughly around the peak before he sucked it hard, hollowing your cheeks. He kneaded the other breast, digging his fingers in, flicking and pinching the neglected nipple until you arched off the bed with a loud moan. He switched sides, licking and biting, sucking marks into the flesh like he wanted to claim every inch. His stubble was scraping deliciously against your skin, making you whimper and thread your fingers through his brown hair, holding him to you.
He was almost desperate in the way he worshiped your body, groaning against your skin, grinding his hips down against your thigh so you could feel how painfully hard he was. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbled between sucks and bites. “These tits were made for my mouth. Look at how pretty they look. I love sucking on them… fuck, baby.”
You were panting, pushing your chest further into his face as pleasure shot straight to your cunt. Robby spent long minutes there, alternating between teasing licks and rough hungry suction, until your nipples were swollen, sensitive, and glistening with his spit.
Then he started moving lower. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your sternum, over your stomach, pausing to nip at the soft curve just below your navel. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing your shorts the rest of the way down to bunch around your ankles. For a moment, he just stared at the damp spot on your panties with eyes full of lust.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his hot breath right against your dripping pussy. “You’re making such a big mess for me. You ruined your panties… so fucking soaked.”
He leaned in and mouthed at your pussy over the thin fabric, pressing kisses along your slit, dragging his tongue slowly from your entrance up to your clit through the soaked cotton. He sucked gently on your clit through the material, making your hips jerk. Then he pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the damp spot before diving in again, licking broad stripes, nipping at your folds, mouthing at you like he was trying to taste every drop of your arousal through the barrier.
You moaned louder, with your thighs trembling around his head and your hands fisting the sheets as he teased you mercilessly. Robby hooked his arms under your thighs, holding you open while he continued the torturous worship of his mouth. Every time you tried to grind harder against his mouth, he pulls back slightly, keeping you right on the edge, whimpering and desperate.
“Robby… please…” you gasped, but he only groaned against your pussy and keept teasing, determined to drive you insane before he finally gave you what you both needed.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, gleaming with satisfaction. Robby hooked two fingers into the thin cotton at your hip and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet room. You only had a second for the cool air to hit your bare, dripping pussy, because right away Robby’s mouth was on you, aggressive and devastatingly skilled.
He devoured you like a man who’d been starving for years. There’s no gentle buildup or teasing licks. He buried his face between your thighs with a hunger that bordered on feral. He drags his tongue broadly, giving you flat strokes from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He groaned deeply into your pussy, the sound was filthy. “Fuck, baby… you taste even better than I remembered,” he said against your folds before diving back in.
He ate you out with aggression, swallowing your clit into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves before releasing it with a filthy pop. The sudden loss of suction made you whimper, only for him to immediately flick the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit as his stubble scraped against your inner thighs with every movement of his head.
Robby alternated between deep licks that plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow strokes that had you dripping down his chin, and tight suction on your clit that made you curl your toes hard.
Every time you tried to muffle your moans, he only doubled down, sucking harder, licking deeper, devouring you like he’d been dreaming about this exact taste for years. He gripped your ass, spreading you wider for his mouth, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t escape the assault of his tongue.
“Oh my God… Robby—” Your voice cracked as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
He ate it like he loved it. Like he needed it. His hands weren’t idle either. One arm banded across your lower stomach, holding you down when your hips started bucking too wildly. The other hand reached up to palm and squeeze your bare breasts, making you moan louder.
You pushed up onto your elbows, desperate to watch him. The sight was both obscene and intoxicating, Robby’s head buried between your thighs, his shoulders flexing as he worked, eyes closed in pure bliss while his mouth devoured your cunt. His jaw was moving with every lick and every suck, his lips and chin already shiny with your wetness. When he glanced up and caught you watching, his eyes darkened even more.
He pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your swollen pussy, a thick glob of saliva landing right on your clit. The warm sensation made you gasp, asd he watched it drip down your folds for half a second before he drove back in, spreading the spit with his tongue, mixing it with your own slick until everything was messy and glistening.
“God, look at this pretty pussy,” the words came out muffled against you. “So fucking wet for me. Been waiting four years to taste you again.”
He continued his relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn’t look away. The sight of this strong man, completely lost between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal, was almost too much.
“You’re so fucking good at this… shit, your mouth—” A broken moan escaped you when he sucked hard on your clit again. “I’m gonna… I can’t! Robby, I’m close already…”
Your second orgasm built fast, and it crushed over you without mercy, making you bow your back off the bed, tearing a broken cry from your throat as the pleasure peaked. Robby didn’t let up for a second, he sucked your nub harder, drawing the orgasm out until it felt endless.
Your vision whited out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the pleasure rolled through you while he kept licking you through it greedily.
You sobbed his name, “Robby… fuck—oh god,” as your body shook uncontrollably, clamping his thighs around his head when the intensity bordered on too much.
He finally eased off only when your cries turned into overwhelmed whimpers, your body limp and trembling on the bed. But even then, he didn’t pull away completely. Robby continued placing soft kisses to your folds, licking up every drop of your release like he couldn’t bear to waste any of it. His hands soothed your thighs, rubbing circles while you came down.
Robby lifted his head, letting you admire his lips and chin glistening with your cum between your spread thighs. “Four years… and you still taste like heaven.”
When he finally started kissing his way up your body, his mouth was soft, reaching your mouth and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back, hovering his face above yours. “You okay, baby?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone, cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing away a tear. “Talk to me. Was that too much?”
You managed a shaky nod, still catching your breath. “I’m… fine. Just… holy shit, Robby.”
He chuckled softly, pleased with himself after seeing the effect his mouth had on you. “You’ve got the most perfect pussy in the world, you know that? So fucking pretty when you cum. And look at the mess you made…” He glanced down between your bodies at the soaked sheets, a proud and filthy smirk tugging at his mouth. “You still soak everything when I eat you out. God, I love how wet you get for me.”
Your voice came out breathy, needy, honest in a way you haven’t been with him in years.You were finally embracing what you truly wanted. “I need you, Robby. All of you. Please.”
Something possessive flashed in his eyes. He didn’t make you ask twice this time, just sat back on his heels and stripped in a rush, yanking his shirt over his head, then shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, looking every bit as thick as you remembered it, with the head already flushed in a dark red, leaking precum.
He was rock-hard, with the veins standing out along the shaft, curving slightly upward the way you loved, because it hit your g-spot so easily. He knelt between your spread thighs, pressing his into the mattress, and looked down at you with hunger. “Stroke it a little,” he asked you. “Let me feel your hand on me first.”
You sat up just enough to reach him, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. He felt hot in your palm as you gave him a firm stroke from the base to the tip, swirling your thumb over the leaking head to spread the precum. Your touch made Robby groan deeply, twitching his hips forward into your touch.
“Fuck… It’s so big,” you whispered, locking your eyes on the way your hand looked around him. “I need it so much, Robby. I’ve missed this cock. Missed how full you make me.”
He watched your hand move, his breathing growing increasingly ragged with every stroke. “Slow, baby. Just like that. Real slow.” His voice was strained, like he was already fighting not to cum from your touch alone. “Shit, I’m close already. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this… your hand feels too fucking good.”
You kept stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just the way he’d always liked. Robby's head fell back for a moment, a moan rumbling in his chest, before he looked down again, watching your tits move with each stroke, watching your slick pussy still glistening from his mouth, waiting for him.
He reached down and gently took your wrist, stilling your hand. Then he shifted forward, gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the thick head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness. The pressure against your clit made you whimper.
Robby leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still holding his cock against your entrance. He locked his eyes onto yours. “Should we.. uh… grab a condom?”
You didn’t even hesitate, spreading your legs wider for him, sliding your hands up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “Go raw. I want to feel all of you.”
A deep groan escaped him as he notches the head of his cock right against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch without pushing inside yet. He cupped your face with his free hand, brushing your lower lip while he held himself right there, waiting for the moment he finally sank into you after four long years.
When he finally pushed forward, you felt the blunt pressure increasing, letting you feel every inch as he sank into you. You both moaned at the same time, he was thicker than you remembered in the haze of memory, and the stretch was intense, bordering on overwhelming after so long without anyone inside you. Your walls parted around him, fluttering and clenching as he slid deeper, inch by slow inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt inside you.
The fullness was perfect, almost too much, pressing against that deep spot that made you curl your toes instantly. “Fuck… baby,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “You feel… Jesus Christ. So tight. So fucking wet and warm. I missed this pussy so much.”
He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, both of you just breathing each other in after four long years. Then he started to move. The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a wet sound. The second was a little harder. By the third, he’d found a steady rhythm, long and powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The drag and stretch were incredible, every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock kissed that deep place that made sparks explode behind your eyes.
“Oh my God… Robby,” you moaned, already trembling, and he’d just started. “You’re so fucking deep.”
It felt amazing for both of you. For you, it was like waking up after years of numbness, every nerve lighting up, pleasure flooding your body in waves with every thrust. For Robby, the groan that left him is guttural, almost pained with how good it felt to finally be inside the only place that’d ever made sense in his life.
His hips snapped forward harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the bedroom as he fucked you with measured strokes. You were trying so hard to stay quiet, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite down on the side of it, muffling the moans that kept trying to spill out. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, then fluttered them open again. Robby was watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, flicking his gaze between your face, your lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure, to your tits bouncing with every thrust, and down to where your pussy was stretched wide around his cock.
He watched himself disappear inside you, the shiny wetness coating his shaft every time he pulled back, your folds clinging to him greedily. “Fuck, look at that. Your pretty pussy taking me so well after all this time. Stretched so tight around my cock… making such a mess on me.”
You bit harder into your hand as a particularly deep thrust made you whimper loudly. Robby’s rhythm started to pick up, snapping his hips with more force, the perfect angle to hit your spot inside you over and over, making you clench around his length.
“Shit… right there,” you whimpered. “That spot… fuck! I can feel every inch. God, I’m so full.”
“Stop squeezing like that,” he groaned, almost pleading, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum already if you keep clenching around me like that. This pussy is too perfect… so fucking good. Feels like heaven. I’ve dreamed about this for years… being buried inside you again.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your muffled moans, before he suddenly gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and the next thrust punched the air out of your lungs as he bottomed out completely, pressed his hips tightly against your ass, grinding his cock against that deepest spot.
“Oh my god—Robby!” You gasped against your hand, rolling your eyes back. “Like that! Like that… Please don’t stop.”
He fucked you harder now, making the bed creak softly beneath you. “So perfect,” he panted between thrusts. “You feel so fucking perfect. This body… these tits… this tight little pussy squeezing me. I missed you so much. Missed fucking you like this.”
He slid a hand between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was pushing you toward the edge fast.
“Cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you cum around my cock. Let me feel it.”
When the pleasure started cresting, your words turned into fragmented, needy whimpers.
The combination of his deep strokes, the pressure on your clit, and the overwhelming fullness after four years was too much. Your third orgasm of the night crashed over you even harder than the other two. Your back arched violently off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat despite your teeth sinking into your hand. Your pussy clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.
Robby groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he felt his own impeding orgasm approaching. “That’s it—fuck, yes—milk me, baby. I’m cumming—”
He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, and finally allowed himself to cum. You felt the thick pulses of his seed as he filled you up, rope after rope of cum flooding deep inside you, so much that you could feel it spilling out around his cock where you were stretched around him. Robby kept grinding his hips against you through his orgasm, drawing it out, making sure every drop stayed inside you as long as possible.
He stayed buried deep while you both came down, breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. Your legs were still over his shoulders, your pussy still gently fluttering around his softening cock.
“Four years,” he whispered hoarsely against your lips. “And you’re still mine.”
An incredulous chuckle rumbled out of his chest, utterly satisfied. His brown eyes were in disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he just got to be inside you again after all this time. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, sounding a little husky fro the exertion. “I can’t believe I just got to be inside you again. That was… fuck. That was the best fuck of my life. Better than I remembered. Better than anything.”
He stayed there a moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally pulled out of you. You both groaned at the loss, a thick of his cum leaking out of you onto the already-soaked sheets. Robby rolled off you and onto his back beside you, reaching out with one arm to pull you against his side
He turned his head to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead with gentle fingers. “How was that for you, baby?” he asked softly. “Tell me. Was it okay? Did I hurt you at all?”
You huffed a small, tired laugh against his collarbone. “You already know the answer.”
He hummed, but didn’t let it drop. “Say it anyway.”
“Robby.” You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You already know exactly how good it felt. It was amazing. More than amazing. I don’t even have words for it. I came so hard I— God, I needed that.”
He smiled again with a satisfied grin, and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s all I wanted, to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”
As the afterglow started to fade, and reality started to creep back in… the sleeping five-year-old down the hall, the careful co-parenting boundaries you’ve both worked so hard to maintain. You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.
“You should get going now. It’s late. Hannah will be up early, and I don’t want her to wake up and find you here. It might make things weird or confusing for her.”
Robby let out a genuine laugh, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You use me to break your four-year celibacy, three orgasms, mind you, and now you’re kicking me out?” His eyes sparkled with humor, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Cold, woman . Real cold. I give you the best, and only, dick you’ve had in years, and this is the thanks I get? Straight to the door?”
You couldn’t help but laugh with him, swatting lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You know how she is. If she comes in here looking for me in the morning and sees you in my bed, she’ll have a million questions. Or she’ll think we’re back together and get her hopes up. We can’t do that to her.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, too, mirroring your position, still grinning that cocky grin that made him look ten years younger. “Three orgasms,” he repeate, holding up three fingers like he was making a point. “I ate that pussy until you were crying and shaking, then fucked you so deep you saw stars, and now I’m being evicted? Harsh, really harsh. I feel so used right now.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing as another laugh bubbled up. “Come on. You know I’m right.”
He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow but keeping one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer so your bare breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t want to go. Not yet. I want to stay here and cuddle you. Just hold you for a while. I promise I’ll leave early tomorrow morning, before Hannah wakes up. I’ll set an alarm, sneak out. She’ll never know I was here. Please, baby. Let me stay. I missed this. Missed holding you after.”
You hesitated, chewing your lip. The warmth of his body against yours, the beat of his heart under your palm, the way he kept tracing circles with his fingers on your lower back… it all feels dangerously good.
He sensed your wavering and leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, then to your lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect. The way you took me tonight, the way you came for me… You made me feel whole again. Nothing in my life has ever compared to this. You and Hannah… you two are the best things that ever happened to me. Being inside you again, hearing you moan my name… it reminded me how much I still need you. How much I’ve always needed you.”
He tightened his arm around you, pulling you fully against his chest so you were tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Robby slid one of his legs between yours, tangling you together under the messy sheets. He kept kissing you, your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, then back to your mouth in lingering presses.
“I mean it,” he whispered against your hair. “You made me the happiest man alive when you gave me Hannah, but nights like this… being with you like this… it completes something in me. I feel alive. Whole. Like the missing piece finally clicked back into place. No one else has ever made me feel this way. No one else ever could.”
You melted into him despite yourself, and the night passed in fragments of deep sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Robby’s arm stayed across your waist the whole time, with his fingers splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His chest rose and fell against your back in an even rhythm, and the snoring… God, the stupid snoring you’d missed so much.
You woke slowly, first to the weight of him, then to the ache between your legs, the reminder of last night still dried on your inner thighs. You felt him stir behind you as consciousness returned. You could practically hear the smile before you even turned your head.
When you did roll over, he was already looking at you with his eyes half-lidded, sleepy, and crinkled at the corners. And yeah, there it was, that stupid and contented grin spreading across his face like he’d just won the lottery.
“Stop smiling,” you muttered. “You’re creeping me out.”
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, didn’t even try to dial it back. If anything, it got wider. “Can’t help it,” he said. “Woke up next to the most gorgeous woman in the world. Kinda hard not to smile about that.”
Heat climbed up your neck despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Flattery at six a.m. is a cheap move, Robinavitch.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, roaming his eyes over your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look at you.”
He dropped his gaze appreciatively, taking in the messy hair spilling across the pillow, the sheet tangled around your bare hips, the faint marks his mouth left on your collarbone last night. He reached out, tracing one with his thumb, gently.
“Don’t even think about it, Michael,” you warned him. You’d had your fun last night. It had been amazing, even better than you remembered sex with Robby ever being. But it had been one time. One stupid lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness that couldn’t repeat itself again. You couldn’t let it. Not when the delicate balance you’d fought so hard to maintain for Hannah was so stable. You refused to risk your daughter’s sense of security just because your body still craved the man who used to know every inch of you better than anyone else.
Robby snapped his eyes back to yours, looking equal parts hungry and amused. “You know how I get when you call me Michael.”
“Last night was a relapse. I was tired, and… Emotional. Not happening again today. Not happening again ever, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah?” He laughed before he shifted, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. His body came down over yours, caging you under his weight. Robby braced his forearms on either side of your head, his knees bracketing your hips. “You sure about that?”
You pushed at his shoulder. “Robby… get off.”
He stirred above you, lifting his head. For a moment, he didn’t move, but you kept pushing, gentle but insistent, until he finally rolled off you with a sigh and propped himself up on one elbow.
“All of this… It was a mistake,” you sat up and pulling the sheet up over your bare chest, suddenly too aware of your nakedness.
Robby reached for you instinctively, but you shifted away, scooting back against the headboard. “Why?” he asked. “It felt fucking amazing for both of us. You know it did. We’re good at this, we’ve always been good at this.”
You shook your head, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies still fit together like they remembered every single time before… it made your resolve weaken. “You know why not. I can’t just think about ourselves anymore. We have to think about Hannah. We can’t hurt her. We already crashed once, and I’m not putting her through big changes, through the uncertainty, the chance that everything falls apart all over again.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know you, Michael. In a month you’re going to regret this. You’re going to need space, and your head won’t be in the right place for commitment. I won’t do that to her. I won’t do that to any of us.”
Robby sat up fully now, the playful morning haze completely gone from his face. “It’s different this time. The first time… everything was happening all at once. You know how fucked up I was… After Covid, after… everything that happened. Having to take care of the whole ED… I was drowning. I couldn’t be what you needed. But I’m not that man anymore. You know I’ve changed. You’ve seen how much being a father changed me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you. I want this. I want the family. I want the commitment.”
You swallowed hard, and for one dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine it, waking up like this every morning with his warmth beside you, the three of you as a real family, lazy weekends and shared dinners and Hannah running between you both. The picture was so beautiful it hurt, but reality settled back in fast.
“You should go,” you whispered, looking away toward the window so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “We shouldn’t keep talking about this anymore.”
Robby exhaled, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. “It’s not fair.”
You let out a bitter little laugh. “A lot in life isn’t fair, Robby. You know that better than anyone else.”
He watched you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you until he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. You stayed under the sheet, trying not to watch the familiar way his muscles moved as he gathered his clothes from the floor and got dressed.
When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, turning back to you with that half-smirk that you knew meant trouble. “You can try, but I know you can’t stay away from all of this for too long. I’m a real catch.”
You couldn’t help the tired laugh that escaped you. “Goodbye, Michael.”
He gave you one last long look full of affection before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The sheets still smelled like him, your skin still remembered his hands, nd you were left alone with the echo of everything you wanted but couldn’t let yourself have.
PART TWO HERE
A/N: Oh my god, I finally wrote something!!!😭 I’d had this idea sitting in my brain for so long, and the other day I finally felt the urge to start it. After about a week, and using all the free time I have between work and college, I actually managed to finish it. Finally something with a bit of plot, lol.
I really hope you enjoyed this idea! I’d love to write a second part, but with my schedule… that could be anywhere from two weeks to a year from now. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so it’d be really nice to hear your thoughts, if you liked it, your favorite parts, anything really🫶🏻
summary . . . months of roleplaying the woman he’s truly in love with is tearing you apart bit by bit. you swore you’d never turn into your mother, but all you see is her face as you look yourself in the mirror, crying over a man who will never see you.
pairing . . . andrew “pope” cody x fem!stripper!reader
warnings . . . extreme low self esteem from reader, pope being a selfish lover for a hot minute, more cath roleplay, reader having no self-respect, unrequited love, pure angst, but also smut, some fluff and funny moments but they don’t overpower. reader quite honestly being mean, death of a sibling (readers loss), mommy issues, domestic violence. smut!! mdni!!!!!!!! 18+!!!!!! masturbation, slight fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, stripping, webgirl, camming. ANIMAL KINGDOM season 1 spoilers!! or allusions to what happens ig. will put more when i find more, this is off the top of my head
word count . . . 10.7k
an . . . wasn’t going to make a part 2 to ‘today is (not) the day’ but inspiration struck and i don’t know… i love angst and writing screwed up readers
part 1, TODAY IS (NOT) THE DAY
Your mother rotated her men more than she did her meals. Every month was a different guy, a new gift that came with the guy, too, which was a pleasant part of your sad world. You learned at six years old and with her tenth boyfriend in your short life, to not get attached.
Tommy was your mother's least grandest love, but he was your biggest.
Soft-spoken Tommy with that awful mustache that you drew often while trailing off in class. Where your mother would yell, he’d soothe. Expletives were snarled your way and when your mother would storm off, he’d reassure you. You’re not ugly. You’re not worthless. You’re not meant for one thing only. You’re intelligent. He’d try to counteract every bad word uttered in your direction.
He would take you out on daddy and daughter dates. The reason your closet was stocked up with good clothes straight from its source and not from thrift stores was all because of him. You weren’t wearing cheap, off-brand shoes any longer, but the proper stuff, which meant that no kids could make fun of you anymore.
You weren’t a stupid child. You saw it when your mother was losing interest. She was pulling away. And when she was near, she’d argue so badly that she’d start slamming her fists to his face. That’s when the men would have enough and leave for good.
