Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
cw: non consent
“Ye almost hit her.” Johnny snaps, glowering at Kyle from across the counter.
“C’mon, it wasn’t even close. You,” his gaze swings accusingly towards Simon, “were letting her squirm around too much.” Simon shakes his head.
“Didn’t want to break her.” You’re fragile. A little kitten in the jaws of wolves. Breakable like a pane of glass. Even more so now, since you’re sick. The bond corroding away inside your body hasn’t done you any favors.
The smallest amount of guilt pinches in his stomach. They’ve made a mess of everything.
Only right they clean it up.
A small cough echoes from the bedroom, and Simon frowns. You should be asleep. There was enough sedative in that water to knock out a horse. He jerks his head towards the sound. “Johnny.” His mate nods, and silence fills the kitchen as he disappears down the hall.
“So what’s your plan here?”
“Ger her on the plane, get her home, go from there.” There’s more, a methodical step by step plan, but he doesn’t care to elaborate. Kyle can infer most of it already. He’s familiar.
A hand rests on Simon’s shoulder, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle. “She’s in the closet,” Johnny murmurs, “passed out. Must’ve been feelin’ really anxious, poor thing.” The sympathy is dripping with something darker, something sinister. You’re anxious, you’re fearful, and though it’s their fault, they don’t truly care, not in this moment. Once they get you home, get you settled, they’ll work on it, right the ship. But for now, it’s fuel for a machine that has to keep churning, has to carry you across the finish line. Fear is a powerful motivator, they know. If you threaten someone’s life, scare them into thinking they’re in real danger, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.
Anything.
“Closet again.” Johnny shoots him a mischievous grin. It’s been hours since you retreated back to your room after dinner, tucking yourself away in your nest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze.”
“‘m not crawling into that closet unless it’s to drag her out.” He tells his mate with a flat look, trying to curb his frustration. He knows it wasn’t a conscious decision to build your nest in there, more so your biology urging you to find somewhere safe, your omega trying to retreat, protect herself, but bloody hell do you make everything so difficult. “Did you take her temp?” Johnny hums.
“Borderline high. Think we’ve got one more day before it hits, maybe two.” His mate is almost giddy, the overwhelming happiness flowing down the bond like warmth, filling an empty space in Simon’s chest.
And why shouldn’t he be? They’re getting everything they ever wanted, everything they’ve dreamed. All their planning, their strategizing, everything put into motion finally paying off. If they’re lucky, they’ll get through this unscathed, they’ll bite you, bond you, keep you forever, and you’ll never know the truth. He can taste it, taste you, on the back of his tongue, and it’s more than just perfume, pheromones. It’s clean and buttery and sweet…
and made for his mouth.
Made for their mouths.
There isn’t a gift quite like having a mate. Someone predestined for you, a mate is the only thing in the world that belongs to you before you ever see them, lay a hand on them. There is no ownership greater than the bond, no claim stronger.
There is no choice.
Only fate.
“Bleedin’ christ.” Johnny swears, laser focused on the rear view mirror. He’s rattling in the passenger seat, shaking from the amount of energy it’s taking to restrain himself.
“Stay calm.” Simon grits from a clenched jaw. He’s clinging to shreds of control, his alpha instincts surging to the surface, trying to break free. Johnny sits frozen in the passenger seat, still locked onto the mirror watching you fade into the distance.
“Ghost, Soap. Status?” The earpiece chirps, John’s voice echoing between them.
“Clear. Lost the target, we’re returning to base. There’s been… a complication.” The line is quiet for a moment, no doubt their captain weighing their words, trying to discern their meaning. Eventually, he just acknowledges them, but it hardly registers.
“Copy.”
“I cannae believe this.” Johnny hisses, half mad. His scent has turned feral, rimmed in rage, in confusion, as Simon’s teeters on a similar edge. They’re a powder keg right now. “Of all places…” Simon grimaces.
“Nothin’ we can do about it now.” It’s rotten luck, at the end of the day. Finding their scent match, their omega, should have never happened while they’re on a mission, in some unknown in a foreign country. It’s the perfect storm of wrong place, wrong time, and all he can do is hope that their little show was enough to convince whoever is tailing them you’re not of interest. “We’ll get clear of this, ask for leave, come back for ‘er.” Johnny’s eyes are dark as they flick towards him.
“She’s no’ gonna come willingly, not after that.”