The last time you saw Thomas Peterson was one of the saddest days of your life. You begged him to keep coming around, told him you needed him. You were six and telling him you weren’t strong enough to survive past the fifth grade alone. He never came around, of course. That would have been weird, and he was anything but weird.
You didn’t bother to speak to any of the men from then. Sure, you’d accept their gifts, but ignore their lame attempts at getting you to see them as a father figure. Some of them tried too hard, others avoided you. The ones that overlooked you gained more love and attention from your mother.
There was no one in your life that hated you more than her.
You suppose that’s why you never amounted to anything. You graduated high school with a shitty GPA, and your perverted counselor being the only reason you could get that diploma. You never thought of college, not community or a four-year right off the bat. The second you could, you sold yourself. Never sexual favors, not that.
Webcams at first. You’d tease at the camera. Your few loyal subscribers loved it. That ran out when they demanded more though, and you couldn’t, for the life of you, do what they needed. You were shy then, your mother's lessons still ringing in your mind when the strap of your bra would fall a little too down.
You worked customer service jobs for a while. A cashier at a grocery store, a gas station, even at a cannabis store at some point in time. The hours were terrible, and the pay was much worse. The employees were awful, too. Old mothers who gossiped about everyone, guys who salivated at the sight of you, and younger girls who were jealous that these men would look in your direction and not theirs. You couldn’t last long in one spot.
Your job before stripping was at an office. You were a receptionist, and it was a fantastic gig. The people were nice. Your hours were set, nine to five with weekends off. The women were lovely, regularly inviting you out to lunch with them. The men didn’t bat an eye at you.
You didn’t have to worry about begging your landlord to give you a few more days to make rent. You didn’t have to fret about maxing out a credit card for all the necessities of your pets. You always had the money in your savings to pay it all back, thanks to holiday pays and overtime.
And for the first time in your life, you were happy. You were prepared for the future. You loved driving to work in your new car, lunch packed to exchange with your colleagues.
Until one of your coworkers found an old webcam of yours. It started with one email that snowballed into everyone in the office watching you dirty talk to your camera. It was humiliating. No one looked your way any longer. You sat alone, often having to eat in your car to avoid the judgemental glares from the women and the perverted looks from the men.
You’re not smart. You’re pathetic. You won’t amount to anything. You’re meant for one thing only. You’re meant for one thing only. You’re meant for one thing only.
You’re meant for one thing only.
You quit a week later, grabbed your belongings at the end of your shift and never returned. Your boss didn’t bother calling to ask if you were coming in. You were a stain on the business and they were glad to be rid of you.
You met Geronimo a month later. You were putting in resume after resume into every company you found, even tried for cashier gigs. No one wanted you. You were resting on a bus bench, sobbing. You looked ridiculous, face puffy, snot falling down, and breaths hard and uneven. You thought little of him sitting next to you. It is a public bus stop. You pulled out your pocket knife when he claimed he had a proposition for you.
You were at his club a week later. The girls weren’t the nicest. It was clear the new girls were bad for their business, but they didn’t detest you. They helped you practice on the pole. You grinned when Yuri told you that you were made for stripping, crying about it later that night.
You were dancing a week and a half later. You didn’t get as many clientele as the old girls, still stumbling in your comfortable pleasers. Yuri, the only girl who wouldn’t ignore you, advised you to be more confident. Men are attracted to that single attribute. Walk around like you own the place, show them who’s in charge. It was easy to do so when you realized the men who showed up at this place were all losers not deserving of much respect.
So, it’s not a shock that you agreed to Pope’s proposition. You’ve never been wanted. Not that he wanted you, he was using you like the others, and you realize this. You recognize that the sex is for him. The roleplay is for him. You perfect the role of the woman you’ve yet to meet, for him. All to keep him.
You can’t explain why you want him. Why you search for him every single night, why you want to make him laugh when he drives you home after your shift at the club, or why you yearn for those moments of tenderness when he finishes and is pressing soft kisses to your face. Why. Why. Why. It’s a never-ending stream of soul-crushing questions.
“Another rump in the hay?” His voice pulls you out of your deep trance. You turn to him as he runs his fingers up and down your spine. His cool sheets are rumpled at your ass, over his own legs as well.
You chuckle at his words, nose scrunched in disgust. “Rump in the hay? What the fuck?”
He scoffs, but it’s visible he’s not upset as he drops himself to lie back on his bed. “What do you want me to say?”
“Literally anything else.” He lightly smacks your ass as he gets up out of bed. “you are not leaving me here alone.” You sit up, using the sheet to cover your bare chest. “Last time you left me alone, I had to put up with Craig asking for a peek.”
He huffs out a laugh as he grabs a t-shirt, throwing it on. “I’m assuming you didn’t give him one?”
You roll your eyes. “Um, no? I’m a classy woman.” He looks over his shoulder. his expression makes you snag a pillow and throw it at his backside. “I’m a classy woman outside of work.”
“Still not true.”
“Asshole.” You huff as you put your clothes back on. “Give me a ride home.”
“Get your own ride.”
You snatch his keys, walking past him. “Shut up. Let’s go.”
“You’re bossy.” He hums, following you and shutting his door behind him.
“You like it.” His keys are being tossed back to him, sliding into the passenger seat when he unlocks it. His truck, despite being a neat freak, is peppered with a multitude of your items. Hair ties, hair clips, one of your necklaces wrapped around his rearview mirror, a few perfume oils in the center console, and glitter. Glitter on his seats, his car mats, and even on his steering wheel. He tried to clean it off when you first started getting rides from him, but he gave up. And you had to hide your content when you realized how much it looks like he has a girl.
The drive to your apartment doesn’t take very long. Which saddens you, as now he’ll be off doig god-knows-what for days, not reaching out until he needs to release what he has pent up for Catherine. He parks in the parking lot of your apartment building. You sit there for a few moments. And embarrassingly so, you speak. “Are you free tomorrow?”
This doesn’t stun him. A part of you wishes it did because he’s used to this. He’s used to you asking for his plans in the upcoming days while he doesn’t ask about yours, nor does he truthfully answer you.
“No.” Is his plain response. Nothing more, nothing less, like always. The sting of it would awaken any self-respecting woman. You’re not one of those.
“Right,” you clear yout throat awkwardly. “Well, tell your brother it’s happy hour tomorrow at the club.”
“You can’t tell him?”
Your eyebrows furrow at the attitude in his words. As if what you're asking from him is such a drag. “No, I blocked him.”
He huffs, “then why invite him?”
“Because he tips well. What the fuck is your problem?” Like always, it turns sour. Something is always said or done. Someone always leaves upset for the night after an argument. Things are fine until they aren’t. You give him the sex he wants, with the act and name he wants and he makes it weird. His fantasy clearly upsets him but he won’t stop.
And you won’t either. You do threaten it though. “So, what, Pope? Do you want to stop this because I'm more than happy to if it means I wont have to put up with this weird guilt thing that you make everyone’s problem.”
His scoff is loud and incredulous. “Not this again. It’s not fucking guilt. You're the one making it weird by making me your messenger.”
“Oh, get the fuck over yourself.” You angrily swing his truck door open, slamming it as he rolls his window.
“Come on, you’re being dramatic.” He calls out to you.
“Wrap yourself around a tree for all I care!”
Happy hour comes along and while Geronimo doesn’t like it when his girls are high, you decide that's the only way you’d get through your shift without crashing out. Still, you try to compose yourself as best as you can, keeping up sober appearances around the customers and your boss.
“And here is the entire reason why happy hour exists.” the tray of drinks in your hands spill a little at the sides with the way you jump at the booming voice. Craig sure knows how to make an entrance.
You grin, “and why does that accomplishment belong to me?”
“Cause youre the hottest piece of ass in this building for the next hour.”
Your laugh is an ugly snort, “yeah? So im ugly after the hour is up?”
He nods, taking your tray of drinks, "that's exactly it.”
“Asshole. That's for table three.” You chastise as you walk after him, surprised that Baz or Deran aren’t following after him tonight. “Where are the two gums at the soles of your shoes?”
He leaves the tray at table three and doesn’t let you apologize to them because the giant man is dragging you away. “Ah, is that your sneaky way of asking for Pope?”
You scoff, rolling your eyes at the mention of his oldest brother, even if you are itching to ask how he’s doing. You and Craig just aren’t that close to discuss this with. “No. I'm asking about Baz and Deran.”
He shrugs as he plops down on his seat, grabbing you to sit on his lap. He motions at the familiar server to bring him his usual, patting your bare thigh mindlessly. “They have some business to attend to. Pope too.”
“I didn’t ask about Pope.”
“But you wanted to, ballerina.” He uses the awful nickname he’s given you recently. “What the hell is going on between you two? I know you’re fucking. Which, by the way, I'm completely offended. Why the fuck did you give it up to him and not me?”
“You have this musty thing going on that completely turns me off.” He laughs, head thrown back, as if you made the funniest joke he’a ever heard. You're not joking but you won't burst his bubble.
“Whatever he did, I’m sure he's sorry. He's been a sulking mess around our moms. Being a fucking buzzkill.”
You haven’t gotten a lot out of Pope but you know his relationship with his mother is tricky. Which, story of your life. Mothers are nothing but narcissistic parasites who feed off the misery of their children. But this is different. You don't speak much of your mother but you’ve let him know that she's an alcoholic that you don't speak to. He tenses up at the mention of her, nothing like Craig like when his eyes softly turn distant but ends up laughing it off. You know better than to ask though. He refuses to tell you about his day, much less will he tell you about his mommy issues.
“What do you know about Catherine?” you ask suddenly.
This drags his eyes off the show on the stage and back to you with an inquisitive look. “My sister-in-law?”
You nod, confirming. “Yeah, what's she like?”
“Um,” he clears his throat as he adjusts you on his lap. “Shes cool, I guess. A ball buster. She's always on Baz’s ass about our family business. Good mother though. Lena’s great, she's my booger.”
You disregard all else, “family business? Your mother’s buildings?”
He snorts, nodding. “Yeah, ballerina, our real estate.”
“The fuck does that mean?” He’s about to respond but you see the realization of what he's said, cross his face.
Instead, “know she was Pope’s childhood best friend. Don't remember her much from then, didn't pay her any attention. Our mom and Baz tell me he was in love with her.”
Your blood runs cold. You know this, of course it does but no one else has ever confirmed this. And Baz knows? This throws you for a loop. “Baz knows?”
He nods, “yeah. He doesn't care. It was a long time ago. Not like he’s still into her, that’d be fucking weird, man.”
You want to yell. You want to spill it all to him but if there’s one thing the Cody's are, is loyal. To each other, blood is thicker than water. It’s a code of honor between them. So you stay quiet.
“It's his birthday.”
You almost gasp at his words, “what?”
He downs his drink, “yeah. We usually do paintball, skydive, and go to a club but he’s on his fucking period or something.” He pauses. “He has a twin. Had a twin. Maybe he misses her. I don't know. He's not exactly the forthcoming type.”
—
He’s washing his truck when you get to his home. His dark grey t-shirt is form fitting, darker where he’s wet from the soapy suds.
You’re wearing a pair of too baggy sweatpants and Craig’s hoodie that you stole from his car, not caring that your slutty outfit is still digging into you beneath it. All you can focus on is Pope. Pope and his birthday and how you snapped at him yesterday.
“Washing your car at night isn’t the brightest idea.” He had been so wrapped up in scrubbing away the muck that he hadn’t noticed you were there. His head snaps up to your smiling face, holding up a box, presenting it to him. “A little birdie told me it’s your birthday.”
He eyes the cake carefully before his eyes meet yours again. “I don’t celebrate.”
You scoff, “you weren’t able to, there’s a difference.” You put the cake down, sliding up the sleeves to Craig’s sweatshirt. You’re glad to be wearing your sketchers as you grab a sponge from the metal bucket, letting the soapy suds cover your hands. “I’ll help. The quicker you finish, the sooner we get to eat cake.”
You plop the sponge down, wiping once before his hand grabs the wrist, stopping you. “Stop.” He mutters out. “It’s too cold.”
“You’re doing it.” You retort. “Double standard—“
“You’re not seriously going to argue with me on my birthday.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine. I won’t argue with you today. But once that clock turns twelve, it’s fair game.” You nod at the cake, “grab it. I eyed it the entire bus ride here.”
He does as told, picking the box up and following after you as you walk into his familiar home. He locks it behind him as you settle into his kitchen. Two plates, two forks, and a knife.
“Sit.” He usually makes a snarky remark but he’s listening well. You realize he must be really out of it, he hasn't been this way with you since this entire ordeal began.
You place it all down to his table, where the chip at the corner seems to be the most important thing around, his eyes stuck on it. You wish you could reach out and comfort him. But you still feel silly for snapping at him yesterday.
You open the thin cardboard box of the cake and plop two candles into the blue and pink frosting. “The bakery only had a gender reveal cake left… no one picked it up.” You reach your hand out to him. “Lighter.” Because he always carries his own, you tease him about it. Now is not the time though.
You light both the birthday candles, “one for you,” you light the next one. “One for your sister.”
“What did you just say?” His voice is rough but not angry. Emotional, maybe. You can’t read him very well.
“It’s your sister's birthday too.” You hum. “My sister and I are ten days apart. My mom was too cheap to celebrate separately so we always blew out candles together.”
He’s silent for a moment as you put the lighter down. “Where is she? Your sister…”
“She died.” The smile on your face is sad but it’s there and that’s what matters. Or, that’s what Geronimo tells you when he’s trying to help his girls from their saddened moods. Strippers, as it turns out, are very sad people. “So I blow out two candles. Well, four in total. Two on mine. Two on hers. You’re lucky. You only do it once a year, I never know what to do with so much cake.”
The candles are lit up between the two of you, his eyes watching them flicker for a moment. “Okay…” he’s about to blow but you instantly wave your hands.
“Woah, woah!” You stop him. “You have to make a wish!” His expression seems slightly annoyed but you can’t care. “I’m serious. Birthday wishes are real. And you have two! I’m sure your sister won’t mind you taking hers.”
He huffs, thinking for a second. “Fine. I wish—“
“Oh my god, you’re terrible at this.” You stop him from talking. “You can’t say it out loud! God, have you ever had a birthday? It won’t come true if you—“
“I wish you would shut up.”
“Okay, well, now I’m never shutting up. That’s the birthday law.”
He groans, “fine. I won’t say it out loud.” He blows the candles quickly, not giving you any room to interrupt him again.
You grin, holding the knife out to him. “Want to see what the Walkers are having?”
He hesitates for a moment, sighing dramatically as he slices into the cake, the knife comes out brown. Your eyebrows furrow as he pushes the slice onto the plate. It’s a chocolate cake. No pink or blue. You huff, “what the fuck? Are they having a brown baby?” You cut up the cake some more after snatching the knife from him. “This is a fucking rip off. This shit was thirty-five bucks!”
You finally look up at Pope to see his hands covering his face and his shoulders shaking. You’re immediately concerned, scooting your chair closer to him. “Are you…” you clear your throat, placing a single hand on his bicep. “Are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” He speaks in his fit of laughter, finally pulling his hands away. Your breath catches at the sight of him. His place is dim, too dark for you to see much of anything. But you can’t look away from the way his soft eyes crease as he laughs, face completely relaxed.
You scoff, embarrassed to have read the situation wrong. And to be noticing him so tenderly. You replace your soft caress with a smack to his bicep. “Screw you. I was scared I did something wrong!”
“You did!” He laughs. “They’re having a brown baby? Who the fuck talks like that?”
You’re frowning, flushed with embarrassment. You look away from him, “shut up, asshole.”
His laughter quiets down but you can still feel the amusement wafting off of him. His hand gently grasps your chin, making you look back at him. “Stop pouting.” A pause. “Is that the only gift you’ve got for me?”
You cackle, shoving his hand off of you. “You are not hitting this tonight.”
He groans. “Come on. It’s my birthday! Birthday sex is a very real thing.”
You roll your eyes, shoving a fork into his slice of cake. “Nope. Ask Catherine.” You throw.
“You’re my Catherine.” You hope the way you flinch isn’t noticeable. Of course it isn’t, Pope isn’t attentive to you in any way, and you’re slowly learning to live with it. He lightly pats your thigh. “Come on.”
You sigh, speaking with a bored tone. “Hey, Andrew. It’s me, Catherine! Want to have birthday sex?”
He flicks your forehead, “Hello, Catherine. It is me, Andrew,” he adds to the joke. “I would love to have birthday sex with you.”
You laugh, “okay, Andrew, it is still me, Catherine. Let us have sex.”
He’s grabbing the sides of your chair, pulling you closer into him, lips meeting yours with a heavy and shaky breath. Your own body doesn’t hesitate, lips moving against his with vigor, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own hands slide down your body, gripping onto your hips and sliding you on his lap.
The playful atmosphere melts away within seconds, his rough hands feeling you up. It’s how this always goes. Some days, all he wants is to bury his face in your cunt but those are becoming more and more rare as the days go on.
It doesn’t take long for you to end up on his clean and fitted bed. His place is spotless, nothing like yours. You know that’s why he avoids your place. You don’t live in filth but you’re not tidy. One of the handful of times he’s been to yours, you were too worn out to notice him crawl out of your bed and clean your place. It went back to clean clothes hanging off chairs and your bed and makeup and water bottles everywhere. Now, you’re pretty much only at his.
“That’s weird,” you huff, leaning on your arms to look up at him. “What could possibly turn you on about leaving my pleasers on?”
He gets slightly pouty, “what are pleasers? I said heels.”
“Common misconception, rookie.” You hum, wiggling your foot clad in the black and silver accessorized pleaser. “While a form of heels, these are much better and weirdly, more comfortable.”
He rolls his eyes, not entertained. “I love it when you tell me things I don’t care for. Please, keep going.”
You laugh, head thrown back. “I don’t like this comfort you’re feeling with me. It’s made you mean. Where’s my shy Pope?”
“Dead.” He tugs your sweats off, tossing them behind him.
It’s your turn to roll your eyes, “you always speak to your Catherine’s like this?”
He groans, letting his head fall to your shoulder. “Can you be quiet for a moment?” You can feel him wiggling atop of you, the clink of his belt, hand tugging once and he’s lining himself up into you.
Before he pushes in, his voice is shaky, hands beside your face as he holds himself up. As usual, he looks vulnerable. Not only does he look vulnerable, he sounds it. His voice cracks, begs, even goes as far as whimpering. “Can you… you say the thing?”
The thing.
The thing is what gets him off lately. What makes him moan louder and louder as he grinds into you. You nod, legs wrapping around his hips, pushing him into you, the intrusion making a breath of air shudder out of you. Your arms wrap around his neck, a hand threading into his head of hair.
“Missed you, Pope.” It’s a switch. Your voice turns soft, your touch comforting against his back as your hands trail down. “I’m always thinking about you, my love.” You’ve only been guessing as to how Catherine would act with him. It makes you cringe if you think about it too hard, like you’re violating the poor woman. Not that you’re fond of her, with the way Craig speaks of her, you can’t believe anyone would like her. Calls her crazy, says she hinders Baz, whatever that means. Usually, you would know better than to believe a drug addict's words but you’re too blinded with jealousy. How could a woman have Pope and not want him?
He’s breathing heavily into your ear as he moves tentatively. This is how it always starts. He needs to gather himself properly, let the roleplay settle. Some days, he’s quick and accepting of what you two are doing, others, it’s hard for him to focus, too ashamed. You can’t tell what he’s feeling yet. Not until his heavy breathing turns into moans.
Small gasps leave you as he pushes deep inside of you, his hips moving faster and harder as he gets it together. He likes it tonight, you decide. “Pope,” you moan, face twisted up in that familiar pleasure. You should have waited. You should have left those words until the end, until you got your own relief. “Happy birthday, Pope. I love you.”
He’s spilling inside of you, a loud groan leaving him, hips stuttering into you as he fills you up. “Cath, oh, fuck, Cath!” You shut your eyes tight at the name being moaned into your ear. You don’t care for your orgasm then, you just wish it was your name.
He’s lying back now, fully relaxed an hour later. You were too stuck. Your mind is hazy. Not from an intense orgasm like he is. You’re too upset. You’re aching from the absolute need you feel for him. You’re trying and trying to understand what it is that has got you hooked on him, why you can’t let this go even when all you want is to never see him again.
You’re watching him. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The speckled freckles across his neck, no doubt from the Oceanside sun. His arm is strewn across his face, covering his eyes from the soft, cascading moonlight streaming in through his window. “Pope?”
He hums, a rough one. It’s your sign to keep going.
“Do you miss your sister?”
You two sit in silence for a minute. “Yes.”
“We could be at my place right now,” Pope sighs dramatically from his spot on the ground, looking up at you as you crawl around the stage. The club is completely empty. Which is extremely rare, Geronimo never closes. But half of his girls caught the stomach flu that’s going around and after one tried to tough it out, spilling their guts on a customer who demanded payment for his expensive shoes, he deemed the club a hazard. “Eating our meals.”
You scoff from the stage, palms pressing against the black boards. “I got a meal. You got a fucking hamster meal. Who gets a protein style burger? Wack ass fucking hamburger.”
“You’re just mad you can’t find your earring.”
And it’s true. Your food was sitting cold in the back of his truck. You were frantic when you reached up to tug on your ear in an anxious tic, only to feel it empty. You made him pull over and search the vehicle with you. His truck was turned inside and out, seat covers yanked off harshly. You even grabbed his flashlight in his toolbox to search every dark nook and cranny. You were getting more and more frustrated.
You threw the dressing rooms apart, even dug around in the bathroom. You searched behind the bar. Around the tables. Now on the stage. Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. And you’re angry.
You let out a loud yell, dropping yourself onto the cold floor. “This is the worst!”
Pope leans over on the stage, watching as you flop around on the ground. “Was it expensive or something?” A pause before he continues. “I’ll just get you new ones. Better ones.”
You turn to lie on your stomach, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand. “As much as that turns me on… it's the sentimental value that makes them important.”
A single eyebrow of his raises, watching you carefully. “Sentimental?” The shock in his voice is evident and this makes you peek up.
“What? What’s wrong with that?”
He shrugs, hands drumming against the boards of the stage. “You’re not really a sentimental person.”
The face you make shows how offended you are by his words. “What? Yes I am.”
He shakes his head, “emotional? Sure. Sentimental? Nope.”
You huff, sitting up on your ass and glaring at him. “Do you even know what you’re saying? You sound stupid.”
The way he sighs makes your blood boil. “It’s always a fight with you.” His words make it worse.
“Excuse me, you shrimp dick loser?” He was right on the emotional front. You let your feelings win constantly. You can never not have the last word in an argument. If something so much as slightly offends you, you pounce. You argue. You scratch. It’s how you survive against men.
“There you go. I’m just saying you—“
“You,” you interrupt him, eyebrows furrowed in complete anger and disdain for him. “You don’t know me—“
“Because you don’t let me—“
“Because you don’t ask—“
“When am I supposed to ask—“
“When you’re not moaning another bitches name in my ear!” You’re standing up, pacing back and forth. “God, do you even hear yourself?! I’m not sentimental? You don’t know shit! You are so fucking stupid, it astounds me how you get through your day to day life—“
“You done?”
“No!” You seethe. “You are such a fucking loser pining after a woman who doesn’t want you! I’m the emotional one?! You’re the one begging me for sex so you can rock your jollies off to the thought of your sister-in-law—“
“I found your earring.”
You gasp, jumping off the stage and rushing to him. You grab the fake diamond earring, immediately inspecting it for any scratches. “Oh my god, my baby.”
“Your baby?” You can hear the amusement in his tone but you’re wiping at your earring with care
You roll your eyes at him, “I know I'm not sentimental enough for you but my moms ex-boyfriend got me this.”
“Your moms ex-boyfriend?”
You don’t care for the judgment in his tone as you speak, “yeah. He was… important to me. He was the only one who really cared for me. Obviously I changed the part that goes in my ear. I went to a jewelry store and had to pay extra but… I love them.” You don’t care for the silence as you tuck the earring safely into the zippered slot in your bag.
“Tell me more.” You freeze, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag as you secure the strap. You fix it on your shoulder, looking back up at Pope.
“About?”
He shrugs, his hands in the front pocket of his jeans as he leans against the stage, watching you. “I know you have a dead sister. Your mother was kind of slutty. And you have a favorite father figure.”
You huff out a laugh, taking a seat on one of the soft cushioned seats in the club, you two seemingly forgetting about your argument less than a minute ago. “He wasn’t really a father figure. They dated for eight months.”
“Okay, so… tell me about those eight months.”
And for the first time, you do. You tell him about Thomas Peterson and how you still have the low quality photos of you and him. Your cheek pressed up to his, the two of you grinning up at the cheap camera he bought at a random pharmacy. How he helped you, even when he was gone, even when he forgot about you. You tell him about the other men, the nice ones and the ones who ignored you. You tell him about the gifts you received. About your sister. Your other siblings you haven’t spoken to in years. All of it.
By the end of it, you two are completely wrapped up in the conversation. He’s putting in his own two cents, how his mother was with men as well. How she treated them all growing up. He hesitates during some retellings, hiding something deeper, but you don’t pry. He’s already giving you enough.
“And then?” You’ve never seen his posture not be perfect but he’s leaning on the table at your story. “What happened then?”
You raise your arms, motioning to the club around you. “Now… I’m a stripper.”
He taps his fingers against the table, nodding. He’s looking around the room, taking in the room with its full lighting on. The fluorescent lights show off every nook and cranny of the usually dim place. “This place is ugly.”
You snort, walking over to the stage and hopping on. “You think? We see it like this before shift all the time. Sometimes it’s hard to get in the mood.” You lift your sleeves. “Have you ever danced on a pole?”
He chuckles, watching you from his seat. “Can’t say that I have.” He settles into the seat, arms crossed over his chest, thick arms bulging through his top. “Gonna show me?”
Your hands grips onto the pole, letting yourself twirl slowly. “You’ve seen my performances plenty.” You grin. “And then some.”
“Yes, but those are for everyone.” He begins as you place your other hand onto the silver pole. “Give me something for me.”
“I do give you something that’s just for you.” You try, lifting your feet as you twirl yourself gracefully.
“Stop stalling.”
You place your feet back onto the floor, watching as he sits back. His eyes are hooded as he watches you. And the growing tent in his jeans is very visible. “We have In-n-out in the car.”
“Rather watch you.”
You laugh easily, zipping your sweater down teasingly. “Yeah? What do you want to watch, Mr. Cody?”
He adjusts himself in his jeans, hand gripping his cock through the rough material. “Anything.”
You roll your eyes as you tug the material off, leaving you naked from the waist up. You find it pointless to wear a bra around him, better to be comfortable. “Jeans too, baby.”
“How bossy.” You hum but do as told, leaving you in your panties. “This is extremely unhygienic. And now your cock is out of your jeans? How naughty. The cameras don’t scare you?”
He shakes his head, hand tugging at himself as he watches you. “Don’t work.”
“And how do you know that?” You’ve lifted yourself completely off the floor and you begin with your show for him. Twirling, spreading your legs, giving him a view of your ass.
“Part of my job.”
“Ah, the mysterious career of yours,” his chest is rising and falling, breathing labored, dripping some spit to lather on his pretty and pink cock to keep stroking himself to you as you dance for him. “Want me to stop talking?”
He groans, “no. Fuck, no. Keep talking. Like listening to you.”
“Well, now I don’t know what to say.” You giggle, pulling off of the pole, leaning your backside on it to watch him as he undoes himself.
“Get on your knees.” He commands, voice rough as his hand jerks around him.
You’re usually a brat with him but you decide today isn’t the day to test him. You slowly fall to your knees, legs spread, showing off the way your panties stick to your wet cunt like a second skin. The sight of him turned on, touching himself to you, it turns you on more than you ever would have cared to admit.
“Like this?” You ask sweetly. Unlike your normal fiery self. “That good enough for you, Pope-y?”
He groans, nodding hastily. You can tell he’s teetering over the edge, “yeah. Good. So fucking good. Look good…”
You really thought this was for you. The way he was pumping at his cock was for you. The way his eyes danced on your tits was for you. You just had a heart to heart with him. You spilled each other's guts out to one another.
“Look so good, Cath.” He moans.
You’re frozen in your spot. Your blood runs cold and pounds loud in your ears. Your confidence washes away instantly, feeling more naked than ever before. He doesn’t see you.
He will never see you.
You pull away slowly. You can’t meet him here. You can’t go there. His place is too far and you have an early morning. A vet appointment for one of your many cats. A coworker needs a lift to the airport. Geronimo needs you to watch surveillance after shift. You’re too tired. You’re on your period.
He doesn’t show up to the club. He hates it there, it’s m too noisy. Too many men tossing their money. Too many women wanting his money tossed at them. It’s an overstimulating nightmare for Andrew Cody.
Not for Craig Cody.
“Gonna shake that ass for me?” He grins, leaning on the counter of the bar you’re standing behind.
You had just gotten off the stage, your trash bag full of money beside you and your dark purple thong riding up your ass. You still feel hot from the performance too, a sheen of sweat over your cleavage and smooth chest. Usually, you’d be calming down in the dressing room but the bartender is heavily pregnant and peeing every second.
You turn, scoffing at the man. “Talk about my ass again and I’ll get you trespassed.”
“Nah,” he drums his hands against the table. “I’m Gero’s best customer. Ain’t that right, old man?” He calls out to Geronimo as the fat man walks past them.
“Leave me alone.” He mumbles as he keeps walking off, barking orders at the next girl that’s on.
And back to Craig, “what are you doing here? It’s a Wednesday. The freaks come out on Wednesday’s.”
“Well, shit, you should’ve told me that. Would’ve been here way sooner.” He humps the air.
You grimace at the sight, throwing a wet rag at him. “Ew, you’re disgusting!”
He grabs the rag and tosses it back at you, “no. I’m here because your dog is hanging around me more than usual.”
“My dog?” You question, genuinely confused by this mention. “I don’t get it.”
“My brother.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed by the thought of Pope. So you joke, “Aw, Deran misses me?”
“Oh, please, you’re the last woman he would ever miss.”
The way he emphasizes the word piques your interest. “Wait… so you know?”
He hums, a small smile on his lips. “Know what?” He feigns.
You eye him carefully as you wipe a cup clean with a new rag. “Hmm… you know, Craig, when you’re not high out of your mind and not trying to motorboat me, you’re actually quite nice.”
“I cannot stop staring at your tits.”
You groan, putting the glass cup down. “You ruined it.”
He laughs, “aw, come on! They’re in my face. Okay! Okay! Fuck, stop!” He can’t grab the limes you’re throwing his way any longer. “I’m kidding. You know I totally respect you as a woman.”
“That doesn't even sound right coming from you.” You scoff. “There’s something else.”
“Yeah, he’s miserable without you.”
Now this really makes you laugh. “Right.” It takes everything in you to not explain why he misses you. Explain why Pope needs you so much. “Well, I need new dick. Getting tired of what I had.” You wipe the counter, trying to distract yourself. “Don’t suppose you want to volunteer?”
“I will fuck you on this counter right now, you know this.” He downs a random shot that was forgotten on the table. “You’re Pope’s girl now, though.”
“I’m not Pope’s anything.” You snap at Craig. “Seriously, all we do is hookup. That’s not special.”
“Have you two emotionally fucked?”
You let out an incredulous laugh, “what?”
“Have you two bared your souls to one another?” He rolls his eyes, as if exasperated by you.
“Uhm… sorta?”
“That’s it!” He slams his hand on the table making you jump, scolding him softly. “He fucked you emotionally and now he can’t get enough.”
He can’t be more wrong. But you can’t exactly tell him that. So, you sigh dramatically instead. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it. Want your usual?”
—
“You are leaving me?” You caught Geronimo at his car before he could leave the clubs parking lot.
The night is cold, the air biting your skin. Yet again, you had stolen Craig’s hoodie, using one of his old pair of sweats as well. “No, I’m not leaving. My sister needs help with her new baby—“
“You leave me!” The Russian man groans. “I need you. You not leave me!”
It’s your turn to groan, “listen to me, fat man. I am not leaving you completely. I’m only going to Sacramento for a few weeks. I’ll still be back.”
“I can feel this breaking.” He places his hand over his heart. “You okay with this? The breaking of my heart?”
“Gero, you’re being dramatic. I’m coming back.”
“You leave, you fired!”
“Gero, listen to me.”
“No, you fired now!”
“Gero, shut the fuck up and let me talk!”
He nods, looking behind you. “Little man here.”
You stiffen for a second but don’t bother turning. “Just… we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
The Russian scoffs, “no, you fired.” And he gets into his car angrily, driving out of the parking lot with a screech.
You turn to finally come face to face with Pope. “Andrew Cody,” you hum. “What brings you here?”
“Are you really fired?” He questions. “I can help you. You wouldn’t have to work here again.”
Your eyebrows raise in amusement at this, “what?”
“I can help… maintain you.”
You cackle, “Shut the fuck up, Pope.” It’s truly the last thing you expected to hear from him. “He fires me twice a day. He’s just butthurt he won’t be making money from me for a while.”
“Okay…” he’s struggling to speak again. He hasn’t done that with you in a while. “What does that mean?”
You wrap the hoodie tighter around you as another soft breeze hits. “What does what mean?”
“Why won’t he be making money from you?”
You hesitate being honest with him. The last thing you need is Andrew Cody knowing where you’re going. This won’t be a relaxing break, since you’ll be spending all of your free time helping your sister with a newborn but it’ll be a break from him. From him and his drama. Or, really, from him and the drama you bring to this. He’s never really given you an issue, not unless you start one first. But you can’t stop making issues that stem from the insecurity and jealousy embedded in you.
You try to hold back. You really do, but he’s looking at you with those soft brown eyes of his. You’ve been able to see them angry, hurt, pleasured, confused and on rare occasions, soft in the way he’s being now. “I’m going to Sacramento for a few weeks.”
“What?” He seems perturbed by this information. “Why are you going out there?”
“My sister’s giving birth in a week. She needs my help.”
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, no doubt surprised at the mention of your sister. “You’re speaking with your sister?”
You nod, shoving your hands into the pockets of Craig’s hoodie. “Yeah… I reached out to her last week. She got knocked up by some bum. Needs help. I think it’ll be nice for us.”
“What about your cats?”
You laugh, “what about my cats?”
“What are you doing with them? You can’t leave them.”
“No shit,” you snort. “I’m taking them with me.”
“I can watch them.”
“You don’t like animals.” You point out to him.
He shrugs, “they’re cats. They don’t need much attention, right?”
“That’s completely false. They need as much attention as dogs.” You huff, tucking your blowing hair behind your ear. “That’s your worst nightmare… litter changes.”
“I can do it.” He sounds determined.
Your face scrunches in confusion. “What is up with you? Why do you want to watch them so badly?”
“Can’t I help out a friend?”
You eye him carefully, unsure of what he’s trying to do here. It’s off-putting. “You’re being weird.”
“That’s just my personality.”
You don’t speak again. You’re standing there, arms crossed over your shivering body. You can’t figure out what to say to him. Looking at him, you know there’s no one else you want more. And that’s why you can’t be near him much longer. It’s why you need this break from him. It’s why you need to fight against these pathetic feelings that he’ll never reciprocate.
“You’re coming back?” He asks, too soft.
“Yeah.” Is your bored and lacking response.
“I just don’t get why I can’t just watch your cats.” He starts again.
“What the fuck is your issue, Pope?” You’re frustrated now, not understanding what’s going on.
“Why won’t you let me watch them?” A pause, his fists clench and unclench. “If you’re coming back, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re not making any sense, Pope. I’m going back inside if you have nothing meaningful to add he—“ you’re trying to walk past him when his bigger and rough hand grabs your forearm, pulling you into him.
Your breath stutters at the way his nose nudges against yours, his rising and falling chest pressed to yours. “What are you—“
“I need to make sure you’re coming back.”
You can’t look at him. You’re looking at anything but the parts that make you want to reach out and keep giving him your all. Instead, you watch the tiny scar that dances on his cheek with every word he speaks. Not his eyes. Not his lips. “And you keeping my cats is going to ensure that?”
He nods, nose rubbing against yours. Your eyes shut for a moment. You have to gather yourself. This isn't the life for you, it can’t be. This pathetic back and forth. The way he makes you want to crawl into a hole and wither away. The way your blood boils and you snap at him mindlessly, snarling the cruelest words you can conjure up at him.
Instead, you pull your arm from his hand. “I don’t need to do that, Pope. I’ll be back and whether you believe me or not is none of my concern.” You’re hoping your words are harsh but you can’t hear much of anything as you avoid looking at him. “We’re less than friends. Remember that.”
You’re gone for two months. And you don’t want to pull away. You’ve fallen completely in love with your niece. You never understood parents when they said a child changed their world. Getting to be there for your sister, cutting that child’s umbilical cord, and caring for the baby did change your world.
So, when the time comes, you’re standing across from Geronimo, handing him a month’s notice. He doesn’t believe you at first. He tosses it into the trash and tells you to go back out there. But you remind him every single day that comes.
You don’t see much of Craig during your first two weeks back. Or any of the brothers, really. You don’t call or text Pope, not like you used to when you were begging for his attention. And you want to, badly. But you hold back. You’re proud of yourself for the time in your long life.
Fatima calls out sick your last week in Oceanside. So you’re behind the bar this shift. It's not as much money as performing but it’s something until you’re out of here. Geronimo’s upset with you so he gives you Fatima’s gig, a sort of punishment for leaving him. But he’s not an evil man, he knows a guy up in Sacramento, getting you a secured dancer position at another club. You pressed a kiss to his scratchy cheek, thanking him.
You’ve packed all that you own into a rented U-Haul. It’s not much, but it’s all you’ve worked for while performing at the club. And you’ve been living on scraps for something like this. For the move. You never dreamt it would be to move in with your estranged older sister and her newborn all the way up to Sacramento but you’ve got enough to secure a bigger space for the three of you. You don’t know much about children but you figure she’ll need space.
“Woah, do my eyes deceive me? Is that the hottest woman in all of Oceanside?” You’re pulled out of your thoughts, glancing up at Craig who’s leaning against the bar again, just like he was almost three months ago. “Missed you, ballerina.”
You smack his hand that’s sprawled on the counter, “I’ve been here. Where have you been?”
He shrugs, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Around. Working on a big project with my mother.”
“Ah,” you hum knowingly. “A top secret mission. You Cody’s are full of mystery.”
He agrees with a nod as he watches a new dancer walk past, blatantly staring at her ass. “Could’ve had all this.” He turns back to you. “My body. My heart. My business mind. But you chose Pope.”
“I didn’t choose anyone.” You deny vehemently. “Haven’t spoken to him.” You bite your tongue but it still comes out. “How’s he doing?”
“Weird.” He shrugs. “Hey, is the new girl single?”
“What do you mean weird?”
“Weird. Just weird. He’s always weird though. Is she?”
“As far as I can tell, yeah.”
You get to your empty apartment that night with his words eating away at you. Weird. Pope is being weird. You know that’s who he is. You know that Pope being weird isn’t out of the ordinary. But you can’t help but wonder what’s going on in that fucked up brain of his. If something is gnawing away at him.
You sigh, dropping your bag onto your countertop. Shake it off. You have to shake it off. You’ve got a single week left here and once you’re gone, you won’t have to think twice about your life here. It’s done. It’s over. Ties with everyone need to be severed.
You miss your cats but you left them behind when you decided Sacramento was the way to go for the next step of your life. You’re lonely. Too lonely. You groan loudly into your pillow, frustrated with your need to fill the void with a guy. Not just any guy, Andrew. The worst you know. Did a prison stint, cheated with his brother's wife, still daydreams about sleeping with his brother's wife. You're not sure which is worse, his record or lack of loyalty to his brother.
The only thing you have in your fridge are carrots, ranch, and a bottle of sweet and cheap wine. So, deciding that the last thing your car needs is more miles on it after fourteen plus hours of driving, you realize this is the best it’s going to get. Ordering-in costs too much money too, especially since you've decided most of your money will now go to your new niece.
The ring camera hooked onto your door rings annoyingly, the familiar tune ringing through the door and the notification through your phone. “Geez, fucking psychos–” your words are cut off when you open the notification and see a distraught looking Pope.
You should ignore him. You were going to ignore him, pretend you weren't home even though you had just yelled. But you can see the tears in his eyes even through your shitty camera quality. And this worries you.
Your door is swung open quickly, eyes frantically searching his body. He gets into fights sometimes, from that mysterious Cody work of his, but he's never cried over it. There's no visible blood, no open wounds that need tending to– whatever it is that's got him like this, it's not physical.
“Fuck,” your breath is shaky as you take him in, “what’s wrong, Pope? Talk to me.” Your hands are on his face, thumbs wiping at the streaks of tears rolling down his freckled cheeks.
The sob that leaves him makes your heart ache, and before you can think, he's pressing his face to your shoulder, crying into you. “I fucked up…” you dont hesitate to wrap your arms around him. “Bad. I fucked up, I fucked up…” he’s repeating into you.
You're asking what's wrong in the softest tone you've ever carried for him. Your own eyes are tearing up, hands rubbing up and down at his back, trying your best to soothe him. But nothing is working. He's repeating the same phrases, calling himself a monster, that he’s going to hell after what he's done. You didn't peg him as the religious type but you can't question that now. “Shit, Pope, you aint…” you release a shaky and fearful breath, "I gotta know what you did in order to–”
His lips meet yours hastily, his salty tears mixing into the heavy kiss you're sharing. You fall into him for a moment, missing the way he felt and tasted. That familiar scotch and mint. But the sob he cries against your lips makes you crash back into reality.
You pull your lips from his, shaking your head as you wipe him off your skin. “Pope, stop. We can't do this, you're not okay.”
His hands are on your face, pulling you back in. “We can, we can," his voice cracks and you can't tell if it's because of how terrible he is or if he desperately needs you. “I need you… please…”
You're turning over a new leaf. You're making a move you didn't think you'd ever have the balls to make. No more trashy men, no more loneliness, and no more destructive tendencies. It’s definitely easier said than done, of course.
You realize just how fucked up you truly are when you let him press up into you, groaning as he tugs your jeans down, mouth sucking bruises into your neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” your breathing is heavy as his thumb rubs at your clit. Your lips desperately search for him, moaning into his mouth when you two meet.
You're pushed onto the couch, letting him toss your jeans to the side, panties off as well. “Wait, Pope, you don't have to–”
He doesn't let you finish as he sucks your clit into his mouth, “I need to. Fuck, I need to…” he groans into your heat, the vibrations running through your body. “Let me have this, please,” he's begging. Not completely unusual, but the name he moans is. Since starting this tryst with him, he's always moaned out for Catherine. Instead, it's your name he's repeating as he laps away at you.
This pushes you into your orgasm sooner than you'd like. He eats away at you like a starved man, tongue flat and drinking up every drop of you. He only pulls back when your writhing turns uncomfortable, lips glistening and staring down at you, his breathing ragged.