“No.” Simon agrees, his hand coming down to lay atop Johnny’s, their fingers intertwining. “She won’t.” An unspoken certainty settles between them, a silent promise to do what it takes.
Whatever it takes.
Johnny is out for a run during breakfast.
It’s his normal, and they’ve tried to get back into their usual routines, their normal life, without exposing themselves as much as possible. They’ve scrubbed the house clean, anything personal or meaningful loaded into storage crates, cardboard boxes and bags, all of their belongings that made this house their home hidden away. Everything from photos to tea towels, all of it crammed along the walls of their bedroom.
It makes Simon’s skin itch.
The sooner they can move on from this, the better.
“Johnny’s gone on a run,” he tells you, not surprised at the answering silence. You try not to speak to them, insisting on kicking and screaming, digging your heels in like a petulant toddler.
He wishes you’d just give it up already, but he can’t deny he enjoys your stubbornness, your strong will.
It makes everything more interesting. More fun.
You’re worse for the wear this morning, listless, slightly swaying in your seat, pushing food around your plate, scent tinged slightly sour at the edges. Just enough that his alpha bristles, an overwhelming need to fix it, fix you, rolling through his blood like a wave.
“Feelin’ alright?” You blink at him, brow furrowed for a moment before it smooths away and you shake your head.
“I’m fine.” You croak, reaching for the pill bottles. He feigns disinterest as you shake them into your palm, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re a dutiful patient, clinging to the hope that the medication will help you, ease your suffering, completely oblivious to the truth.
They tossed that poison weeks ago, and what’s left of it is currently burning through your system. The last line of defense disintegrating before his very eyes, castle walls collapsing into dust around you.
He smothers his smile.
It’s not that he’s taking pleasure in your suffering, because he’s not, but he can’t help but silently celebrate the inevitable. Every second, every hour brings you closer to the finish line, to the moment where you’ll be so overtaken by your biology that you won’t be able to fight it, or them. Your protests, your fear, your rational thought will fade away as your instincts take over and you beg them for bites, knots… bonds.
You’ll become theirs, and they can leave this entire mess in the past where it belongs.
“She has it..” Johnny scrubs a hand over her face. “She’s sick, Si.”
They watch from the SUV as you come out of the clinic, zipping your jacket up to your chin. Your eyes are dull, lifeless, and a chill runs up Simon’s spine.
Bond corrosion. They’ve felt the effects too, the rot festering under their ribs, their biology slowly turning on them, punishing them. They’re just too strong to succumb.
Johnny taps away at the keyboard of the laptop balanced on his knees, your medical records spread across the screen in a dozen different windows. “Been gettin’ treatment for it for months. Suppressants, blockers, painkillers. The whole lot.” Simon grits his teeth. “Says here she had…” He trails off, focuses through the windshield to where you’re standing on the sidewalk.
“Had what?”
“A heat. After we left.” Regret tinges Johnny’s scent, and it pinches his heart. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering they went through a rut around the same time, but at least they had each other. They always had each other. You had no one.
You look over your shoulder for a second, eyes sweeping across the street. Simon freezes.
“Can she…” Johnny whispers, Simon shakes his head.
“No. She might feel us, maybe. But if she’s this sick, I doubt her instincts are reliable.” The moment passes. You turn away, flipping your hood up over your head, walking in the opposite direction, walking away from them.
“We need to move in. No more waiting.” Johnny pulls his phone from his pocketing, opening their text thread to Keller. A hot flare of jealously rises in his stomach. His alpha is possessive. Alex has no right to see you, smell you. You’re theirs.
“He doesn’t touch her,” Simon warns. “We only want him to spook her. Make sure he understands.”
“Tonight?” There’s hope in Johnny’s eyes, excitement. A little bit of worry too, for you, but overall, this is a good thing. An expedited timeline just means they’re one step closer to bringing you home. Sick, but they’ll fix it. They’ll take care of you. Simon nods his affirmative.
“Tonight.”
“Dove?” A small crease forms between your brows, as Johnny gently shakes your shoulder. “Dove, ye alright?”
“Mmm?” You shake him off, pressing deeper into the cushions of the couch. Simon’s fingers find your cheek, backs of his knuckles brushing upward, over your temple, across your forehead. Hot. Your skin is hot, nearly burning, damp with sweat. Dark satisfaction burns through his veins. How long will it be before you’re begging for them? Crying for them? How long will it be before you forget how they’ve hurt you, all the suffering you’ve endured because of them, and crawl towards them on your hands and knees?