He doesn't seem to notice your empty apartment, tugging his cock out of his jeans. Before he can move again, you place your hand on his wrist that’s tugging at his cock. “Wait, Pope. Talk to me.”
He refuses, shaking his head, “no. just… let me fuck you, please.”
You sigh, about to deny him but you won't. Maybe you can, maybe you've finally learned how to say no to Andrew Cody. But you won't do it. Instead, you let his cock nudge into you, let him fill you up like before. You watch him carefully as his face twists up in pleasure at the grip you have on him. “Pope, I–”
He shuts you down again, “stop, just stop. Don't ask me again.” He whimpers in your ear as he slides in and out of you, arms shaking as he holds himself up. “Tell me… tell me… please…”
You're not playing as Catherine but the only way you can tell him such a thing is by pretending to be her. You're not sure that you can act this time. Even if your feelings for him are confusing and vary on the day, you know it's not love. A fucked up version of it maybe, but you’ve debased yourself too much around him. You're unsure if you can handle more.
The words slip out easily when a single one of his tears falls to your chest, “I l-love you, Pope. I love you, fuck, love you.”
His hips are stuttering, and he’s crying into your neck. “Promise… promise you won’t leave me too.”
Too. That sticks out. You won’t leave me too. Someone’s left him. It’s why he’s distraught. Your legs wrap around his waist, moving him to push deeper into you. You nod, agreeing in your hazy thoughts. “Promise, I promise, Pope. I’ll never- fuck, I’ll never leave you.”
You two cum together that night. And you hold him for hours after. He’s too wrapped up in whatever trauma he’s reeling from, to take note of your apartment. How empty it is. How you’re leaving it all behind.
He’s facing you, thumb caressing your cheek. For the first time all night, he looks calm. At peace. “Feeling better?” You ask softly, letting yourself fall into his touch.
His voice is rough from his previous sobbing as he answers. “Yeah, yeah… feeling better.” He presses a warm kiss to the tip of your nose, lying his forehead against yours. “Thank you… you always make me… make me feel better.”
You hum in content, letting him hold you on your couch. “Of course, Pope. I…” you clear your throat gently. “I care about you. Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.” A lie. You won't be here. You’ll never be there for him. And the thought makes you want to cry.
He falls asleep, giving you the chance to slip out of his hold. You wrap your fluffy robe around your naked body as you slide into the bathroom.
You don’t recognize yourself. You never have, really. There are deep bags under your eyes, skin having lost that glow of yours. Not that it was ever truly vibrant but it was never this dull. You’ve never been this dull. He’s sucking the life out of you. You’re letting him suck the life out of you.
He wants you now that someone’s left him. Now that you’ve found even a tiny semblance of footing in your life, a reason for being— he wants you.
You wonder if this is how your mother felt late at night after a long days of letting men use her. You wonder if she went from man after man to pull away from the one she really wanted. You wonder if she ever, at least once in her cruel life, wished you’d never be crying over your bathroom sink over a man. You remembered seeing her crying like this. Hiccuping silent sobs, gripping onto her chest, as if begging her heart to stop.
You’ve never felt closer to your mother than you do now.
—-
Leaving for your final shift is hard. It’s not supposed to be your final shift. You have three more in the books but you can’t handle any more of this. You need to leave sooner rather than later.
Pope is sleeping like a log when you leave, not a single finger twitching. His long nights have caught up to him, which is helping you. You’ve packed the last of your stuff in your car, nothing but wrappers and the man who’s ruined you in your apartment.
You mess up on countless drinks behind the bar. Most of the men scold you but a handful of them pity you. You’re not sure which is worse. One too many complaints to Geronimo and he tells you to go home. He doesn’t need the hassle of an emotional server. He’s confused when you wrap your arms around him, thanking him. He shoves you off, tells you to stop being such a crybaby.
You’re on your way to your car when Craig’s familiar voice calls out to you. You turn, smiling softly at him. “Hey, Craig.”
His eyebrows furrow, “the hell is wrong with you?”
You realize then that you haven’t told him you’re leaving. You sigh, grip tight around your bag. “I’m leaving.”
“Well, duh. But this is really early for you.”
You roll your eyes, “no, I mean, I’m leaving Oceanside.” You admit, wording yourself better.
This stuns him. “What? Why? Where?”
You nod with a small yawn, “yeah. Uhm, I have family out in Sacramento. Came to realize that’s what I need. It’s too… lonely out here.”
It takes a second but he eventually nods, “I get it. I’d go crazy without mine. When are you leaving?”
You glance down at your phone, it’s almost five and all you need to do is fill up your car and go. “Right now, actually.”
“Geez,” he nudges your shoulder. “Late notice.” He pauses and the smile he shares with you is genuine. “Take care of yourself out there, ballerina. Always got a friend if you’re ever back in the city.”
“We’re friends?” You tease, nodding. “Thank you, Craig.” But this is too sentimental for the two of you. “Want to motorboat me before I go?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He gasps. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I’m kidding, pervert.” You punch his arm as you walk past him. “Bye, Craig.”
Before you can climb into the driver's seat, he asks. “Pope doesn’t know?”
You don’t hesitate. “No. He doesn’t.”
He lets out a troubled whistle. “Sheesh. Did he screw up that bad?”
You laugh, “nah. I did.”
“Find that hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well,” you climb into your car with a sigh. “You’ve never had sex with me.”
“Not for lack of trying!” He calls out as you reverse, flipping him off.
The tall man waves his arms dramatically as you drive off, blowing kisses as he gets smaller and smaller until you can’t see him any longer.
It’s not the Cody you wanted a goodbye from, but you’re also content it’s not the one who's broken you.
an pt 2 . . . me vs giving pope and reader happy endings together…. i really do love pope guys 😭😭 but me personally? i have too much self-respect to keep a man like this and i think i tap into that a lot. i struggled so much writing a difficult relationship because im actually mike sherm but a sexy woman so this took a lot from me… kiss me if you’re proud of me
pairing: Jack Abbot x ex!reader
summary: you and Jack broke up a year ago — it was so painful, you barely recovered. when you meet again at the Pitt Fundraiser, you’re dead set on keeping your distance. he is dead set on getting you back. (or, alternatively: Jack on his knees. that’s it.)
warnings: 🔞 Jack going from emotionally unavailable to emotionally vulnerable (thanks to Robby and therapy); mentions of hand tremor and grieving; angst and LOTS of longing; sprinkle of jealousy; heated argument in the rain, explosive love confession. smut (oral, fingering, unprotected piv). NO DESCRIPTIONS OF THE READER / words: 20K / author’s note: I saw the “pick your tropes” tag game on my dashboard, and the choice was between “break up & make up or proposal & wedding”. no one tagged me, so I had to write a whole-ass fic about my pick. I am chill like that ♡ {read on AO3} ♡ MASTERLIST
This pain feels like a whirlpool, a current that drags him right down to the bottom. It doesn’t take much to provoke it — he only needs a glimpse: of your shirt hanging in his closet, your blue mug in the kitchen cupboard, your scarf still tucked into the pile of his winter clothes. You didn’t leave too many things behind for him to hold on to. He didn’t leave you any choice.
Jack was the sole reason you had to pack your bags and get out of the apartment in tears and in such haste, you couldn’t care less what he was left with. And he can never blame you because it was entirely his fault.
He wishes that he had a valid motive, some kind of explanation to make his actions justified. Him being held at gunpoint, you being forced to cut ties for your safety, a prophecy that said you two being together would bring death to every living thing. But no threats or foretelling were involved in his decision-making. If only Jack could see into the future, he would’ve never let you go. And he wouldn’t be standing here alone, his hands unsteady and fixing the tie for the tenth time as people rush past him, in an astir flow of dresses and tuxedos going up the stairs. He doesn’t pay attention to the noise, faces, and colors. Jack thinks about the conversation he and Robby had the day before, three sentences the messaging chain ended with:
She’ll be there. You sure you’re ready?
Yes.
He’s sure that he can’t bear it any longer.
The chill of autumn already settles in the air, the sunset hiding behind the clouds the wind brought. Jack doesn’t really feel it. He feels instead like he can’t take a full breath, like everything in him is threaded with unyielding tension in the absence of your touch. He misses you, he never stops, it is his only constant. It also serves as a reminder of just how badly he screwed up.
Because it wasn’t a careless mistake, a rude word slipped out, an argument that snowballed into a fight. No, Jack was stupidly strategic about pushing you away. He set a goal — and he worked toward it with grit, with rigor mastered back when he was sprinting through the ruins that smelled like blood and rot. His military track record has proven him to be experienced enough. Only, this time it was a suicidal mission. It was a grim ending to something beautiful and soft — but never fragile.
Because you two built a relationship that was supposed to last. And you were solely responsible for that.
Jack can’t pinpoint the moment when it started — hell, he didn’t even remember the first day you met. His life was just a blur of hours packed into tense shifts, of months that barely differed from each other. And Jack moved through each day with no demands for more. His heart’s been broken — not just by injustices and deaths, but by the loss so grave it almost killed him. He pulled himself together piece by piece. He put in countless stitches. And he has kept his heart sewn shut. The tissue scarred and hardened through the years, but Jack’s been led by the belief he’d never want to open up to anyone again.
He didn’t care if someone had introduced you. At best, he shook your hand or gave a nod, his gaze distant and scarcely making contact. He had no favorites, he took no part in any conversations that weren’t about work. He spent his breaks alone — in call rooms or standing in the stairwell, his back pressed to the wall as he soaked up the silence. But somehow, in between the calls, the rush, the gowns covered in blood and gurneys screaking, he started noticing your presence. How you’d hand him the things he needed before he even asked — tools, scissors, dressings, a transducer in your palm for him to take. Your movements quick but careful, never in someone’s way but ready to step in. Small bows you left when tying bandages on kids. Your love for apples — tart green or juicy Honeycrisp, a few to share with the others, one always saved for him.
Jack didn’t even know there were cracks in his composure until your warmth began to trickle through.
You never put it into words as if you were afraid to spook him. But unexpectedly, Jack’s paperwork would be all done — the patients' history, examinations and outlined prescriptions. The lab results were taking way less time. The radiology no longer needed his reminders, as if someone was doing that for him. And on the rare occasions that you did speak up, your short advice was meant to nudge him in the right direction, that tired man who hardly could recall your name.
Jack does remember when the realization hit him. It was the night that brought a storm in spring: a mass accident involving seven cars, three passengers in critical condition, five — seriously injured. Jack had to stay an extra hour, which imperceptibly slipped into two. He’s struggled with a heavy headache for just as long. It got so bad, he barely could walk up to the nurse station, throat dry and vision blurring at the edges, heart thumping like he’s about to pass out. But someone placed two plastic cups of water in his line of sight. He gulped them down without even thinking. In half a minute, the pain receded, taking away his dizziness and thirst. Jack turned to see who brought the saving liquid, but you just threw away the cups and left. You didn’t say a word and didn’t ask for any gratitude. As if you’ve done it many times before, as if you looking out for him became a mere habit. And with the clarity that comes from being dragged back into consciousness, he managed to connect the dots until he saw a pattern, dozens of constellations formed out of your acts of kindness. Then Abbot found himself confused: why would you ever waste your time on him?
And then he started watching you as if he was stargazing.
Jack tried to rationalize his keenness: he only wanted to return the favor, it would be wrong to let your efforts go unnoticed. He made sure to greet you, gaze clinging to your face, a little bit more confident each time. A little more at ease. He wanted your opinion, he wasn’t shy about asking for your help. He paid attention to every little thing: the way you smile with your eyes first before your lips follow, the way you slightly tilt your head when listening to someone talk, the way you tend to disappear for a few minutes to rest your back against a wall somewhere in silence. Just like he does. He figured out the latter when he once rushed into the stairwell and found you there — eyes closed, hands in your pockets, a single strand of hair loose against your cheek. He almost reached out to tuck it behind your ear.
You looked at him. With that gaze that always softened when he was around. With that faint glee he has become adept at catching.
“Am I in your spot?”
Jack shook his head, his voice lowered to match the calm he stepped into. “Am I in yours?”
Then your mouth smiled too. “We can share it.”
With how accustomed Jack’s grown to his loneliness, it would seem like a challenge to let people in. But you made it so easy. Your care for him was never loud nor insistent, and he was drawn to feel it, a long-anticipated touch of sun against his frozen skin. He’d wait for you to have a meal together in the break room, your chairs moving closer over time, your voices hushed, not meant to leave the bubble you were in. You stirred up feelings in him that he had to rediscover — anticipation, eagerness, excitement. The softness of your touch, even if only fleeting: your hands brushed — over the operating table and the one you ate at, your shoulders touched when you were standing at the stairs, only the fabric of the clothes between you. And he began to wonder what it would feel like to remove it.
Jack didn’t fall in love with you, that’s too rushed of a verb. It felt like he kept walking toward love — with every turn and step he took to you, with every layer of defence that he kept shedding. And when he didn’t feel like moving, you’d meet him halfway.
He let his guard down completely under the roar of fireworks. Although that day didn’t exactly call for celebrations. At least, it never had for Jack.
The Fourth of July had always filled him with unease. He doesn’t hate it, he’s worked on managing his feelings through the years: he stopped flinching at the sounds of firecrackers, he doesn’t get alarmed at the sight of screaming crowds, and now the fireworks rarely remind him of the bomb explosions. He’d come to barbeques his friends invite him to, he’d have a beer or two, and help with grilling food and putting extra chairs in the backyard and picking up the trash after the guests go home. But he’s never the one to make uplifting toasts or joke about his military days, nor does he laugh at someone else’s stories. Instead, he pushes down the memories of his own fear and helplessness, of many people who didn’t make it out alive, some — on their own volition, because the rate of suicide among the veterans just keeps increasing. But that is not the topic you bring up over the buns and burgers. So Jack would sip on beer and give nods, silently wishing for it all to finally be over. It’s better when he is at work, the noise of celebrations cut off by the walls, the conversations held only include raw facts, and no small talks are needed.
But that day in particular went wrong from the beginning.
His air conditioner broke down while he was asleep, and his downstairs neighbours were in the middle of a break-up, by the sound of it — their yelling woke him up, his bed a mess of sweaty sheets, his right leg cramping. He cracked his favorite ceramic mug. The coffee tasted like cat’s piss. The fried eggs turned out burnt. Some asshole’s janky Chrysler blocked up the driveway, so Jack was forced to ditch his pickup truck in favor of the good old public transport. The bus came painted in red, white and blue, and maybe in that moment, he did hate that holiday. Then someone lit a firecracker at the bus stop, and his hand twitched. And Jack hated himself a little, too.
The ER was packed with people who evidently didn’t know how to use grills, knives, lawn mowers — and also their brains, as Abbot muttered when he saw a guy with fingers stuck in a sink’s drainer. He pushed through the first few hours on pure spite. Because it is the easiest emotion to wear as a cover. But it was getting harder to ignore the sounds vibrating through concrete, like something’s detonating, like the next patient would have shrapnel wounds and torn-off limbs. Ignore that his leg ached from him working flat out with no breaks, that he was getting startled way too often to blame it on fatigue.
So, his brain he was capable of using suggested he should take a breather, or the next thing going off would be his temper.
Around the sixth hour of his shift, Jack sneaked into one of the call rooms. Unnoticed, as he thought (or more so hoped). He didn’t bother turning on the light and sat down on the floor, hands balled up into fists over his kneecaps. The faint beams coming from the window danced across the walls. He slowly stretched his shoulders. He tried some breathing exercises. But there was that dull hum in his head, the tension coiling at his ribs as minutes ticked away.
The door opened, letting a streak of light cut through the darkness. Then he heard it closing. He knew that it was you just by the sound of your steps. You sat down next to him — back to the wall, your shoulder pressed to his. Jack felt your gaze on him: a caress, a kindness that he couldn’t help but yearn for.
“It can get pretty loud on a day like this,” you noted, with that same subtle understanding that you always offered. Instead of pity or incomprehension most people would’ve met him with; but not you.
He let out a deep sigh, the heaviness in his ribcage dissolving like a block of ice. The silence that you shared was never heavy.
“I’m used to the noise,” he mumbled. “I usually don’t even notice it. But it’s just... it gets too much too fast. Just on this one day a year.”
He clasped his hands tighter, with palpable frustration. It didn’t last. Because you put your forearm over his and traced his knuckles with your fingertips — and suddenly, Jack found it easier to breathe. Unsurely, he opened one of his palms. You covered it with yours, without hesitation. His pulse sped up, so treacherously fast, he feared you would feel its beating right under your wrist. If you did, you weren’t letting on. Instead, you whispered:
“Everyone needs a break sometimes. You are allowed to take one too, Jack.”
He turned to look at you. More colors soared into the night sky outside, and he watched as the flashing lights painted your face in shades of red and blue. The thought of kissing you has crossed his mind before, and this time, Jack was too tired to fight it. He leaned in — but stopped an inch short of your mouth, still thinking there was a chance you wouldn’t want it. Your fingers grazed the slope of his cheekbone — a touch that held no weight but carried an unswerving promise: you won’t do anything to hurt him. And then your thumb settled under his chin as you closed the distance.
The world around Jack went quiet.
He didn’t hear the echoes of the fireworks, the beeping of the monitors, even his own heartbeat. You kissed him, and it felt like finding something holy in the ruins, like watching light awake at dawn. Jack melted — and so did all his doubts and fears, and in that moment, nothing else existed but your lips. He pulled you closer, hands skimming from your waist to hips, his legs clumsily bumping into yours, which you both couldn’t care less about. What etched into his mind was not discomfort but your ragged sighs, your fingers at his nape, your tenderness that swelled into desire, like there were no clothes and shadows in between you.
You only pulled apart when you were breathless. And yet, to him the kiss felt like a lungful of air.
“You aren’t alone in this,” you said after a beat, your hands over his chest, close to his heart. To where you’ve already made your way.
“I know,” Jack replied quietly, arms tightly wrapped around you.
The possibility of happiness suddenly seemed so real that he allowed himself to want it. Allowed himself to think that he could have it.
And letting you into his life made Jack so happy, his chest sometimes would feel too small to fit his feelings.
He took joy in the learning process: how you would like your tea and coffee, what was your favorite color, what songs you listened to the most, what childhood memory you carried close to heart. And Jack reveled in the novelty of you. In how your hands — gentle and delicate, precise in every move — didn’t shy away from contact, a ghost of your warmth always somewhere at his elbow, shoulder, back. In how your touch felt, the softness of it lingered like a promise, and how your laugh sounded, equally as soft. The way your lips tasted when you were smiling. When you were moaning. When you were crying out his name. How perfect it felt every single time, whether it was just a spark of craving you’d satisfy in the ER supply closet, his hand over your mouth to hush you, his cock inside you making that a challenge. Or in the twilight of his bedroom, your skin bathed in the shades of sky and slick with sweat, time pouring away as he was thrusting into you, slow and relentless, hitting the spot that made you choke on air, his lips painting your neck with marks. And after, when you were both catching your breath, legs tangling under the covers, he’d always pull you into him. And Jack held you like you were his safest place. Like nothing else could feel so right. So good.
But then there were bad days, too. Not just the kind of bad that’s woven out of unfortunate coincidences that he had no control over, like changes in the weather or accidents with no survivors found. He’s seen enough of those. He’s lived through them. Because Abbot is wired to deal with unpredictable and messy, to get his hands bloody or use them to repair damage.
And yet, the worst would always be the days when Jack saw himself as wreckage.
In early years, it sounded like a mere uncertainty, an inner voice that sometimes made him wonder if he’s a little bit closed off. A little too hard-headed. Too principled when it’d be better to concede, too quiet when everyone around him loosens up. But then the army helped to polish his rough edges. It brought a change in him, a confidence that helped him move and work fast, and muster that unapologetic stare. And Jack was thriving under pressure. As much as he did thrive on being needed, wanted. Loved. Because after his tours ended, all the adrenaline worn off and clothes soiled with sand and gore, he still had something to look for, someone to wait for him at home.
It got harder to silence his inner voice when he lost half a limb.
His wife stayed by his side, unruffled, being supportive in any way she could. And Jack told her it’s just another challenge he would pass, a temporary inconvenience he’d learn how to live with. It made him feel better when he could bring her peace. Even if he was losing his. Even when it hurt to sit, to stand, to move. Even when he spent his nights awake and waiting for the meds to work, stuck in between his stubbornness and pain that didn’t feel like just a phantom. But he didn’t allow himself to share it with her — what’s good about a man who cannot rein in his emotions? He was supposed to shield her from any misery and worries, and so he did.
Then she got sick.
And there was no shielding her from death. No way for him to stop the growth of the cancer cells that filled her blood and damaged healthy tissues until her body could no longer fight. Until she fell into a feverish unconsciousness she didn’t recover from. Throughout the long months of her suffering, Jack had to keep his own unseen, to stay strong for both of them. He’s got into the habit of suppressing his heartache, of storing up his feelings like pennies in a jar. He’s never learnt to share them — because she died, and suddenly there was no one he could share things with.
All he’d got left with was the dead weight of pain, the mass of metal stacked beneath his bones. It was so heavy that it almost drowned him, almost pulled down into the abysmal depths of grief. The only remedy that helped him stay adrift was work: the countless shifts that he’d take back to back, the short hours of sleep squeezed in between. And it took many weeks for him to feel like he had moved from the edge of the abyss. But his self-doubt wasn’t just lurking in the background anymore. By then, it was a deeply-rooted creedence: he is too much to deal with — an amputee, a widower, a loner; it would be wrong to let anyone into the ordeal his life was. He got his chance at love once, it felt good while it lasted. He’s got a job to keep him sane enough through his remaining years.
So Jack built a routine that wasn’t meant for two: he picked nights as his working hours, he bought a single bed, he had one black mug in his kitchen, one pillow and one toothbrush. Strictly one set of everything, like an attempt to prove his solitude. He genuinely never planned on breaking it.
Then you came. And soon Jack wanted nothing more than to make space for you. But he couldn’t invite you in only to show some chosen parts of him. And opening up meant that there was no hiding from the ugly truth. Since Jack thought that the reality of living with him wasn’t pretty. He almost felt bad for how smoothly things were going: the veiled secrecy of stolen glances and short minutes spent away from any prying eyes in the ER, the shared dinners in his old apartment, the eagerness of looking for a new place where you would live together. But when you found it, it seemed like all his traumas also got the invitation to move in.
A nightmare jolted Jack awake on the first day. It’s been a few years since he had one, and yet he recognized immediately that bone-chilling dread. He never figured out the reason they kept coming back — and he’s never had someone witness their aftermath: his heart pounding as he sat up, short of breath, disoriented for a moment, eyes wide in the dark. But you just rolled in bed and pulled him down into your embrace, lips following the contour of his jaw until it got less tense. And when you whispered that it’s gonna be okay, a reassurance instead of questions that he’d loathe, Jack did feel slightly better. Slightly less scared. He listened to the murmur of your voice and let it carry him into a peaceful slumber.
Except the nightmares didn’t go away. They soon became his guests — frequent, unwanted: not just because of all the memories they stirred in him, but also for stirring you awake. And yet, he never saw you irritated for a second. You always held him close, and not once were you reluctant, bothered, or uncaring. Even after a full week of interrupted sleep, and after two, and after three. He got a few good days then, perhaps due to the late summer rain that poured for hours, lulling his anxiety to sleep.
Until Jack started waking up not from the frightening dreams but from the pain that was very much real. He’s heard about it — that stumps can hurt when the weather’s harsh, something to do with barometric pressure and the expansion of the muscles. Something he hasn’t experienced before. It was so bad from the get-go, he almost fell out of bed, then barely managed to get to the bathroom, teeth clenched so he’d make no noise. He should’ve thought about the pain meds in his bedroom dresser, but with how much his leg ached, he wasn’t thinking straight. You found him sitting on the cold tile floor; it took you one glance to figure out the issue. You tiptoed out and came back with his meds and water, then wiped his sweat-covered face with a wet towel. Jack felt drained — and even more embarrassed, so he refused to meet your eyes. You didn’t force him to. Instead, you quietly sat near, your fingers ably kneading his sore muscles.
Jack glanced at you, undoubtedly grateful. But still hesitant, still fearing your love for him may have an expiration date, and his weaknesses would only bring it closer. He forced out a chuckle.
“First the nightmares, now this. I am a lost cause.”
He looked like he didn’t find it funny. Like he actually believed what he was saying. A long pause would’ve confirmed his fears, but you replied with no delay.
“I think you are a work in progress. But so were a lot of things before they became art.”
Jack could’ve cried right then. Just from how sure you seemed, how all his flaws that felt debilitating and just as permanent as scars, were fading with your every word. Your hands cradled his face, a whisper pressed into the corner of his mouth: let’s get you to bed. And that day, he slept soundly.
Then you had to repeat the same routine for two weeks straight.
You didn’t voice any complaints, and maybe that everlasting surety of yours did seem a bit naive, but Jack wasn’t complaining either. You brought up therapy — just once, as carefully as if you tried to walk around the broken glass. He mumbled something that resembled half a promise. Half a lie. But he convinced himself that he’s been managing just fine on your support and your supply of kind words and consolations.
And yet, things still kept escalating. Just like they do if you refuse to patch up wounds and only put on bandages to hide them.
It was early September, the kitchen drizzled with the sunlight, the color of the melted butter Jack was covering the pan with — when his hands twitched. Subtle, fast. Could’ve been written off as nothing. But he froze because it didn’t feel like nothing. And when an hour later he was putting away the plates while you were in the shower, the tremor came back. And it felt like something bad.
He took a blood test the next day, all by himself — not even in the exam room, but in a bathroom stall, watching the crimson liquid flow, like he intended to get the diagnosis at a glance. He didn’t — and neither did the lab: no abnormalities detected, no lack in vitamin D, or B12, or folate. And weirdly enough, he felt completely fine in the ER, hands steady on the instruments and keyboard keys and during examinations. Then he carried the groceries and held the doors for you, and on your way home, one of his hands laid on the wheel, the other — on your thigh, unflinching. He almost let himself believe it was a one-time oddity, a stressful night and too much caffeine. He almost let himself forget. But that same day, as you snuggled together on the couch, Jack reached for the TV remote — and saw his hand shake. Very clearly.
He zeroed in on finding the solution as if his life depended on it. Or at the very least, his job. He knew he wouldn’t be able to operate with tremor, it would destroy the only thing he’s ever been good at. But every shift ended with him being equal parts relieved and mystified because his fingers didn’t flinch or shake at work. And yet, they did when he was folding laundry. When he was chopping vegetables or reorganizing kitchen shelves or helping you hang the print-out of a painting that you liked — a swirl of bright blue waves with sunbeams shimmering on water like specks of glitter. You were too thrilled to notice that he fumbled with a double-sided tape. He felt bad for not being able to share your excitement. He felt stupid for not knowing what was wrong, why in the comfort of his home his muscles were contracting — involuntarily, abruptly, for no reason at all.
And soon his mind was contaminated not by the fear but by the feeling of how flawed he was. And it was getting harder to suppress the tremors, to act like his control was not wearing thin. One evening, on your day off, he was making popcorn, and you were sitting on the kitchen counter, all smiley and waggling your feet and wearing his grey t-shirt that looked so good on you, he got distracted and reached into one of the cabinets without looking — but his hand shook so violently that he dropped the bowl. It shattered: both the ceramic dish and his self-control, his face expression first horrified, then dejected, hopeless.
You paused mid-sentence, eyes caught on him. Then they moved to the floor. “You break dishes, and I break test tubes. We are a great match.”
It took Jack a few seconds to snap out of his despondency. “When did you break test tubes?”
“Last Wednesday, at the end of the shift. Slammed a whole tray of them into a wall,” you crouched down to pick up the pieces, and he immediately joined. “You should’ve seen Robby’s face. He facepalmed himself so hard, he knocked down his glasses.”
Jack couldn’t force a smile in return. And he didn’t trust his hands not to shake again, so you did most of the work, seemingly unbothered. But once you cleaned the mess, you walked to him and took his hands in yours. And Jack knew that his secret got out in the open. You massaged small circles over his joints and palms as you examined them, then your gaze went up at him.
“Does that happen at work too?”
“No, never,” Jack whispered, his eyes downcast.
“Does it hurt? Any ache or numbness?”
He shook his head, and you didn’t cast doubt on his honesty.
“Might be something psychogenic,” you mused, with no pressure but with a veiled, unvoiced suggestion: he should make an appointment with a therapist. You put your hands over his shoulders and leaned closer, your nose brushing his. “Maybe it’s your subconscious hinting that you should hurry up with your next vacation.”
That did earn you a glance and then a kiss, soft like an apology, a thank you, a desire to amend his ways. And he really intended to. His imagination rushed to paint a dreamy picture: you two on some mildly crowded beach, your skin sprinkled with drops of salty water, his hands confident and resting on your hips, sun glinting off the waves, sand golden.
Unfortunately, that image never came to life.
The downfall began with something small. Stupid. Something he should’ve never paid any mind to.
A man was brought in in the middle of the night — late forties, with a gaping wound on his forehead: he went to check the noises in the yard and slipped on his front porch. He had a seizure in the ambulance. His vitals weren’t good. His wife came with him, tired and timid, and she told Jack that he had trouble sleeping and refused to take his meds. That last year he had his left leg amputated, way above the knee. He got discharged from the army a month later. Jack listened closely and didn’t bat an eye. Gave her assurances that sounded sincere. But when she left the room, and he looked at the table, he didn’t see a patient anymore — now he was looking at an amputee, a vet. Someone who could’ve easily been him. And someone he most definitely couldn’t fail.
He didn’t — he spent an hour in that razor-focused state, his consciousness reduced to giving orders and getting his gloves stained, with everything else blurry in the background. You knew that when Jack was like that, it meant something important, something personal. So you just gave him space and let him move at his own pace; you had no trouble keeping up. He touched your elbow on his way out with an unspoken gratitude.
Jack took a ride up to the ICU where they placed the man, then had a short talk with his wife — she kept wiping away the tears, and he didn’t want to make it harder on her than it already was. As he was heading for the elevators, he saw two nurses, their faces unfamiliar but voices loud enough for him to catch.
“Poor thing. Won’t ever have a normal life while she is with him.”
“You’re being a little harsh.”
“More like realistic. Men like that come with a crap ton of baggage, she’s basically a babysitter before she is his wife. And they don’t even have kids yet.”
“He probably just needs a better prescription.”
“So he’d stop wandering around in the dark, sure. But then she’ll have to deal with his other 99 problems.”
“Jesus, you are so sour today. Maybe he doesn’t have that many.”
“Even if it’s half as much, she’ll spend years trying to fix him. And there’s no guarantee she’ll ever succeed. So yeah, I’d recommend her to find a better match.”
Jack should’ve interfered. He should’ve scolded them for being unprofessional and disrespectful. But he just stood there and waited for the elevator door to open. On his way down, their words echoed in his head: baggage, babysitter, should find a better match. Before he knew it, they dug into him like splinters. He walked out and saw you in the hall, chatting with Jesse on your break. And Abbot looked at you like you were separated by insuperable distance, like he was just a sinking ship trying to catch the last glimpse of the sun above. He didn’t want to drag you down with him.
It hurt to think he was holding you back. And Jack is not the one for public self-abasement, so he’d wear a stoic face expression and pretend he’s fine. But once his insecurities took root, they only grew, spreading through him like vines. Like poison.
Jack had no wish to go in for half measures. He could never be cruel, he wouldn’t even think about being rude. But he was effortlessly good at being cold. He made it seem like he didn’t pay attention — forgetting what you asked, what plans you made, using the same excuse of feeling too worn-out. He wore a feigned indifference each time you tried to find out what was wrong. He pulled away from you — from your touches and tenderness that he secretly craved like plants crave water. And deep inside, it felt like he was pulling out his teeth, nails, flesh from bones, a truly agonizing torture. Sometimes he’d lie in bed and watch you sleep, his fingers itching to reach out. Jack would instead just lean further away. And on the bad days, he’d reach for the painkillers he stocked up on, because he wanted you to break out of the habit to comfort him. But caring about Jack became your second nature, so you couldn’t give up on him so easily.
So he had to resort to drastic measures.
He mercilessly cut down the time you spent together: Jack begged Robby to switch to day shifts, then told you it was temporary. Which was a lie. Which did manage to dim down your enthusiasm, but somehow, you still held on to hope: you made time for your shared breaks, for checking up on him when your shifts overlapped. For cooking meals for him. For kissing him goodbye. For everything he thought he wasn’t worthy of, and yet, you were still giving it to him so freely. Frustration piling up in Jack was only directed at him — but it was you he snapped at. Two weeks in, three nightmares in a row, four patients in a critical condition in broad daylight. One died. You waited outside the trauma room, but didn’t even get a chance to speak — he breezed past you, and his words sounded like a bite:
“I don’t need you to babysit me.”
That came out way rougher than intended. It was horribly hard not to turn around and run back to you barely five seconds after. He forced himself not to.
Jack tried to justify it by that god-awful saying — about letting go of someone you love. It didn’t sound profound in his head. It sounded fucking stupid. But what worked wonders was a reminder that you deserved stability, and he was just a ticking bomb. He wouldn’t want you to get hit by shrapnel.
He also didn’t want you to waste any more time. So Jack made the decision to cut ties. To cut off the rope that had you tied to all the baggage he indeed was carrying.
He waited for your day off to have the conversation so you wouldn’t get upset before your shift. He came from work already sullen, distant, not even looking at you when you came into the hall to greet him. Right there and then, he told you that things between you weren’t working out anymore. That he needed a break. He barely tried to make it sound believable, and maybe that was the real cruelty: you always putting so much effort into everything, and him seemingly not caring enough.
You couldn’t even manage a reply at first, you looked shell-shocked. Your voice came out pained:
“So none of this ever mattered to you?”
He literally bit his tongue to stop himself from saying that, of course, it did. Jack had to hide the truth behind more lies: he said it was distracting him from work, it got too serious, too complicated. He said it with a voice so flat, he might’ve as well stabbed you. And it was hurting him in equal measure. But he acted like he had a PhD in faking.
“I will give you some time. To think about it. I’ll just go for a walk,” he added curtly.
If he stayed for a minute longer, he would get physically sick from all the venom his words carried.
He glanced at you before turning away. It is the memory that always hits him first, carved into his mind like an inscription on the tombstone of his making — it’s your gaze. Heartbroken, clouded with tears. But you clearly looked like you did finally believe every bad thing his insecurities were telling you.
It’s for the best, Jack told himself as he walked out and closed the door behind him. You will get over it, he kept repeating as he took the stairs, as he strolled down the empty streets. It was already dark and chilly outside, the drizzle shimmering under the many street lamps. For days he thought that freeing you of him would be the reasonable choice. But in the stillness and the hues of artificial lights, it actually felt wrong. And suddenly, regret started to weigh on him, wrapped up around his ankles like chains that clank with every step.
It took him roughly 20 minutes to change his mind. Another 5 to get back to his flat. It must’ve taken you around the same time to grab the things you spent hours unpacking and run into the night. Because he came in only to find you gone.
Jack took one look around, and instantly it left him gutted: you weren’t coming back.
He almost rushed out of the building the second time. He made a step toward the door. Then stopped. For all his shortcomings, Jack did know when it was better to back off. He’s taken an entire weekend off from work, but you were getting back to the ER a day early. So Jack decided he should let you be, let you take a long-awaited break from him.
He absentmindedly took off his shoes, only one thought pulsating in his head: your presence used to light up every room. Without you the place seemed dreary. Lonely. He pulled the closet doors open to find all of your hangers empty, and it made him wince. He was about to turn away when his eyes snagged on it — a blue plaid shirt. He’s got a similar one, and you would often mix them up: he didn’t mind when you wore his, while yours was just left hanging. Jack trailed his fingers over the cotton and held one of the sleeves up to his nose: it smelled like you — apples and fabric softener, something so fresh and warm and making his heart ache. And then Jack wondered what else might’ve been forgotten in a hurry.
He instantly followed his hunch like he was on a treasure hunt. For pieces that would end up haunting him.
The first one was hidden by a pile of plates in the dishwasher — your mug, with Andy Warhol’s bridge print and a small chip on the rim. Next were your pens that he’s kept borrowing and leaving on his desk. An almost empty bottle of your shower gel. Your woolen scarf stashed on the upper shelf. The painting — but its lower corner was crunched and torn a little, as if you tried to rip it off the wall. Jack smoothed it out the best he could, then carefully taped the picture back together. And even though he knew that mending your relationship would be way harder, he was unwilling to abandon hope.
The days couldn’t run fast enough for Jack. He knew your roommate still had your previous apartment, so that’s where you probably were crashing. Or so he told himself, at least, so that his worry would subside a little. His hours were crammed with so many almosts — he almost texted, almost called, almost came up with an apology that was supposed to make up for the pain he caused you. But Jack believed he would have time to do that later, when you meet again. At work.
On Monday, he went back on nights and strided into the ER an hour earlier. He brimmed with nervousness but kept his posture straight and his hopes high. Jack barely made it to the locker room before Robby barged in. And he didn’t go for their usual handshake. Instead, he handed Jack a rolled-up sheet of paper.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could explain this.”
Jack took it, and his gaze fell on the lines of cursive. And then his heart dropped.
He realized in hindsight that it was a logical turn of events. He should’ve seen it coming. But as he stared at the paper in his hands, he couldn’t even read past the first sentence.
The first sentence stated it was a resignation letter.
Yours.
“When did she—” that question sounded so surreal, Jack couldn’t finish it.
“Yesterday,” more wrinkles crossed Robby’s forehead. “It was your day off, so I didn’t want to bother you. She said she got another job offer about a week ago, and she chose to take it.”
Jack didn’t move as his eyes followed the handwritten lines. And every pain he’s ever felt before — ripping, dull, phantom — suddenly was nothing in comparison to this.
Robby turned worried. “The explanation that I’m getting from your face is, frankly, concerning. You two were...?”
Jack nodded, staring numbly at your signature. Then he forced out: “Yeah. We were.”
Robby let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why the fuck I am even surprised. Evans suspected it months ago,” he pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly torn between displeasure and distress. Then he nudged the glasses back in place and glanced at Jack again. His face looked pale and tense, as if set into a brittle mask. As if another word would make him crack like porcelain. “Should I pull you off the shift?”
The silence stretched out for an uncomfortable number of seconds.
“Don’t be absurd,” Jack finally replied; although it took some effort.
Robby stood with arms crossed over his chest, looking at Jack with an appraising eye. He kept his thinking process to himself and just gave him a quick pat on the back. “Shen is with you today since we’re a little understaffed. So if at any point you need a break—”
“I won’t,” Jack cut him off. He tore his eyes away from your handwriting and gave the letter back to Robby. Jack shoved his backpack into the locker and shut the door with a loud bang. His palm stayed on the metal sheet as he calmed his breathing. Then Abbot cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me.”
He walked out of the room in hasty steps.
He didn’t slow down for the next 12 hours.
Because it felt like if he did, his guilt would burst out, like water through a dam. And everywhere he looked, it only made him painfully aware that you’d left. He hasn’t realized before how tightly you were woven into his life — and just how empty it would be without you. He did miss your assistance, yes — your confidence, your speed and skills; everyone else seemed sluggish by comparison. But none of it compared to how badly he missed you.
He missed the calmness that you brought, the way a single touch of yours would make his agitation fade, his hesitation disappear. He missed seeing you across the hall, he missed the moments when he’d catch your gaze, your smile, your laugh. Four hours in, he walked into the break room — and for a fleeting second, he thought he’d meet you there, just like he had for weeks. Instead, he stared blankly at the table and the seat you weren’t at; Jack had to leave before his feelings got a chance to choke him. His memory mercilessly threw other reminders at him: of you standing beside him in the trauma room, you walking by his side toward the nurse station, you pausing musingly next to the snack machine, you trying not to trot to beat him to the stairs. And every time he gave in and turned to look, you weren’t there.
Jack barely could finish up his shift, avoiding others' gazes and not registering any questions. He all but barged out on the roof, into the gloom of early autumn morning. The cold readily nibbled at his skin as he gulped air; it didn’t bring him much relief. He walked up to the railing, thinking: this used to be the place he would retreat to be alone. And yet, he was reminded of you and him at dawn, rays of the sun caught in your hair, his breath caught at the sight of you.
No matter where he went, he couldn’t run away from memories. And he was seeing you in each and every one of them.
Jack leaned against the rail and pressed his forehead to the metal. And when he heard the door creaking, he just snapped:
“Can I get a fucking break—”
It was Robby coming in.
He got two plastic cups, a can of Coke and two mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s, all in one hand; Jack’s hoodie in the other. He tossed him the piece of clothing.
“You surely can. Just try not to catch pneumonia while you’re at it.”
Jack did feel warmer with the hoodie on. He watched as Robby emptied one of the bottles into a cup.
“What’s this about?”
“We are gonna have a drink and a conversation,” and Robby’s face suggested it wasn’t up for a debate. He pulled a small bag of potato chips out of his pocket. “Eat some.”
Jack stared at the label: no additives but salt. Supposedly low in cholesterol and sodium. No wonder no one was buying these.
“They taste like cardboard,” he mumbled with his mouth already full. He hasn’t had a bite of food since he arrived. Robby just gave him a knowing look, then poured the soda into another cup.
Jack chuckled. “Aren’t you supposed to mix the two?”
“I am supposed to be sober at work. And only one of us needs alcohol to start talking.”
Abbot immediately lost his wit. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I obviously planned on letting you suffer all alone,” Robby sniped. “But then I came back to work, and I got pulled aside four times in 10 minutes, since literally everybody seems to be wondering if you are okay. Because — and I quote — you kinda look like someone died.”
Jack crumpled the empty bag of chips. “Let me guess, Shen said that?”
“No, it was Ellis. Shen thinks you look ill. And that thought was kindly followed by the story of his grandfather, who died of pancreatic cancer. Which isn’t the best comparison, if you ask me,” then Robby shoved the whisky into his hand.
Jack looked at the dark liquid without much enthusiasm. But it could hardly make things any worse. So he drank half a cup in one gulp, grimacing at the taste and waiting for the burning liquor to be absorbed into his bloodstream. He didn’t know where to start at first, and how to put words into sentences that would sound coherent. He took a few more sips to help loosen his tongue. And Robby waited patiently — until Jack could dial down his reticence under the pressure of remembrance. Then all of it poured out of him: his ignorance, your care, your kindness, and your unwavering acceptance of his failings. The trust and tenderness that bloomed behind closed doors, the joint plans and the shared apartment. The moments he’s been nestling close to his heart.
The moments that didn’t stop him from pushing you away.
Out of whiskey and out of words, Jack dropped his face into his hand.
“Well, as the man who ruined two really great relationships, I must say,” Robby put down his untouched cup of Coke. “Welcome to the club.”
And usually, Jack would quip back. But all the quips were humorless against the truth.
“I fucked it up,” he admitted quietly. Denying it was pointless. As was believing that you would forgive him. “She will be better off without me.”