Your scent blooms, flowers into something sweeter as you lean into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes open.
“What is it?” You mumble, pushing yourself up on an elbow, shaking your head like you’re trying to shed the clutch of sleep. It’s no use. It’s not sleep that has its hooks in you but heat, biology building to a crescendo, an overwhelming symphony drowning out your rational mind, your logical thoughts.
“You’re sick, sweetheart. Think you’ve got a fever.” He lies easily, and you try to push him off, but there’s no strength in you, your effort feeble.
“No, ‘m fine.”
“Ye’re not.” Johnny argues, propping you up with arm around your shoulder. “Did ye take yer meds?” Simon swallows his snicker.
“Y-yeah, I don’t know why they’re not working.” You moan, attempting to pull away. All it does is give Johnny an opening to hold you closer, and his mouth brushes across the top of your head when you instinctively turn your face into his neck, seeking his scent. “It’s so hot.” You complain, and Johnny smiles, unabashed since you can’t see his face.
“Aye. Want to get in the shower, try to cool off?” You nod miserably, and Simon urges you up, supporting your weight as you struggle to your feet.
“Take it slow,” Simon murmurs as you tackle the stairs, one painstakingly drawn out step at a time. Johnny’s behind you, fingertips at your waist, as Simon shoulders your lack of balance from the side.
Your scent is overwhelming. Burnt sugar turning to caramel, it mixes with Johnny’s excitement, his joy, tangling together in a perfect, heady combination that nearly has Simon’s mouth watering. He can’t wait to taste you, can’t wait to spread your legs and bury his face in your pussy, taste your slick.
The bathroom in their room is large, more than enough room for them to maneuver around you as Simon holds you upright where you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and Johnny tests the temperature of the water.
“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” You shake your head, try to pull away as they curl under the hem of your t-shirt.
“It’s alright dove,” Johnny reassures you, now kneeling at your feet. “We’re jus’ gonna get ye cooled down.” They synchronize their movements, Simon lifting you slightly so Johnny can hook his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pull, Johnny holding you at the waist so Simon can get your bra off. You’re left only in your underwear, listing weakly to the side into Simon. “Such a good girl,” he croons, rubbing your thighs, “such a good omega.” You mumble something into Simon’s stomach, an objection maybe. A last line in the sand. “Up ye get.” Johnny pats your waist, and they herd you into the shower, supporting your weight, carefully holding you under the spray.
“Don’t…” You protest, but it’s fruitless. Your body is bared to them, naked while they're clothed, and Johnny grins with a full mouth of teeth, the widening maw of a predator. He drinks his fill, sweeping over you from head to toe, his fingers lightly brushing your nipples as he soaps your skin. When you shudder, Simon can't help himself, can't stop from splaying a hand across your belly, feeling your softness, the goosebumps rising beneath his touch.
“You’ll feel better after this,” He promises, moving you deeper into the shower, rubbing your back as water cascades over your shoulders. This won’t do much to keep you cool, not for long. It’s a temporary balm, but until you’re panting and presenting, they need to stay the course. Try to keep you cool, keep you comfortable, until you’re overwhelmed by your heat and unable to fight it.
“Cold,” you whimper under the lukewarm water, instinctively pressing yourself into Simon. You fit there so perfectly, and Johnny smiles, sweet and sharp, the loofa in his hand sliding down your spine, soap working into a lather.
“I know dove, I know.” Johnny keeps his voice even toned, pillow soft. “Jus’ a minute more.” You shake your head against Simon’s chest, your nose turning inward, dragging across his wet shirt like you’re searching for him, seeking his scent. You sniffle, fists clenching and then relaxing, a battle unfolding inside your head, your body, a whine growing in your throat as the shift you further under the water to rinse off.
Johnny starts to hum. It’s a gentle, slow rumble building from his chest, and Simon presses a thumb into your nape, careful and firm. You’re powerless against his touch, Johnny’s subharmonics, your muscles immediately softening, turning more pliant by the second. Johnny kills the water and you sag between them, boneless and shivering. “Poor thing,” You shake your head.
“No.” It’s a whisper on deaf ears. Simon reaches for the clean towel they hung on the rack, wraps it around your shoulders. “No.” You say again.
“Aye, we heard ye.” Johnny rubs your shoulders, your arms dry, and you try to take a shaky step away, a small, half attempt that ends with your knees buckling. Months of sickness, meds, futile efforts, has wrecked you, left you defenseless, and he considers it a small stroke of luck. It’s easier, like this.