“Yes to the first part. Not sure about the second.”
Robby replied so swiftly, Jack couldn’t help his skepticism. “Were you even listening?”
“I was. Did I miss the part where she told you that she didn’t want you? That she needed a break?” Robby retorted. “Or was that all in your head?”
He wasn’t wrong. Robby has always aimed to find the underlying cause of problems, just like any great doctor would. But Jack didn’t seek acknowledgement of his wrongdoings — he was aware of them. And he was fairly convinced that he’s unfixable.
“You’d be great at relationship counselling,” Jack noted flatly and looked down at his empty cup. “Funny that we are both single.”
Robby took no offence, as if he was prepared for that exact reaction. “I’m not in a relationship because I don’t want to be. I’m fine with that. And I’m fine with changing my mind when the time comes,” he leaned to him a little so he could catch Jack’s gaze and add: “But it sounds like you love her.”
“And what good did it do?” Jack remarked bitterly and looked away.
Robby held back a sigh. He knew that trying to dissuade him would be like talking to a wall. A wall that only Jack himself was able to tear down. And no words and no reasons could ever help with that. But time should.
“Alright, no more free counselling for you,” Robby took away his cup, ignoring Jack’s attempt at glaring. “It’s clear you are in no mood for some friendly advice. But as your colleague, I do encourage you to figure out what’s up with that tremor.”
“What an invaluable input. I’ll look into it.”
“Also, I’m ordering you a taxi.”
“I’ll just walk—”
“Like hell you will,” and Robby’s firm hand on Jack’s shoulder felt like a full stop in that discussion.
Him coming down and leaving the ER and riding home — all that left a blank page in Abbot’s memory. His eyes kept closing, and it was a miracle he somehow found the keyhole. He almost fell asleep right in the hallway. But as he stood there in the grayly daylight that peeked in from the quiet rooms, Jack suddenly was riven by a feeling — so strong, it nearly knocked him off his feet:
he missed your voice.
He missed you talking to him — about everything and nothing, he missed the softness of your tone, simply the sound of it. He missed you so much that he had trouble breathing. So he took out his phone and dialed your number like it was his lifeline. It went straight to voicemail, which came as no surprise. But then he heard you — a short recorded message: “Hi, I’m sorry I can’t pick up the phone right now. I solemnly swear I will call you back.” And he could swear that you were smiling at the end, and he could picture it so vividly, it made his heart swell. He hung up when the message ended and managed one deep breath. Then he called you again. And he kept calling — as he walked mindlessly around the apartment, closing his eyes to picture you with him. At some point, when he opened them again, the painting caught his gaze. The patched-up corner wasn’t hard to notice — a little wrinkled, with glossy tape over the paper. And yet, it didn’t ruin the whole picture. The mark left just by one mistake didn’t take away from its significance and beauty.
And as Jack stared at it, for the first time in days he felt hope flicker through his mind: maybe there was still a chance for him to fix things. To get you back. But there was no denying that he should fix himself first. Which starts with therapy —
well, in reality, it started with a hangover.
Jack dozed off on the floor, and waking up didn’t feel nice for quite a few reasons. His head hurt, his back ached, his throat was dry. He slept for barely five hours. But then he glanced up at the painting right in front of him, and hope cut through the vines of sadness that he was entangled with. Jack knew he owed it to himself to try and find a way out of the mess he’s got himself into. He also owed that much to you.
So he began searching for a therapist that very afternoon. He looked through his old messages and pulled some previous recommendations, he went through countless cups of coffee while reading the reviews. He made appointments. A couple of them, just so he could find someone he’d like, since he suspected he would need a specialist for the long run. And he felt hopeful.
That feeling lasted for about a week.
Because, despite his best attempts, he couldn’t let go of his reluctance to open up. He sat through every session, in person and online, but he just never clicked with any of them. First was an ex-marine who was supposed to be the perfect choice; in twenty minutes, Jack felt like they were in a contest of who’d had it worse. It only pushed him to close off. Then came an old lady who politely asked if he could skip the gruesome details of his past because she found them upsetting. A 20-something kid who put on a navy t-shirt for their Zoom session “to show his mad respect”. A woman of his age who looked at him like she had never been this bored before.
And Jack inevitably ended up frustrated — at them or more so at himself.
That same frustration led him to the support group meeting for the vets. He’d come to those after he lost his leg; it helped a little to be surrounded by the people who could imagine what he felt. At least, it used to help. But as he sat there and listened to the others' stories, he found it harder to relate. And even harder to speak up, to share the guilt that he’s been carrying. When his turn came, Jack mumbled the first thing he could come up with: he’s got a tough job and it’s tiring. None of them pressed him further, nor saw through his rushed lies; except for that one guy who chaired the meeting. A few years younger, his limbs intact, a shiny golden ring around his finger — and yet, he must’ve sensed something.
Once their time was up and Jack went for the exit, the man hurriedly followed him outside.
“Hey, not to sound weird, I just wanna check up on you. Is it actually your job that’s bothering you? Sorry, you just have that look.”
Abbot side-eyed him. “What look?”
“Like you have nothing else left but work,” the man said earnestly.
Jack put his hands deeper in his pockets. “It’s not just work, it’s... Many things. I am a hard case.”
His curt explanation didn’t require a reply. The other man wasn’t discouraged. “I know a guy. And by guy I mean, he’s in his sixties. He really helped me a few years back”.
“As in, a therapist?” Jack glanced at him and got a nod. “I’ve tried plenty. Didn’t do anything for me.”
“Well, will it hurt to try some more?” the man asked with a sympathetic smile. He didn’t wait for Jack’s objections — instead, he ripped a piece off some paper flyer and scribbled down a phone number. Then handed it to Abbot. “He’s very chill. And also kinda funny. Give it a try.”
He walked off, and Jack was left alone to ponder. His road to redemption did seem pretty unsuccessful at that point. What was there to lose? So he did make the call, although with little hope. He almost dragged his feet on his way there. And it didn’t feel like rainbows coming through the clouds on their first appointment. But Jack also didn’t feel ignored or awkward or misunderstood. That was enough for him to come again — for his second, third, fourth sessions. That is how long it took for him to finally ease up.
To talk about you.
It happened on his fifth visit. Which turned out to be a memorable one: he has replayed it like a tape recording in his head many times since then. It starts with an unusual matter-of-fact: Jack found himself a therapist who’s nothing short of awesome.
He’s British, voice warm just like the tea he drinks (in frightening amounts), his pale blue eyes gleaming from behind the lenses of his glasses. He loves puzzles, and he makes sense of Abbot’s bottled-up emotions as if he’s solving a Rubik’s Cube.
“You are easy to talk to,” Jack blurts out mid-conversation, hands wrapped around his own cup of Earl Grey. He doesn’t like the smell of it, but the warmth is calming.
“I get that a lot,” the old man says, a smile grazing his lips. “I also find that people are more willing to open up if their previous refusal cost them dearly.”
The hint hangs in the air, not blunt enough to be offensive. But clear enough. And Abbot takes it as his chance to spill it out. He doesn’t hold back any details — as much as it is painful, it’s also comforting: remembering you. Not that he ever stopped.
He keeps talking for what feels like half an hour. His therapist listens carefully, not interrupting. And not looking surprised.
“So she made you feel loved, valued and cared for,” he doesn’t say it like a question because all these are facts.
And even though Jack nods, he knows: it’s not a finished thought. The ending’s meant to hit him. The old man delivers quite a punch:
“And in return, you made her feel unloved, unappreciated and unwanted.”
The hit lands heavier than Jack expected. It suddenly becomes so obvious: he should’ve opened up to you. He should’ve talked about his concerns, he should’ve trusted you to understand them. Instead, he hurt you, repeatedly and cruelly, and pushed you out of his life. Although you were the only one he wished to share it with.
So Jack exhales the question with defeat. “I should just let her go, shouldn’t I?”
“Doing nothing can be an option,” his therapist replies calmly. “Or you can try and do better.”
And he says it like it’s the simplest thing, like getting dressed or doing dishes. Jack sighs and rubs his forehead. It takes a minute for him to find the words — he wrenches the confession out of himself in a strained voice.
“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her. She is too good for me.”
He waits for either lecturing or judgment in reply. But his therapist just asks:
“Have you tried being good for her?” he watches Jack attentively — and quickly adds, “I’m just saying, I never pegged you for a quitter.”
Jack lets the words sink in. Then looks at him and huffs a laugh. “Real fucking smooth, doc.”
“But that’s the truth, innit?” the old man shrugs.
And his assuredness does help to ease the burden of Jack’s past mistakes. The way he gets straight to the point and never runs out of ideas on how to fix things — Jack thinks that’s why he likes him. Then Abbot catches on to a much more cardinal realization:
you never treated him like he was broken.
You loved him like there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.
He can’t believe he ruined that.
Jack had to do a lot of learning for his healing.
He painstakingly rewired his thought process: the symptoms that he’s deemed incurable were more so… a malfunction. Not terminal but treatable. The best treatment was patience. And he required plenty of it to deal with the consequences of him refusing help for months. Jack learned about psychogenic tremors, their underlying cause being his pent-up emotions. He tried tremor retrainment, he cut down on caffeine. He gave another chance to mirror therapy for night pains. He got on with meditation, although it did take some convincing (which sounded like “please, do yourself a favor, don’t be such a bugger,” — another pearl of wisdom from his therapist. It worked).
It wasn’t easy — not for the first month or the second or the third. But very slowly, day by day, it did get bearable. And then, somewhere between the seventh and the ninth month, Jack actually began to feel better. He didn’t need painkillers anymore, his dishware remained intact, his nightmares forgotten. He’d randomly chat with the interns and crack a joke or two, he stopped his visits to the stairs, he rarely went to the roof. It was an undeniable achievement that should’ve filled him with joy and pride.
But deep inside, up to his throat, Jack has been filled with longing. The thoughts of you would leave him sore, like rupture of blood vessels, like he was bruised all over. He couldn’t stop thinking. He never wanted to forget — the contours of your silhouette his eyes traced through the air, the spark of warmth that was your smile he dreamed of, the tenderness of you he missed. The taste of apples he kept buying since they reminded him of you. The scent still hidden in the fabric of your shirt: every inhale sparked up the coals of his feelings. But he couldn’t act on impulse, couldn’t barge back into your life while he was only half the man he wished to be.
So he crossed off the passing days and let the seasons pass as he continued working on himself. For you. And when his clandestine bruising hurt too much, he’d call you. To listen to the same voicemail, same 14 seconds and 19 words he’s learned by heart. He’s never left a message. And never truly cured his insomnia, his nights perpetually cold, your side of the bed painfully empty.
Jack waited for the change in him that he would feel with every fibre of his being. And for a chance to talk to you. Robby presented him with the latter.
The Fundraiser was Gloria’s idea, and Jack managed to avoid it for two years. She did try to talk him into coming (all donors love a sob story, and what’s sadder than an amputee?), but his few glares and dry tone discouraged her in record time. So Jack didn’t move an ear when Robby mentioned the event.
“I can look up the full list of guests,” Robby suggested, waiting for Jack to get the clue.
It took Abbot a moment. Then his pen froze over the paperwork, eyes darting up at Robby. “You think she might come?”
“We aren’t the only doctors fishing for investors,” he chuckled. “So it’s usually pretty packed. And Gloria loves playing a hostess. She’d drag in half the city if she could.”
Jack mulled over the suggestion. Apart from hopeful, he was also scared. Would you still care that he’s changed?
“It’s been almost a year,” Robby noted. “You found a therapist, you unfucked your life, you’re doing good. How long do you plan on waiting?”
Jack rubbed the back of his head. “I just keep thinking what I’d say. Never been great at speeches.”
“You can start with an apology,” Robby’s voice was low but sure. As was his gaze when he met Jack’s, silently waiting for the decision to be made. At last, Abbot gave him a short nod. It was too obvious for words: his wish to see you was way stronger than any other feelings.
Jack spent the whole day looking for a tie. Last time he wore one was at his wife’s funeral: the strip of fabric felt like a noose around his neck. Years later, when you went on a date, he tried it on — and it was so discomforting that he kept squirming in the driver’s seat. You took the tie off him on your way to the restaurant, no questions asked. Jack took your hand as he stopped at a red light, pressed his lips to your wrist. You leaned closer to kiss him. Your laugh spilled in his mouth when someone honked at you. And in the glow of the green light, sitting right next to him, you seemed so gloriously happy.
Jack thought about it as he was fumbling with that tie, in the apartment he was now alone in. What scared him the most was not knowing if you could let him in again. If you moved on already. He never cared about the socials, and you preferred to keep things private. Still, he checked your Facebook page — you only changed your place of work. No added photos of your boyfriend, no changes to your “not married” status. Which was a good sign. Which didn’t stop his hands from shaking each time he tried imagining what it would feel like to be in the same room with you again.
The hours leading up to the event passed in a blink. Jack’s nerves haven’t calmed one bit. Anxiety bubbled in him as he drove to the hospital, as he sat in his car, forcing his breaths to even out.
He still feels anxious as he walks to the entrance and finally comes in. It’s crowded, a mess of fabrics and the shine of jewels and the fizz of drinks, the chatter never-ending, half of the smiles fake. It’s almost nauseating; Jack loosens the tie a little. One of the servers darts to him.
“Sir, would you like some cham—”
“Do you have water?” Jack’s eyes impatiently move over the guests' faces.
The man pauses. “Um, just... water?”
The teeth of agitation graze his insides. Jack doesn’t let it show. “Just a glass of water with some ice, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back,” the man scampers off into the crowd.
Jack promptly moves in the same direction. Some of his colleagues greet him, some of the strangers shoot him glances; he hardly cares about either. He’s searching for only one voice and face — yours. The server finds him in a few minutes; he pants a little as he gives Jack a lowball glass, only in place of whiskey, there’s a clear liquid and a bunch of ice. And Abbot notices how pale the man’s up close, some reddness splotched above his crisp white collar. Jack almost wants to ask if everything’s okay. Instead, he thanks him and keeps going. Someone is laughing, someone is obviously drunk; some posh guys who’ve never worked a day in their lives are asking mind-blowingly dumb questions. The background music is unnecessary, incessant; someone is writing checks and making toasts, Jack’s fingers go cold from the ice —
His gaze stumbles on the hair color first. The painfully familiar lines of the neck and shoulders.
His heart leaps up. Exhale caught in his throat.
You’re standing with your back to him, your dress dark blue and hair up, your shoulder blades left bare. And he would recognize you anywhere. It makes him stop. It stuns him: as he is staring at you, everything else — that’s bright and loud and harsh — suddenly grows dim.
Jack timidly allows his gaze to look you over. He was afraid you’d change, but he can see it even from a distance: the same slow movement of your arms, your bearing poised, same slight tilt of your head as you are listening to someone, a hand gliding over your waist —
a man’s hand.
You didn’t come alone.
When Jack sees who the hand belongs to, everything in him sinks, the weight of heartbreak filling up his stomach. This isn’t just unfortunate — it is a worst-case scenario, it’s watching the paper boat of his hopes being completely torn apart.
Jack knows Jonathan: a classmate turned your best friend, the man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine — tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, and with a million-dollar smile. He is a neurosurgeon who operates on kids with brain cancer, he regularly donates to charity, he owns a three-legged dog he rescued (of-fucking-course). What makes things even worse is that he’s not an asshole. He’s also never brash or loud — because he doesn’t have to be; he catches everyone’s attention like a diamond among marbles. When he’s with you, his smile grows wider. And Jonathan’s lips glisten like he had a kissing session not so long ago.
Jack hears quick footsteps approaching, and he already knows who’s coming. 'Cause no one radiates anxiety like Robby.
But Jack did hope he’d get another chance. He gulps more water, still perfectly icy — but on the inside, he is burning. He’s not allowed to be this jealous: you aren’t his to keep, and that’s on him. He’d rather walk through fire than watch you with another man. He cannot take his eyes away.
“You can do it in the parking lot,” Dana’s voice comes from his left.
Jack turns to her, his face perplexed.
“... What?”
“I mean, he is a bit taller than you, and he works out for sure. But your military training should be good for something, right? If you want to punch him, just don’t do it here,” she takes a sip of what looks like a Gin tonic. “I spent half an hour listening to that douchebag tech guy who wants to fly to Mars — and who also offered to pay for our new MRI machine. I’d like to get that check by the end of the night, so please don’t fuck things up.”
When Jack broke up with you, Dana refused to talk to him for weeks. And now she does, so technically, they’ve made some progress.
“I’m not gonna punch anyone,” Jack tells her. More like a protest, less a promise.
“Oh, 'cause you’re in therapy now,” she rolls her eyes. “If only you started it, I don’t know, a year or two earlier. Wouldn’t be standing here throwing daggers at the other guy.”
She isn’t wrong. He’s got no arguments in his defence nor any wish to argue. Jack’s eyes are drawn to you again — but this time, when he finds you, he can tell: you know. And he can almost see the tension straightening your shoulders, the wariness stealing away your smile. He gets his guess confirmed when you finally turn — and look exactly where he’s standing. You aren’t smiling. You manage to control your feelings, but one of them slips out for a second: pain. And Jack discerns it in your gaze, just like he did the day he left you.
You look away. It nearly unstitches all of his patched-up composure.
“You think she’ll talk to you?” Dana’s voice comes out a tad softer, more concerned.
“Only one way to find out,” Jack quietly replies.
He is way more unsure than he wishes he would be. His main wish is to apologize to you.
You make it obvious you do not want to talk to him at all.
You aren’t the one to make a scene, but it is hardly subtle — how consciously you keep your distance. You move around the hall as people wave at you and call your name: McKay and Collins gush over your dress and pepper you with questions, Princess makes jokes that get a smile out of you. Dana pulls you into a hug, and Robby greets you just as warmly. And Jonathan surprisingly isn’t a clingy boyfriend — he keeps darting back to the bar, avoiding women of all ages who keep staring at him, which you don’t seem to care about.
But you are dead set on not crossing paths with Jack.
He tries approaching you nonchalantly, like he is merely an old friend wanting to catch up. You talk with literally anyone but him. Even with that damn server, pale and panting in your face after you stop him with a question Jack can’t hear. He spends an hour on attempts to get to you — you move further away each time he makes a step in your direction.
Jack knows you certainly have reasons to be upset. He grows increasingly uncertain about his chances for a reconciliation. His heart rushes from what feels a little bit like panic. He gets a glimpse of you chatting with Garcia — before he all but runs into the bathroom, into the empty room behind closed doors, to splash his face with some cold water. And then he stares at the mirror like he’s trying to summon a version of himself that you might tolerate; but to no avail.
Jack takes a minute to calm down. To bolt into his head that he won’t give up easily. He strides into the corridor with a newfound determination and his tie fixed —
in a few seconds, the door to the women’s bathroom opens —
and you walk outside.
You take a step away, two, three.
A measurement of time is yet to be invented for just how fast you turn to him. Like you are still aware — unwittingly, unfailingly, always — of his presence; you can’t help but look.
You freeze immediately. He stands unmoving. The two of you are separated by a couple of feet. But also by the months apart and the unsaid and the unhealed. It’s hard to casually break that kind of silence. And all the pre-planned speeches in Jack’s head boil down to I’m so sorry and Please, don’t leave. You look like you’re about to —
There is a sharp, loud sound followed by a dull one — of something heavy falling. You both instantly turn your heads and find the source of it around the corner: a metal tray and a smashed bottle of champagne, a server lying sprawled out on the floor. That same white-faced man, deadly unconscious.
The awkwardness gives way to urgency: you act like not two strangers but a team, just like you were once. And you worked damn well together.
Jack runs to him and crouches down, two fingers pressing on the man’s neck. “Got a pulse.”
You take your phone out to use the flashlight and lean down to his face. “Pupils reactive.”
“Will probably have a bruise from the fall,” Jack is examining his head and neck.
“And a nasty bump too,” you add, your own hands moving quickly down the server’s body. You start searching his pockets.
Jack quirks a brow at that. “You think he’s got any meds on him?”
“He’s diabetic,” you explain. “He looked pale, so I asked him if he was okay. He said it was his low blood sugar 'cause he kept forgetting to get a snack.”
Abbot bites down a smile: you still catch on to small things he doesn’t, and people always talk to you more willingly. He wonders if you’ve ever missed working with him, too. Out loud, Jack notes:
“So he might be in a coma.”
“I was hoping he’d have glucagon,” you mumble, with a hint of discontent.
Two other servers see you and sprint closer. Jack asks them to deal with the mess of glass and alcohol left on the floor. He isn’t moving from his spot, he knows this moment won’t last long: you next to him, you two talking, proximity you aren’t avoiding, aren’t distressed by.
“Look for an inside pocket in his vest,” Jack suggests.
Your fingers move to check, quickly unbuttoning the man’s clothes. “Bingo,” you whisper joyfully when you find the small injection kit.
You don’t waste time on reading the instructions you already know: you mix the powder with the liquid and easily fill the syringe. He helps you out by dragging down the man’s pants so you can inject the glucagon into a leg muscle. A few guests and doctors are gawking at the scene.
Jack can only look at you.
The server opens his eyes with a pained exhale. “S-shit, did I pass out?”
Jack helps him to sit up; you do the talking. “How’s your head? Any dizziness?”
He rubs his temple and frowns at the sight of his dirtied white shirt. “Nah, I’m fine. Didn’t mean to bother you guys, gotta go clean myself up.”
Jack holds him by the elbow as the man slowly gets up. You button back his vest and give advice. “You need to get a head CT just in case. Or at least get checked properly. The ER is just around—”
“No, I can’t afford that,” he retorts quickly, tiredly. “I know you mean well, but it’s gonna cost me a fortune. And I should get back to work.”
But Jack tightens his grip on the man’s arm. “You’re gonna pay a bigger price if you don’t take care of your health,” Abbot tells him in that effortlessly persuasive tone. “They won’t charge you for a simple check-up. Take the main exit and turn left, then look for ambulances and follow them. The ER is not that busy right now, you’ll be out in under 30 minutes.”
It’s very hard to say no under the pressure of his gaze. The server nods, a bit disoriented; but also grateful. “Thank you so much,” he utters, then clumsily adjusts his vest and moves to the exit in jerky steps, like he has to stop himself from running.
The crowd of spectators lazily disperses. Jack sends a quick text to John, eyes on the screen, but his spine tenses like a string at the cognizance: you aren’t leaving. And he can calculate the distance without looking — it’s barely an arm’s length, and if he reaches out his hand, he knows he’ll touch you. God, how much he wants to touch you.
Jack is so stuck on his reluctance, he doesn’t expect you to speak up.
“Don’t you charge for check-ups?”
When he turns to you, you are already looking at him. It twinkles in your gaze like the moon through clouds: hope. Like you are waiting, wishing for him to say something. He doesn’t know where to begin.
“I asked Shen for a favor,” Jack says, holding up his phone. “Besides, he’s bored out of his mind, so we’re kinda helping each other out,” he chuckles lightly.
“Shen is an attending now?” your question is equally surprised and guilty: you and John used to be friends. You must’ve cut ties with a lot of people when you quit.
The words pile up on Jack’s tongue: it’s not your fault you weren’t there, no one holds that against you, everyone misses you, and he’s been missing you so much it is a never-ending torment —
“Got the job in August,” is what Abbot actually says.
“Good to hear,” your eyes are still on him. “Got anyone new on the team?”
“Same old,” he shakes his head. “We don’t do well with change in here.”
Your affability dissolves into an expression that’s disappointed first, then — completely blank. Jack has no idea why. It would be great to show assertiveness, to bring back the same commanding tone he used a few minutes ago. But that would feel like playing pretend. Which he has never done with you, and he is not about to start.
So Jack allows himself the truth. And his voice softens when he says:
“You look beautiful.”
He catches a ghost of a smile on your lips. But your eyes aren’t smiling.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” you tell him plainly.
“I do, actually.”
“Since when do you care about socializing?”
Since he found out you’d come. But he thinks it would be too blunt to say that.
“It’s for a good cause. So I figured, why not,” Jack brushes it off. The panic is pulsating through his chest again: what did he do, how can he make this better? “How’s your new job?”
You sigh like he made the wrong move. “Pays well. Way less chaotic,” and your voice is void of anything that can give him hope.
You used to be so bubbly and expressive, he never pushed for details — you’d give him all down to the smallest, and he heeded to every word. He cannot tell if you’re trying not to overshare or if this is just how you are now, grown out of your exuberance like it was something foolish. Something he made you regret.
“Don’t you miss the chaos?” Jack asks swiftly.
It does seem that he manages to scratch the mask you have on: you frown, like you’re about to remind him why exactly you had to leave it all behind —
“There you are!” Gloria cuts in, her long dress light pink, her voice booming from across the hall. The smile she gives you doesn’t look fake. “Why didn’t you come say hi? I found out that you’re here from Jonathan! So lovely that you came together!”
She’s interrupted briefly by some old man — a doctor or perhaps a donor, someone who’s got enough authority to matter. Your smile is nothing but polite. You smooth your dress, something you do when you are nervous or uncomfortable. Or both. But this is your way out, and Jack knows you will take it. Of course, he wishes that you wouldn’t. He’d abdicate his pride, his morals and beliefs; he is ready to beg you. But wouldn’t it be selfish to drag you into something you want none of?
He wants you back, yes. He also wants you to be happy. And maybe there is no connection between the two, maybe it’s indeed too late. Accepting it wounds him. Jack pushes through; he puts his feelings under anesthesia, he puts on a smile.
“I’m glad that it’s him,” he says, unprompted, his words meant only for you to hear. “You deserve someone good, something stable. It seems like a perfect match.”
Your face falls. And his sincerity that’s meant to be a farewell backfires. You are trying to hide it, but he can read the signs: you bite the inside of your cheek and purse your lips, eyes momentarily drawn to the floor. When you look back at him, your gaze is also wounded. Like you are in a whirlpool too, and your pain goes by his name.
Your voice comes out barely above a whisper:
“I didn’t want it to be perfect, Jack. I just wanted it to be you.”
He is left standing — staggered, speechless — as Gloria takes you by the arm and speedily leads you away. You disappear into the crowd, you’re on your way to a much better future, and Jack is on his own. Because in real life, not everyone gets their happy ending.
Except, this doesn’t feel final. This feels like a mistake.
The Fundraiser is in full swing: the main hall packed with people, every glass surface dappled with light, beams flashing in the air like confetti. Gloria thanks everyone for being in attendance, her speech a faraway echo, soon drowned out by the cheering. Some lone guests brush by him, but Jack stays in the quiet, at a distance, deep in his thoughts. They churn in him just like the clouds outside the windows — dark grey, crawling over the sky, over the faint shades of violet and red. The colors dim at the horizon, but not his doubts: they only rise, like water vapor rising in the air. He never told you just how sorry he was. Maybe he should have. Abbot picks up his glass that he left on the floor, half-full still, the ice melted. What clinks through his head are the words: why didn’t he tell you? What if it could’ve made a difference?
Someone walks up to him, slowly, with purpose. And Jack expects Robby’s or Dana’s sympathetic face, or maybe that poor server coming back. But it’s none of these people.
It is Jonathan.
“Tired of trying to charm old millionaires for a paycheck?” he smiles at Abbot and steps closer, a glass of red wine in his hand, smelling so strongly of perfume, he must’ve soaked himself in it.
He seems relaxed and harmless. And yet, Jack’s rigid, like he is looking for a catch.
“I don’t have much charm in me,” he doesn’t bother with a smile. “Not a problem for you, I reckon.”
But he speaks with no bitterness. Primarily because it seems impossible to hate him: Jonathan is fun, lighthearted, witty. He’s everything Jack’s not.
“Oh, I don’t need charm for that,” the brunet chuckles. “I just mention kids and cancer in one sentence, and that does it. Saves me a lot of time so I can spend it in a more pleasant company.”
Yours, Jack assumes. He’s trying not to picture you and Jonathan together, doing the things you’ve done with Jack.
“You shouldn’t leave her waiting, then,” he forces out, swallowing his jealousy.
He raises his glass with an unspoken toast — to your happiness, Jonathan’s luck. Jack’s loss. He’s waiting for the picture-perfect man to leave him to his misery.
But Jonathan is in no rush to go. And weirdly enough, his face is actually... amused.
“You are aware we’ve been friends for years, right?” he narrows his eyes a little. “Ever since the uni. Has she told you how we met?”
Okay, this is where he draws the line. Jack doesn’t need to listen to how easily it was to fall in love with you. He knows already. And Abbot’s never been nonchalant about his feelings. How do you tell a man that you are mad about his girlfriend? Jack tells himself he’ll keep his mouth shut until he’s out of water.
He takes a sip. There’s barely a couple left.
How far’s the parking lot?
Jonathan is oblivious to his internal struggle. Or maybe he’s just unconcerned. “It happened at the end of the first semester,” he recounts, smoothing his green silk tie with manicured fingers. “I got so smashed at one of the parties, I actually forgot where the dorm was. Passed out somewhere in the bushes, I’m not kidding. A dozen people must’ve walked by me, but she didn’t. She helped me up, let me crash in her room. When I woke up with what probably is the worst hangover I’ve ever had, she brought me coffee. And then she told me that if drinking and partying were all I’m good for, I should drop out,” he drops his glee, his serious expression hinting at how much weight your words held. “Believe it or not, that conversation changed my life. And in our uni days, she was my closest friend. I knew I could rely on her because she’s so... straightforward. Funny. Kind. I’ve always got enough attention from the ladies, sure. But I valued kindness and sincerity way more,” then he looks Abbot dead in the eye — and punctuates, “Because I was a closeted gay.”
Jack chokes on water.
Jonathan doesn’t even flinch.
“You know, I keep hearing how good a doctor you are, and I do believe it to be true. But man, you fucking suck at picking up social cues,” the brunet gives his wine a swirl and lists. “I’ve got a suit that’s tailored to perfection. I dodged every woman’s attempt to flirt with me and spent the evening making heart-eyes at the bartender. I am literally wearing lip gloss. If I wanted to be any more gay, I’d have to jump your bones. And honestly, I would rather lick the pavement. No offence.”
“None taken,” Jack says under his breath, wiping droplets of water off his jacket, utterly confused. “Why didn’t she tell me that? I thought you two were dating. And she didn’t correct me.”
Jonathan holds a pause and holds his gaze, as if he’s hoping Abbot can figure out himself the explanation that is so glaringly apparent.
“You shattered her heart, Jack,” the brunet tells him, not with reproach but with honesty. “I’m surprised she said a word to you. She once promised me she never would.”
That’s when it hits him like a blinding spotlight: you did grant him a chance to make things right. And he just wasted it.
Or did he?
“I really need to go,” Jack mutters. He makes a few rushed steps away before abruptly turning on his heels. “Do you know where—”
“I left her with Evans,” Jonathan readily informs him and adds with a sad half-smile. “You may need to do some groveling.”
Jack offers no reply because he is already on the move. But he knows he will kneel and crawl and wear his feet off to the knees to merit your forgiveness.
Anticipation gets his blood pumping as he sprints through the crowd, through the cacophony of sounds and a swarm of colors, his eyes darting all over the place, looking for you. His pulse competes in speed with passing seconds. It maybe takes him five minutes or just a half of one — before he spots Dana. Who’s standing at the bar alone. Her plastic smile has almost worn off; it dies completely as she notices Jack coming. She meets him with hissed words and an accusatory tone.
“Geez, I ran out of talking points, she just left! What took you so long?!”
“You knew Jonathan was gay?” Jack can’t help his bafflement. His body is already turning in the direction of the lobby.
She groans and yanks away his glass he totally forgot about. “Anybody with eyes would know that! Now hurry up!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Abbot careens into the lobby just in time to see you grabbing your black coat. You’re leaving earlier than planned — that much is clear from how hastily you move, from how pensive and distant your expression is. Just as you turn, your eyes fall on him — and in an instant, you put on a mask again, only this one is cold and stern and so defensive, you don’t allow him to say a word.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I know, I know,” Jack agrees humbly, ruefully. “Just give me a minute, I —”
“We already had one pointless exchange of pleasantries, and now I’m going home,” you pop on the coat without looking at him, putting the collar up like it’s your armor.
There is a rumbling outside, the sound creeping close, closer. A car alarm goes off. You go towards the exit.
“It’s gonna rain any minute now, you should wait it out,” he tries to persuade you, following behind, but you refuse to spare him a glance.
“I’m sure I’ll survive. Thank god for Uber,” you pull your phone out, heels clicking on the polished floor.
And his resolve is melting into desperation that pours into his abdomen, heavy like molten rocks. Burning like magma.
“I talked to Jonathan. Actually, he did most of the talking,” Jack manages to keep pace. “And he kinda came out in the process. So I know you aren’t dating.”
“I didn’t say we were, you made an assumption. Good to know you still like those.”
Affliction flickers through his voice. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Because the thought of me dating someone is an intolerable torment,” you sneer at him over the shoulder, still not slowing down.
The answer flies out of his mouth before he even thinks about it:
“Yes.”
Three-letter word — that’s what it takes for you to stop and turn to him. But when you do, it isn’t out of confusion or surprise. No, Jack is getting a different emotion from your sharp exhale and knitted brows and flaming gaze.
And Abbot realizes he’s never seen you truly angry. He sure does now.
“Wow,” you draw, eyes boring into him, the phone in your hand forgotten. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You don’t get to have any opinions on my love life.”
Jack looks like you just hit him in the face. Like if you actually did, it would’ve hurt him less. He takes a breath so he’s got enough air for all the words he must let out.
“I want to apologize. I know I treated you horribly, and I never should’ve—”
“Thanks, I feel whole again,” you cut him off and turn your back to him, as if his words are idle. Meaningless.
You venture out into the street, a gust of wind tearing through the layers of your dress and coat. The sky is swallowed up by grey clouds and autumn’s gloom, the silence hanging in the air is eerie like a premonition.
Jack catches up to you, and desperation rises up in him under the pressure of his awakened fears, of his sleepless yearning.
“Can you stop for a second?”
“Why, so you can heap me with some excuses? As if I’m still supposed to care,” you say, voice brimming over with emotions — he can hear fury and offence. But the pain is there too.
“I just want to explain—”
“For months I’ve been waiting like a goddamn idiot for your text or your call or your visit,” you wander on to the parking lot, seething and so obviously hurt. “But you never reached out, didn’t even leave me a single message. You moved on so fast, like I was just a bump on your road.”
“That’s not what—”
“And then you come and tell me I hurt your feelings?” you whirl around, face tear-stained, each word a shard of glass that cuts him. “And how dare I not inform you that I’m still pathetically single? Why would I do that, Jack? Who the hell do you think you are to make any demands?!”
Lightning cracks fiercely in the sky, silver electric pulses threading through the darkness. Wind roughens up the trees and tears wilting leaves that swirl down in the air.
You notice none of it.
“You were the one who broke up with me! You didn’t do shit for things to work out, you didn’t care about my efforts, you decided for both of us because, of course, you always know better. So you don’t get to have any feelings about it now, after a year of radio silence! After you made it so clear you didn’t want me,” your voice breaks.
And it’s not anger that flashes across your face but sadness, inordinate and undeniable, like your heartbreak is fresh. Because, oh god, you still have feelings for him. And everything in you screams how much you want it not to be true.
You wipe the tears off your cheeks, not realizing that some of it is rain — the first few drops fall down, their patter just a murmur in the foliage. But it is getting louder. You shamefully avert your gaze. You sound dejected when you speak.
“At least have the decency to leave me alone. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why did—”
“Because I can’t fucking breathe without you!” Jack’s voice roars like thunder, like eruption, a force of nature breaking loose.
You instantly turn back to him, your gaze linking with his. It makes you stop. It stuns you: when he’s with you, everything else — crowds, faces, storm brewing above — suddenly grows dim. You gape at Jack like he just cut his chest open with bare hands.
And then he offers you his heart.
“I can’t move on, I am incapable of it, there wasn’t a day in the past year that I didn’t spend wishing I could go back and fix this! You think I don’t know I fucked up? I’d still remember it with my skull cracked in half! I’d have to get amnesia to forget it — and then it would come back to me the second I get back home. Because every part of it, every inch of it is stained with you.”
His eyes are riveted to you, and you are rooted to the spot. The rain comes down harder, but you are only hearing what pours out of Jack’s mouth.
“I still have the apartment. The one you helped me pick, the one we lived in. There’s the same bed we shared, the same shower, the same kitchen where you made me breakfasts. And I see shadows of you on every wall, I hear echoes of your voice, I wait for the sound of your key. And it’s suffocating. But I keep renewing the lease because that’s all I have left of you.”
You are looking at him like you don’t recognize him. And truthfully, you can’t: the Jack you knew buried his feelings deep. He never shared them — not when he woke up in cold sweat, not when his hands shook or his mood dropped. He never even told you that he loved you.
But this Jack talks to you like he can’t even think of stopping.
And he lays all his feelings bare.
“I wake up wanting you, I suffer through each day wanting you, I can’t sleep at night because lying there awake without you is unbearable — and if I close my eyes, I dream of no one but you, which feels worse than stepping on a landmine. Because I know that I’ll wake up alone. And it’s been tearing me to shreds.”
His voice is hoarse, his usually impenetrable expression collapsing into one of undeniable remorse. You don’t move when Jack allows himself a step to you.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you. And I’d never want to hurt you. Not again,” Jack needs another breath before he shares his reasoning — fervid and candid and certain in its brevity. “I want you back.”
Your clothes are getting wet, his too. But all you’re feeling is how your fury and defiance disintegrate around the edges, turning to dust the rain washes away. And after everything Jack’s put you through, you can’t hate him, can’t fight him, can’t reject him.
And he can’t stay away from you.
“I’d crawl through hell for you if it gets me another chance. I’d cut off my arm up to the shoulder, I’d give up my career, I’d move cities and cross countries and swim across oceans. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
The sky lights up, white flashes on an indigo canvas. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Jack pleads:
“Tell me you can give me a second chance.”
“Please.”
“Tell me.”
You try to say something, but no words come out. And in this moment, you don’t want to talk. You want to feel something, you search for solid proof that this is real — for something grounding and tangible, like an embrace. Or like a kiss.
You dart to him without thinking.
His hands catch you midway.
His lips meet yours with no resistance and no hesitation.
It’s soft first, not out of reticence but out of tenderness — Jack holds and kisses you like you’re fragile, a treasure he’s afraid to damage with his fingerprints. But that is hardly satisfying for how much you’ve missed him. You pull him closer, you want the kiss to deepen — and he obliges you, his tongue skating across your lower lip. You almost lose the sense of time, mindless of the wind and raindrops dripping in your mouth — you only feel the heat of his, the need for him, the way your lungs burn from the lack of air, from the intensity of him.
Jack has to pull away first, his own breath heaving. The rain is trickling down your cheeks, and he brushes a few drops away. “You’re gonna catch a cold, we can’t just stand here,” and then he grabs onto an idea, the way a drowning man would grip a straw. “I still have some of your things. The drive to the apartment is only—”
“About nine minutes,” you whisper, eyes searching his, like maybe there is a reason hidden there for you to turn down his offer. He doesn’t want you to. You know that you don’t want that either.
“C'mon, let’s get you in the car,” Jack takes you by the hand and leads the way.
And you comply. You know he’s sober — his tongue didn’t bring the taste of alcohol, no bitterness of whiskey or the spiciness of rum. He just tasted like Jack. You press your lips together like you’re savouring it (you actually are).
He spots his pickup truck and helps you get in first, then takes the driver’s seat. Jack turns the heater on and keeps his gaze away from your wet clothes that cling to every curve of you. He fights the urge to take the tie off — you catch his fingers drumming on the wheel, his shoulders tense, eyes sometimes darting down, trying to be discreet. To you, he isn’t. This goes on for a minute, two; the roads aren’t busy, and he is driving fast.
A red light stops him at a crossing. Jack shifts a little on his seat. Tries for a deep, calming inhale —
You lean to him.
Your hands move on their own accord, out of habit you never unlearned: you skillfully loosen the knot, pulling the thin tail of the fabric out, then carefully unfold his tie. Jack sits mellowed and motionless, his gaze tracing your face — wet eyelashes and lines of your nose and cheeks down to the parted lips. He knows if you allow him another kiss, he will have trouble stopping.
But you pull back. And he steps on the gas.
Heat floods in through the vents, and you silently watch the city through the rain-streaked window. You’ve missed a lot about Jack, and Dana’s words skate through your mind: “he has been working on himself, he’s really changed.” But it’s impossible to change the past, to act like his behavior didn’t scar you. You don’t know if you can let him in again. And yet, the truth thuds in tact with your heartbeat: you want to, you want to, you want to.
He parks as close to the apartment building as he can — the walk up to the entrance is barely half a minute. He doesn’t take your hand, he gives you space. But he still holds the doors for you, and you can feel his palm hover over your lower back when you go up the stairs. And you expect to see the flat changed too, you keep imagining how he revamped the place and rearranged things, new paint over the old, over the traces that you left. Just so his memories don’t loom in every corner.
But then Jack turns his key and lets you in. And it feels like you traveled back a year.
Because nothing is different. Everything looks exactly how you left it.
Jack locks the door behind you, and for a moment, he just stands here. You feel his gaze on you, while yours is wandering — over the same furniture, same colors, green apples in the white bowl in the hallway, because you used to grab a couple before leaving. And he remembered it. You.
Warmth roots deep in your chest.
You toe off your shoes and wiggle out of your semi-dry coat. Jack carefully pops it on a hanger while you amble around. It’s like a walk down memory lane: you can recall how he assembled every shelf, his brows wrinkled in concentration, his sleeves rolled up, you shamelessly admiring his tensing muscles instead of reading the instructions (not that he needed any). You think of him refusing to let you lift a single box, of how you cheerfully unpacked them — taking out clothes and books and new things meant for just the two of you to share: soft cotton towels and fresh bed linen and dinnerware sets. He didn’t show any emotions when you were shopping; but when you were alone, Jack’s feigned aloofness vanished — he smiled softly at you, one arm secured around your waist, his short hums of approval pressed into your shoulder. You smile at the memory.
And then you glimpse the painting — bright blue wave, still in the same spot on the bedroom wall. You can’t help but come in.
The gap between the heavy curtains lets barely any light in, but you manage to find the bedside lamp and flip the switch on. The yellow glow spreads all over the room, over the printout. You notice instantly: he fixed the corner you almost ripped off. You didn’t mean to — you were heartbroken, you were in a rush, you thought he’d hate it if you left it. You also absolutely had to leave before he came back, so you didn’t have time to properly untape the whole thing. But Jack took care of it like it was more than just a piece of paper. Like it held meaning to him simply because it did to you.
The warmth in you grows, like snowdrops at the edge of winter.
You take a better look around — there’s the dresser you used to put vases with flowers on, the dark blue bed cover you spent many days under, the fluffy bedside rug he bought you because the floor always felt cold. Belatedly, you see a thick spine of what looks like a book left on the nightstand. But you know it’s a photo album. One of your gifts to him.