Simon leads you out of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around your waist, as Johnny moves ahead, pulling back the covers of the bed.
Their bed.
Not yours.
Not guest bed, not the little nest you’ve built in the closet, but their bed. The one that’s saturated with their scent, their warmth, the one that will become yours.
“No,” you rasp, pushing against Simon’s chest as he lowers you to the sheets, “not in here. I want m-my room. My...” The rest goes unsaid. Your nest. Your omega is seeking her safe space, you don’t realize yet that this is where you’re truly safest. With them.
“I know,” Johnny soothes, cupping your cheek. “But we need to keep an eye on ye.” Simon tugs at the towel, your grip falling away, anger igniting behind your eyes for a brief moment before it’s snuffed out again, and you hang your head.
You don’t fight as Simon pulls the sheets and blankets up to your chin, you don’t push Johnny away as he fluffs the pillows behind your head. The heat roiling under your skin has drained your energy, and once they’re done tucking you in you roll onto your side, turning your back, shutting them out.
He’ll allow it, for now.
Johnny is already climbing into bed, over eager, eyes shining, murmuring into the crown of your head sweetly. Lies, probably. False promises meant to relax you, and Simon watches as your shoulders hitch once Johnny’s arm folds over your waist.
You do not have the strength to push him away.
Simon takes the other side. Your eyes crack open, fever heavy and suspicious.
“Close your eyes dove. Sleep.” Your mouth opens, closes, and he waits for your temper, your questions, but your lower lip trembles instead, and you bury your face in the pillow, hiding from him. From them. From everything.
He squeezes your hip, relaxes his palm next to Johnny’s, their thumbs folding over one another atop your body.
This is it. This is right. This is how everything should have been all along, you here, with them, cradled between their bodies, an omega made for her mates.
Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to a psychiatric hold
a/n: Okay I love this trope so bad so thank you to those who requested it :) This first part has a lot of... thinking in it so make sure to heed the warnings. Themes may continue, but this fic will also have a lot of humor, pining, and fluff. Happy ending as always <3 I love you okay bye :)
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
There was a humming in your ears—constant enough to be considered ringing, but not quite as sharp. Moments ago, the pull in your gut had you keeling over in bed, and then you had stumbled to your bedroom door, trying to alert your roommates that something was… wrong. Off. Unusual in a bad way, and you had no frame of reference for the feeling. You could remember falling into the hallway as the door swung open, and then the pulling intensified. And then it stopped.
You figured you were in the hospital; that was the only reasonable explanation, unless your roommates had decided to leave you for dead in the hall, but they wouldn’t do that. They had terrible penchants for eating your cereal, leaving dishes in the sink, and having guests over without warning, but they weren’t evil enough to deny you medical attention. Hopefully.
It was probably your appendix. That was the first ailment your brain always went to when you were sick, and the hyperfixation was finally coming to fruition. You couldn’t remember any pain, any fever prior to passing out on the carpeted floor, but you were sure that was it. The heaviness of your eyelids lessened as you worked through the explanation in your mind.
Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear.
Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened.
Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force.
“Explain it again?”
“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.”
The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?
No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain.
You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.
Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.
Your breaths became even more difficult to capture.
“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.
You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel.
Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm.
Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?”
The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous.
“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.”
“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?”
You paused. “New York?”
The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”
Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?”
Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed.
You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York.
You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane.
The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign.
This could have been a very, very realistic dream.
After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you.
The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised.
Wings.
The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured.
But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet.
“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur.
“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it.
Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage.
Okay.
You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there.
“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.”
Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?”
“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all.
Night Court.
You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall.
Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price.
At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.”
“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.”
Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered.
“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.”
“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked.
“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.”
“Law school?” Azriel echoed.
You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly.
Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his.
Something pulled. The air stagnated.
It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that.
It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused.
“What—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window.
Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t.
You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed.
Made.
The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been.
So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again.
You didn’t have the chance to try a second time.
Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed.
Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to a psychiatric hold
a/n: Okay I love this trope so bad so thank you to those who requested it :) This first part has a lot of... thinking in it so make sure to heed the warnings. Themes may continue, but this fic will also have a lot of humor, pining, and fluff. Happy ending as always <3 I love you okay bye :)
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
There was a humming in your ears—constant enough to be considered ringing, but not quite as sharp. Moments ago, the pull in your gut had you keeling over in bed, and then you had stumbled to your bedroom door, trying to alert your roommates that something was… wrong. Off. Unusual in a bad way, and you had no frame of reference for the feeling. You could remember falling into the hallway as the door swung open, and then the pulling intensified. And then it stopped.
You figured you were in the hospital; that was the only reasonable explanation, unless your roommates had decided to leave you for dead in the hall, but they wouldn’t do that. They had terrible penchants for eating your cereal, leaving dishes in the sink, and having guests over without warning, but they weren’t evil enough to deny you medical attention. Hopefully.
It was probably your appendix. That was the first ailment your brain always went to when you were sick, and the hyperfixation was finally coming to fruition. You couldn’t remember any pain, any fever prior to passing out on the carpeted floor, but you were sure that was it. The heaviness of your eyelids lessened as you worked through the explanation in your mind.
Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear.
Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened.
Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force.
“Explain it again?”
“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.”
The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?
No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain.
You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.
Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.
Your breaths became even more difficult to capture.
“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.
You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel.
Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm.
Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?”
The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous.
“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.”
“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?”
You paused. “New York?”
The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”
Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?”
Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed.
You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York.
You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane.
The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign.
This could have been a very, very realistic dream.
After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you.
The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised.
Wings.
The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured.
But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet.
“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur.
“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it.
Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage.
Okay.
You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there.
“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.”
Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?”
“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all.
Night Court.
You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall.
Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense.
It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price.
At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.”
“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.”
Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered.
“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.”
“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked.
“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.”
“Law school?” Azriel echoed.
You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly.
Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his.
Something pulled. The air stagnated.
It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that.
It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused.
“What—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window.
Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t.
You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed.
Made.
The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been.
So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again.
You didn’t have the chance to try a second time.
Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed.
Summary: After dinner, after the truck, after the kiss that makes everything else feel inevitable, Jack takes you home. But he still does not cross the threshold until you ask. This time, your apartment does not feel like a place someone found. It feels like a place you choose. Your door. Your room. Your bed. Your rules. And Jack Abbot, devastatingly patient and barely holding himself together, lets you have every ounce of control until you finally ask him to take it back.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, age gap, oral sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, light restraint/wrist pinning, leg over shoulder, overstimulation-ish, emotional aftercare, soft dom Jack, Reader processing past fear/control issues after Trent, lots of consent/check-ins, Jack being medically responsible and emotionally devastating
Author’s Note: This is the chapter. The dinner was foreplay. The truck kiss was a warning. And Jack Abbot is, unfortunately for all of us, very good at waiting until he is invited in.
Xoxo, Del
| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 |
“Get in the truck,” Jack said.
For one second, you did not move. You just looked at him. At the hand still braced on the open passenger door. At the other hand, flexing once at his side like it needed somewhere to go. At his mouth, still damp from yours. At the hard line of his jaw and the wrecked, focused darkness in his eyes.
You had done that.
The thought moved through you warm and bright and dangerous. You had leaned against his truck and told him dinner was over, and Jack Abbot had kissed you like restraint was something he had been surviving on sheer will alone.
Now he was standing in front of you, breathing hard, telling you to get in the truck.
So you did.
You climbed into the passenger seat on legs that were not nearly as steady as you wanted them to be. His eyes moved over you once, quick and assessing, not clinical, not detached. Just Jack. Seeing too much. Seeing exactly what his mouth had done to you.
Then he closed the door. Gently. Like he had not just pressed you into it hard enough to make your whole body forget the street existed.
You watched him walk around the hood of the truck. He took his time. Not because he was calm. Because he was making himself be calm. You could see it in the set of his shoulders. The way he rolled one hand once before opening his door. The way he got in, shut himself inside the cab with you, and sat there for half a second before reaching for the ignition.
The truck started with a low rumble.
Neither of you spoke.
Jack pulled away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting low near the center console. His eyes stayed on the road. His mouth stayed quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel loud.
You sat beside him, trying not to touch your mouth. Trying not to think about the way his hand had felt at your jaw. Trying not to think about the way his hips had pinned you to the truck door, firm and careful and not nearly enough.
It did not work.
Your body remembered everything. His thumb near the corner of your mouth. His fingers on your hip. The sound he had made when you pulled him back in.
Your fingers curled against your thigh. Jack’s eyes flicked down. Only for a second. Then back to the road.
Your pulse jumped anyway. “You’re quiet,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I’m driving.”