It’s something you found startling when you got to know Jack — he barely had any photographs. As if the whole idea of capturing life’s moments seemed alien to him. Or maybe he didn’t want to have reminders of everything he’s lost. But you wanted to remind him of all the good bits life was still full of. You chose the first three photos: Robby in heart-shaped glasses he put on as a joke, Shen in a white gown he had to wear for an hour when they ran out of scrubs, Trinity grinning next to sleeping Frank after she drew a mustache on him, with Dana laughing in the background. And Jack loved it. He was way more selective, but he did add dozens of polaroids as the months went on — you turn the pages and see familiar faces, the people you loved working with. The image you remember last was of you and Jack: you dozed off on his shoulder, his arm casually tucked behind your back, his eyes on you. Walsh snapped the photo sneakily and sent to you, although you blatantly denied all her suspicions.
But the collection doesn’t end there — you unexpectedly discover a few more photos.
Of you.
They’re from his phone, you guess — some shots are blurry, definitely made without you knowing. The first one is you cooking with his shirt on, knees bare, and hair in a messy bun, a grin curling the corner of your mouth. Then comes a photo of you standing at the ER’s exit, probably waiting for him, your tired face soaking up the sun. Then it’s you chatting with McKay at the nurse station, you sitting in a call room reading, you sniffing candles in IKEA, you hugging a sad kid who got his leg broken, you petting stray cats at the farmer’s market. But it’s the one Abbot put at the end that makes your breath catch in your throat. He took a picture of you sleeping — your back and shoulders peeking from the bedsheets, faint sunlight glittering over your naked skin. The shadow of his hand covers your closed eyelids. And the realization bolts through you so violently, it makes you shiver: you don’t know how to stop loving him.
You can’t.
All of a sudden, the air feels warmer. You know that Jack walked in — you feel him staring. You always do.
“I wasn’t sure you would keep this,” you say, your fingers gliding over the edges of the album.
“Of course I did,” he replies quietly, fondly.
You turn to look at him.
He brought your plaid blue shirt, his tie and jacket discarded somewhere in the hall. Your gaze unhurriedly traces his face — the wrinkles faintly scattered at the corners of his hazel eyes, lines of his nose and cheekbones and curve of his lips. But in his features, you are also seeing weariness, the kind that doesn’t bother with pretence. And in the ambience of soft light, after so many truths unveiled, there’s still one answer you are seeking.
“Why didn’t you leave a message?” you wish you’d sound more collected; you don’t. You cast your eyes back to the polaroids as you dig out the memories that are less pleasant. “I got notifications after your every call. I had to buy a second phone eventually because I got too tired of waiting for you to say something.”
And you don’t see Jack opening his mouth and closing before he reads between the lines: you could’ve turned off notifications, you could’ve changed your number. Instead, you waited. For many months.
For him.
“At first I thought it would be too soon,” he confesses, a pained edge to his tone. “I knew I hurt you. Figured you’d want some time away from me. It felt wrong to disturb you, to offer excuses that would be pointless without fixing the real issue. Which was all in my head,” Jack admits. “It took me a while to get hold of myself. I didn’t want to give you some half-assed apologies and I... What I need to tell you, I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”
He doesn’t turn it into a performance, you do not hear him move or even make a sound. For a few seconds, you wait for him to say more. But then you glance at Jack —
and see him on his knees.
Your heart stutters.
The sight brings you no satisfaction. Because you are imagining the edges of his prosthesis dig into his skin, his upper leg pressing into the hard metal at this uncomfortable angle. And just a thought of him being in pain is what you still can’t bear.
“Jack, your leg will hurt if—”
“I don’t care,” he breathes out, eyes not leaving yours. “I love you.”
His voice is roughened by sincerity. You’ve never seen him so exposed, so unashamed about being vulnerable.
“I don’t remember what it’s like not to love you. And it’s the only thing I know won’t change,” the words fall out of him, steeped in devotion that slowly binds your wounds. “I knew I loved you before I even kissed you. I should’ve told you then. I should’ve told you that so many times.”
You cross the space between you, barefoot and up to your throat filled with longing. Jack rests his head against your stomach, one of his hands finding your lower back. Like he needs you to ground him. It only takes one touch — for your body to cave in, to ask for more, a treacherous response that only he elicits. An exhale shudders out of you as you’re anchoring yourself to him, so you won’t be carried away by currents of desire. But it’s already swelling in your core.
You feel the warmth of his mouth when Jack speaks up again. “I was afraid that if I said it, it would make it real. Would mean that I dragged you into my mess. Even though you deserve so much better.”
You look down at him — at his broad shoulders slacken in defeat, the damp grey curls with a dusting of white. Instinctively, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’ve always been exactly where I wanted,” and your voice wavers in a confession of your own, “But you hurt me so badly.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Jack slowly turns his head, his other hand tracing your leg up to your hip. Both of his palms lay flat against your back. And then he nuzzles you, inhales you through the thin fabric of your dress, as if he’s been deprived of air. His muffled words burn your skin.
“I hurt myself too,” but then he looks up and meets your gaze and whispers, “I want us both to stop hurting,” in that low voice that makes your knees buckle.
Your craving for him has been crooning in your chest, and now the heat of him — his gaze, his touch — is making your blood sing. You lower yourself down to him, shift closer to him, your fingers falling on his jaw. Jack leans in, letting his face fall into your hand. His eyes seem darker in this lighting, deep umber with the specks of green, with the same sheen of need. You’ve never seen a man more handsome.
And you want him to kiss you like he doesn’t plan on stopping.
“What you said at the parking lot, I feel that too,” you murmur. “I wake up every day wanting you.”
His lips crash into yours — or maybe yours crash into his — it’s hot and frantic, it loosens the last remnants of your self-control. You grasp his shirt as you’re struggling to undo the buttons, snapping a few off until you bare his chest and feel his skin, his muscles taut under your palms. Jack makes a sound — a groan you swallow, his teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue is sliding against yours. The kiss is deep, dizzying. There is no grace nor shame in how your body presses into his, in how his hands clutch onto your hips, in how you barely keep balance until you two part to catch your breath.
Your voice is shaky. “We should—”
“The bed, yes,” Jack rasps.
But his mouth trails for yours again, and you can’t keep your hands off him, can’t fight this all-consuming need.
The bed is barely twenty feet away — you stumble toward it. You’re kissing like you are starving for each other, leaving a trail of clothing on the floor. His shirt goes first, then he pulls down his pants, his mouth lowered to your throat, to where the jugular vein thuds under your skin. Your jaw falls open with a gasp — just like he knew it would; his hands are quick to steady you, his grip tight as his lips move up. His breath brushes the spot beneath your ear; he stops there. You can’t hold back a whine and turn your face to kiss him, eyes already dazed. But as Jack teeters on the edge of no return, an inkling takes shape in his mind: this is the closure that you didn’t get last year. This is the grand finale to the story before the curtain drops. Before you leave for good. Because you didn’t promise him you wouldn’t.
And yet, it doesn’t stop him. Nothing could. His love is a gratuitous surrender, an offering of the best parts of him, even if it leaves him hollow. If this is what your last shared memory is, he’ll make it worth your time.
Jack kisses you with his mouth open, his hand pressed to your nape, his lips devouring you like he can’t get enough — you let him, you melt into him. And everything in you is reeling. He only breaks for air when you are out of it, your lips swollen, your palms roaming over his naked chest. Your senses are reduced to just the feeling of him — his hands peeling away your dress, the soft press of his mouth at your collarbones, between your breasts, the way his tongue circles your nipple — then his lips close around it, his fingers tugging at the other — you feel the wetness pool between your legs, your body prickling with warmth. Your dress slides down to the floor — the second you step out of it, Jack locks his arm around you and lifts you — it’s barely three heartbeats before he lays you on the mattress, pushing you up until your head reaches the pillows. His mouth comes back to yours.
Desire courses through you freely and burns brighter with his every kiss, his every touch, skin pressing against skin. His hands make their way lower — his perfect, big, firm hands, their roughness molded into softness when they are on you; his lips follow. He leaves a damp trail over the hollow of your throat, over your heaving chest, right over your heart. Over the ridges of your ribs (each one, like he is counting). Then he centers his path, a kiss placed at your belly button. Then his exhale skims right above your underwear.
He pulls back — just a little. Just to get a better view. You know the thin cotton does nothing to cover your arousal — Jack eyes the wet spot at your center, dragging his fingers up your thigh. Then he presses his thumb right where you’re already aching for him.
Your breath comes out in gasps. Your heart lurches, threatening to bruise your ribcage.
Jack doesn’t hesitate or stall or tease you.
He slips your panties off in one smooth motion, then his hands slowly push your legs apart. Cool air touches you before he does, and goosebumps spring up on your skin. You hear Jack swallow loudly as his eyes drop between your thighs. He seems transfixed, pupils blown wide, a vehemence that comes from hunger. Or from reverence.
He bends his knees and sinks down on the bed like he is at the altar. And he lowers his head in worship.
Jack spreads you open with his practiced fingers, flicking his tongue over your clit, then tracing a line lower — to lick what’s dripping out of you already. A moan breaks from your throat, hips jerking down involuntarily as your hands clutch the bed sheets. He drags his tongue back up — and then buries his face between your legs, no warning given before he starts eating you out like he’s having a feast. It is a calculated mess: the way he licks and sucks, obscenely unapologetic, and pleasure sparks off through you, intoxicating and setting every nerve alight. There is no questioning his skills — Jack knows your body like it was made for him, like he has mapped it with his mouth so many times, he’d find and follow every contour in the darkness. He doesn’t use his hands yet. He doesn’t need to: not when he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure in your stomach building up, your orgasm barrelling towards you deliciously fast — and then it crashes right through you, your body trembling all over, Jack’s name lustily rolling off your tongue.
He doesn’t stop.
One of his palms glides to the inside of your thigh, rubs a few soothing circles on your skin. Then his thumb carefully strokes your swollen bundle of nerves — and you don’t come down from your high, instead reaching a torturous plateau: you are still sensitive and gasping, and yet insatiable for him, your hips instinctively, needily grinding against his hand. He starts with just one finger — thick, long, and pushing into you with ease. Jack’s breathing hitches when you clench around him, and almost instantly, he adds a second, knowing you’ll take it, knowing how much you love being stuffed full of him. You answer with a long-drawn moan because fuck yes, you do.
He’s slow at first, sliding his fingers in up to the knuckles, dragging his gaze up to your face. It’s a debauched sight, a mesmerizing one: the way you spread your legs for him, head falling back against the pillow, a string of wanton sounds spilling from your lips. He watches your reaction closely as he expertly hits the spot that makes you keen and squeeze your eyes shut, hips grounding down into him harder. Jack takes this moment to ease another finger in, his hand already slick with you, his cock straining against his boxer briefs.
And he is picking up the pace, his three fingers stretching you wider, wet sounds filling the dimmed room.
He doesn’t plan to. He’s memorizing it again: your scent, your taste, the tremble of your legs he unspools the tension from. This perfect, sweat-covered image of your naked body — he’d paint it on the inside of his eyelids if he could. And Jack can tell you’re getting close: words incoherent, muscles pulling tighter. It takes just four swipes of his tongue — and then you’re cumming with a silent scream, back arched, thighs clamped around his head. He works you through it, patient and waiting until your legs relax again, so he can pull his fingers out.
You feel the aftershocks hum through your body, the satisfying rush of blood ebbing a little. But you are not yet satiated. And when you look at Jack, he is already staring at you, gaze dark, unblinking. He keeps eye contact as he licks his fingers clean, his chin and mouth drenched in you, cheeks flushed. You think, with anxious excitement:
he will not give you anything that you don’t ask for. You have to be straightforward about what you want.
So you tug at his hair to bring him up, to kiss him, the growing urgency you want him to join in on. He moves up purposefully slowly, your legs still open under him, his palm grazing your hip up to the waist, his touches featherlike and fleeting, unseen lines that won’t turn into marks. Jack hovers over you, sturdy and still, but he’s not teasing. Up close, with your faces mere inches from each other, he’s softer — like he’s marveling at you, like he is reverent, like he’d believe in you like he never believed in God.
And yet, he is still holding back.
You put a hand up to his chest, fingers splayed wide, appreciative of how heated his skin feels. His pulse leaps — you do feel it. Your hushed words brush his lips:
“I don’t want just your hands, I need more. I need all of you.”
And then abruptly, your fingers travel lower, over his tensing stomach and down to where he’s hard and leaking through his briefs. You palm him through the fabric, eager, with just the right amount of pressure. Just how he likes it. His hips stutter, a groan stifled in his throat. You easily slip under the elastic and free him — so thick and heavy in your palm, you have to bite your lip to hold back a grin. You wrap your hand around the base without even looking and give his cock a few slow strokes; with each one, Jack gulps more and more air in. Unraveling.
And you say — bluntly, ardently, right into his mouth:
“I want to have you raw.”
Jack’s eyes go wide. Emotions ripple across his face — amazement bordering on disbelief. He grabs both of your hands and pins them above your head, a strong grip you can’t free yourself from. This silences you for a second. And then you watch intently as his resolve gives way to his desires, to something almost primal, inescapable. That mirrors everything you’re feeling. You shamelessly arch into him, bare breasts rubbing against his broad chest.
“Please, Jack,” you writhe — in agony, in need. “I want to feel you. Want you to fill me up. Leave me so full, I’ll leak all over the bed. Please, please, plea—”
His mouth shuts you up, a kiss so searing it knocks the air from your lungs. You taste yourself on him — you also taste his desperation, the fevered hunger he is at the mercy of. Him and you both. There is no space between your bodies, and you can feel his length against your thigh — you plea again, and his hands dart to nudge your legs further apart. Your own hands — freed and impatient — tug at his briefs; he yanks them down to his knees before his cock finally presses at your entrance. His tip slids through your folds until he’s coated in your wetness, until you’re whimpering and begging and bucking your hips forward.
But all the words escape you when he pushes in.
He eases into you, unhurried, inch by inch, his thickness stretching you and filling you until he bottoms out. You are so overwhelmed, it feels like you can’t take a single breath. Jack gives your body a moment to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his palm against your cheek. And then he rolls his hips experimentally, just once. A sound tumbles from your mouth: loud, throaty moan. And suddenly your lust for him eclipses every other feeling.
You link your hands behind his neck, locking your gaze with his. And you don’t need to say a word for him to move. He starts slow, but he thrusts deep, the way he knows you love, the way that makes your hips cant up to meet his rhythm. You feel him everywhere — the friction and the weight of him, breaths shared between two mouths, the pleasure mounting in you so fast, your head is swimming. And you are pliant in his hands, and you know he did ruin you for every other man. You’d let him do it all over again.
Jack takes his time, determined, each thrust unleashing pure bliss in you. He manages to keep control — until he moves his eyes down to where you are joined, where you’re soaking him.
“You are taking me so fucking well,” he praises breathlessly.
And then his thrusts start growing rougher, sweat dribbling from his temples, his lips tasting like salt when you catch them with yours. You bite his lower lip — he almost wishes you drew blood and left a mark he’d wear for days. A gift, a memory, proof that you allowed him to have you one last time. He also wishes he could make this last, but he’s as wrecked as you are. And you are back to begging.
Jack moves his mouth to your neck, and his hand snakes between your bodies to trace tight circles on your clit. He doesn’t need to ask you or to wait for long — he barely even needs to touch you — you fall apart with a full-body shudder, a cry muffled against his shoulder. And you squeeze him so tight, it tips him over. The orgasm rips through him, hips jerking as he spills inside you, your body clinging to his, welcoming everything he gives you. Down to the last drop. Until he’s emptied, and the room feels colder. And somehow emptiness feels heavy.
You stay like this — tangled together, your labored breathing the only sound in the silence. And Jack suspects that once you slip out of your daze, you will regret this. Him. He watches as you calm your breath, he keeps his weight braced above you as he is trying to compose himself. As if he’s bracing for the impact of your rejection.
You sigh with your whole chest. Then look at him, your words measured, the decision made:
“I can’t give you a second chance.”
His face doesn’t react, not right away. His eyes do — they are much greener now, and pain sweeps through them like an underwater current. Like something that’s about to swallow him. And he will let it drown him willingly.
But then you put your thumb under his chin. To make him pay attention when you add:
“—If you don’t start talking to me. If you don’t let me in that overthinking head of yours,” your voice isn’t commanding but conciliatory, the same softness you always have for him in spades. “Because I don’t want to second-guess your every move. Or watch you distancing yourself from me over something you mentally blew out of proportion. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on, and I hate not knowing.”
He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t move. You aren’t even sure he is breathing. In the faint golden lamplight, Jack is a marble statue, as though his brain short-circuited at your suggestion. As if he can’t believe your words are real.
Your hand cradles his face, like all these months back. Your touch is just as warm and soothing.
“Jack, can you take a breath for me?” you ask quietly, your words grazing his lips.
A few long seconds pass before he blinks and breathes in — and his chest shudders on the inhale, like all the walls he’s built around his heart are finally collapsing. He’s blinking rapidly, eyes glistening. He never looks away.
“Yes,” Jack whispers, his voice colored with relief. “Yes, to everything you said. I’ll do it. You won’t have to ask again,” and then his head drops to your shoulder, and his mouth presses repentance and kisses into your skin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve apologized enough,” you say softly, arms moving up to hug him — but then he shifts his weight, and your thighs flinch. Because he’s still inside you.
You hiss, Jack stops. He drags his lips back, a barely audible apology left somewhere at your collarbone because he just can’t help it. He gets up and almost stumbles, one foot caught in his own briefs that dangle somewhere at his ankles. You laugh and help him pull them up; Jack leaves a kiss on the crown of your head. He comes back with a wet towel, sits next to you, and opens your legs gently to wipe you clean, his hands careful where you are most sensitive. Where you are filled with him.
And while he is attentive, he’s relaxed, like all the tension bled out of him with sweat, like an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders. You watch him and you wish so strongly that he could always be like this. And when he’s not, you wish you could be there too.
And something prompts you to blurt out:
“I’m still on the pill, by the way. So no accidental babies, don’t worry.”
A smile splits across his face. Real, evident in both corners of his mouth. He doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t give you a reply until he’s done. Jack pulls your underwear back on and crawls into the bed with you — he is still smiling when he says:
“I wouldn’t mind if you weren’t.”
And you should laugh it off or leave for later, but you can’t. Responsibilities that come with kids usually come hand in hand with marriage. You’ve never talked about either. Although you’ve wanted to — you thought about it, dreamed about it, and Jack has always been the one you could imagine your life with.
Now you’re afraid it all may crumble like a sand castle. He reads the worry from your gaze and pulls you closer, arms on your waist. And this time, Jack lays the foundation for a home he wants to last for years.
“I want everything with you,” he says simply, warmly. “I want to come home to you, I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you. I want you on your day-offs, and I want to be in trauma rooms with you. If there’s a spot for a night-shift attending at your hospital, I’ll transfer,” he leans to place a kiss over your shoulder. Lips soft, words firm, gaze — both, always on you. “I want to marry you — in a cathedral packed with guests or have a courthouse wedding, it doesn’t matter, take your pick. I’d love for us to have a kid one day — but I’ll be just as happy if we don’t. I know that I will love you under any circumstances, through good and bad, and everything else life throws at us. And I don’t ever want to be without you.”
You only realize you’re crying when his fingers sweep the tears from your cheeks.
“I thought you hated weddings,” you sniffle.
“I said I didn’t care about them. But I do care about you,” he skims his thumb across your cheekbone. Then places a kiss there, too.
Before you know it, you are smiling. And these are definitely happy tears. The dreams you deemed delusive come back to your mind — and they are not about diamonds or white dresses: instead, you picture waking in his arms. In an apartment of your own or maybe in a house. And you do want a kid — at least one — with his bright copper curls and freckles and that cheeky crooked smile he had when he was little.
And in the morning, you will tell him that Gloria said she’d gladly have you back.
But right now, you have other words to say. You drop a light kiss on his jaw, your tears dried up, face beaming when you tell him:
“I love you.”
Jack’s smile quivers. As does his voice. “No, don’t say it. Not now,” he shakes his head and drops his gaze, like he’s afraid you’ll notice his one fear he doesn’t yet know how to pacify. “Tell me again later, when I’ll deserve that. I hope I will.”
You put your index finger over his cheek and turn his face a little so he can meet your eyes again. You’re speaking with them, too.
“I loved you then, and I love you now. You don’t need to work for it. You just need to accept it. You need to let me love you, Jack. That’s what you deserve.”
You look out for the furrow of his brows. For shades of doubt or for some objections to make his mouth twitch. But even if they try to, Jack doesn’t let them — because he chooses to believe you. Because he’s not about to waste his second chance. He takes your face in his hands, his eyes in awe of you, in love. He kisses you — deeply, unhurriedly, like it’s a promise no words are needed for.
And then it feels like deja vu, the sweetest dream that’s coming true — you bring him into your embrace, under the bedcover you pull over his back. More kisses tucked between his face and neck. His arms stay wrapped around you, and he’s wrapped in your warmth, in calmness he forgot the feel of. Jack’s breath tickles your skin as his eyes finally dip closed.
And it feels like coming home.
✧ I totally imagined Jonathan Bailey as Jonathan;
✧ the title is a quote from a song. I also made a PLAYLIST for this fic 🎵
✧ here’s the thing that’s been on my mind: headcanons about Jack finding his therapist (that savvy old man I keep mentioning in my fics). would anyone want to read that? I even have a face claim.
✧ dividers by @/firefly-graphics and @/uzmacchiato.
✧ MY MASTERLIST
♡ English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes. comments & reblogs are very appreciated! let me know if you want to be tagged ♡