You pressed your lips together. “That has never stopped you from being sarcastic before.”
His mouth barely moved, but the almost-smile did not last. “I’m trying not to be distracted.”
Your breath caught. Jack kept his eyes on the road. You watched his profile in the passing streetlights. The strong line of his nose. The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightened once around the wheel and then loosened, deliberate and controlled.
“You kissed me,” you said.
Jack glanced over, just long enough to make your stomach flip. “I did.”
The words came low. Certain. Then his fingers tightened once around the wheel. “I’ve been thinking about doing it again since I stopped.”
Your fingers tightened against your thigh again. The truck moved through the quiet streets, past closed storefronts and pools of streetlight, toward your apartment. Every block felt shorter than it should have. Every red light felt like a punishment and a mercy.
At one stop, Jack’s hand shifted on the wheel.
Your eyes dropped to it. His knuckles. His wrist. The watch catching a flash of streetlight. You remembered his hand holding your jaw. You remembered his other hand at your hip, firm enough to anchor, restrained enough to make you ache.
Jack looked over.
You did not look away fast enough.
His gaze followed yours to his hand, then came back to your face. The air in the truck changed. The light turned green. Jack looked back at the road and drove.
He pulled up outside your building exactly two minutes later.
Neither of you moved at first. The engine idled. Your apartment building rose quiet and familiar through the windshield, the porch light glowing above the entrance, the windows dark except for a few scattered rectangles of warm light.
Home.
For days, the word had felt complicated. Now Jack sat beside you, silent and careful, not reaching for you, not assuming anything, waiting like he had meant every word from the beginning.
You unbuckled first. The click sounded too loud in the cab. Jack turned the engine off. Still, he did not move right away.
You looked at him.
His eyes were already on you.
For a second, the air between you felt so charged you thought he might kiss you again right there across the console. He did not. Instead, Jack opened his door and got out.
By the time you reached for your handle, he was already there. The passenger door opened, and cool air slipped into the cab. Jack stood outside, one hand on the door, the other offered to you.
You looked at it. Then at him. His expression stayed steady. Not calm. Steady. There was a difference.
You took his hand. His fingers closed around yours, warm and strong, and he helped you down from the truck. You stepped onto the curb, closer to him than you needed to be.
Neither of you moved away.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not hide it quickly enough. Your pulse kicked. Then he lifted his eyes back to yours and stepped back, giving you space to walk.
Still careful. Still Jack. Still making the choice yours even now.
You hated how much it made you want him. Jack walked beside you into the building, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. The silence between you had changed from the restaurant. Changed from the drive. It was heavier now. Warmer. Less uncertain.
You had told him to take you home.
He did.
You reached your door and stopped. The hallway was quiet. Your key was already in your hand, though you did not remember taking it out. You stared at the lock for one second, then slid the key in.
Jack waited beside you. Not behind you. Not crowding. Just there.
The lock turned.
You pushed the door open. Your apartment was dark except for the soft light you had left on near the kitchen. The flowers Jack had brought you sat on the counter where you had left them, pale and sweet in the glass vase.
For a second, you looked at them.
Then you stepped inside. Jack stayed in the hallway. Your chest tightened. You turned back. He stood just outside the threshold, hands at his sides, eyes on yours. His mouth was still a little swollen from kissing you. His hair was slightly mussed where your fingers had found it at the truck. His jacket sat open, shirt wrinkled where you had fisted your hand in it.
And still, he waited.
Like he would stand there all night if you did not ask. Like he could want you that badly and still not take one step you had not given him. Something low in your stomach twisted. You held his gaze.
“Come in, Jack,” you said.
His expression changed. Barely. A tightening around the eyes. A shift in his jaw. One breath that did not quite leave him clean.
Then he stepped inside.
You closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked.
The sound moved through the apartment, small and final.
For one second, you both stood there. You, with your back near the door. Jack, only a few feet away, watching you like the entire night had narrowed to this room. Your room. Your apartment.
Your choice.
You reached back and turned the deadbolt. The lock slid into place. This time, the sound did not make your stomach drop. This time, it sounded like a decision.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
You could see the restraint in him. Not gone. Not yet. Stretched thin, pulled tight, fighting for its life. He did not move first.
So you did.
You crossed the space between you, took his jacket in both hands, and pulled him down to your mouth. Jack came willingly. Immediately. His hands found your waist, firm and warm, but he did not turn you, did not press you back, did not take the lead.
You felt the restraint in that, too. The waiting. The permission. The way his fingers flexed once against you and then stilled. You kissed him harder. Jack made a low sound against your mouth.
Your whole body lit with it.
You pushed his jacket off one shoulder, then the other, and he let it fall to the floor behind him without looking away from you.
His hands tightened at your waist. Just a little. Enough to tell you what he wanted. Not enough to take it. You broke the kiss only far enough to breathe. Jack followed you half an inch, then stopped himself. His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Focused.
Yours.
You smiled against his mouth. “Not yet,” you whispered.
Jack went still. For one second, you felt his hands flex at your waist. Then they stopped. Completely. His voice came out rough. “Okay.”
You kissed him again, slower this time. Because he had waited. Because he was still waiting. Because for the first time all week, your apartment did not feel like a place someone had found.
It felt like a place you had chosen.
And Jack was only here because you asked.
You stepped back.
Jack did not follow right away. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and fixed, waiting for the next cue. Something low in your stomach twisted.
You took his hand. His fingers closed around yours immediately.
Then you turned and led him down the hall. Jack followed. Not crowding. Not rushing. Just close enough that every step felt like a promise. Every shadow felt warmer. Every inch between your bodies felt temporary.
Your bedroom door was open. The room was dim, lit only by the soft spill from the hall and the small lamp you had left on near your bed. Your sheets were still slightly rumpled from your nap. Your book still sat facedown on the nightstand, spine apparently suffering in silence.
It should have felt strange, bringing him here.
After everything.
After Trent had left coffee outside your door like he had any right to your life. After you had spent nights in Jack’s guest room because your own apartment had stopped feeling simple. But Jack crossed the threshold only after you did. He stopped just inside your bedroom, eyes still on yours, hand still in yours, waiting.
Always waiting.
Your chest tightened. Then you pressed your free palm to his chest and pushed. Not hard. Enough. Jack’s brows lifted faintly. You pushed again, guiding him backward until the backs of his legs met the mattress.
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of exactly what you were doing. Exactly where you were putting him. Exactly how much he was letting you.
“Sit,” you said.
Jack went very still. The word seemed to move through him before he moved with it.
Then he sat. Slowly. Carefully. On the edge of your bed.
For one second, you just looked at him. Jack Abbot, sitting on your bed in his clean shirt and good jeans, jacket gone, hair a little mussed from your fingers, mouth swollen from yours, hands resting on either side of his thighs like he did not trust himself to put them anywhere else.
Your stomach flipped hard.
His eyes moved over your face. “What?”
You stepped between his knees. Jack’s hands flexed against the mattress. You noticed. His gaze sharpened because he knew you had. For one second, you thought about climbing into his lap exactly like this. Sweater. Jeans. Boots still by the door.
All of it.
Then you remembered the way he had made you wait all night. Dinner first. Dessert first. Every door opened. Every line held. Every touch careful enough to make you ache. Your fingers curled around the hem of your sweater. Jack went still. Completely still.
You looked down at him. “Watch.”
His jaw tightened once. He did not move. You pulled the sweater up and over your head, slow enough to be cruel, then let it fall to the floor beside his jacket. Jack’s eyes moved over you. Not quickly. Not politely.
He looked like a man trying to be respectful and losing the fight by inches. Your face warmed under it, but you did not look away. You reached for the button of your jeans. Jack’s hands curled against the edge of the mattress.
You saw it.
The quiet, brutal effort of him keeping his hands to himself while you undid the button, eased the zipper down, and pushed the denim over your hips. You stepped out of the jeans and kicked them aside. Then you stood there in front of him, wearing only your bra and underwear, breathing harder than you wanted him to know.
Jack did not say anything. That was worse. His eyes lifted back to yours, dark and fixed and almost painfully focused. You crossed your arms loosely, mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s mouth parted slightly. Then closed. His eyes dropped over you again, slower this time, and when he looked back up, his voice was rough. “I’m trying very hard to stay sitting down.”
Your stomach flipped. You stepped closer. Jack’s eyes followed you. You reached down and took one of his hands. He let you. You lifted it to your waist, setting his palm against bare skin this time. The contact made both of you breathe differently. Then you took his other hand and placed it on your hip.
Jack’s fingers curled carefully against you. Warm. Firm. Still waiting.
“You can touch me,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze. “Just don’t take over.”
Something changed in his expression. Not amusement. Not surprise.
Want.
So much of it that your knees nearly softened before anything had even happened. Jack’s thumbs moved once against your skin. Barely there. Devastating. “I can do that,” he said.
His voice was low. Rough. Not entirely convincing.
You leaned closer. “Can you?”
Jack looked up at you from the edge of your bed, his hands exactly where you had placed them, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
“No,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
Then his fingers tightened on your hip. “But I will.”
Your breath left you. For one second, neither of you moved.
Then you climbed into his lap.
Jack’s inhale broke. His hands came to your hips immediately, firm but still, holding you as you settled over him, knees on either side of his thighs, your body pressed close enough to feel exactly how much restraint had been costing him.
Your hands slid to his shoulders. Jack looked up at you. Gone. Completely gone. And still waiting.
You lowered your mouth to his.
The kiss was slower this time. Deeper. Yours. Jack let you set it. Let you angle his face the way you wanted. Let you take your time while your body settled carefully over his lap.
The first press of his cock through his jeans made both of you breathe differently.
Jack’s fingers dug into your hips.
You stilled.
His eyes opened against yours.
“Sorry,” he said, voice wrecked.
You shook your head. Then you rolled your hips again. Slow. Deliberate.
Jack’s head tipped back slightly, his throat working as he swallowed a sound. You watched him. The strong line of his neck. The tense set of his jaw. The way his eyes closed for half a second before he forced them open again, like he refused to miss what you were doing to him.
Your confidence returned in a warm, dangerous rush. You did it again.
Jack cursed under his breath. “Fuck.”
The word sounded dragged out of him.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack’s hands tightened on your hips, still not moving you, still not taking the rhythm from you.
“You’re so perfect,” he said, rough and low. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”
Your whole body warmed. You kissed him again before he could see how badly the words landed.
But he knew.
His mouth moved against yours, hungry now, less polished than before. You could feel him trying to stay where you put him. Trying to let you have this. Trying not to guide your hips even as his hands flexed like they knew exactly what they wanted.
You rolled your hips again.
Jack’s forehead dropped briefly to your shoulder. His breath was hot against your bare skin.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough against you. “Take what you want.”
The words lit through you. You did. You moved again, slow and deliberate in his lap, and Jack held on like a man being ruined by his own restraint.
His mouth found your shoulder. He kissed you there. Once. Then again. Warm. Open. Not enough. Too much. Your head tipped back before you could stop it. Jack groaned softly against your skin.
Then you decided you wanted that sound again. You slid one hand to the back of his neck and guided his mouth away from your shoulder, tipping his head back just enough to give yourself access to his throat.
Jack went still beneath you. Not stopping you. Waiting.
Your mouth found the side of his neck. Warm skin. The faint taste of soap. The jump of his pulse beneath your lips. You kissed him there once, then again, slower this time, letting your teeth graze just enough to feel the way his entire body reacted beneath yours.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
His hands tightened at your hips. You smiled against his skin and did it again. A little harder. A little meaner. Not enough to hurt. Enough to leave him with no doubt that you wanted him to feel it later. Jack’s head tipped back farther, his jaw tight, his breathing rough as your mouth moved along his throat.
You sucked at the sensitive place beneath his jaw, then soothed it with your tongue. His fingers dug into your hips. Still not moving you. Still not taking over. But barely.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were dark enough to make your breath catch.
Then he smiled.
Not much.
Barely at all.
But enough to make your stomach drop.
“Dangerous,” he said.
You rolled your hips again. Jack’s smile disappeared. His hands gripped you tighter. Your pulse thundered.
There he was. There was the edge of him. The part underneath the flowers, the dinner, and the opened doors. The part that had kissed you against the truck like the whole night had finally snapped. The part that was sitting on your bed now, letting you take control while every careful piece of him fought not to take it back.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “Then behave,” you whispered.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. For one second, his hands went absolutely still on your hips. Then his mouth found yours again, hard and hot and open, and you smiled into the kiss because even now, even like this, he was trying.
And God help you, you were going to enjoy every second of making that difficult.
You shifted in his lap, searching for more pressure. Jack felt it immediately. His hands tightened at your hips, but he did not move you. He did not take over. He only adjusted beneath you. One thigh shifted between yours, giving you something solid to grind against.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. He knew. His voice dropped. “There.”
You swallowed. The pressure was better like this. Sharper. More focused. Your hips moved again before you could think better of it, and pleasure sparked low in your stomach, sudden enough that your fingers tightened on his shoulders.
Jack watched your face change. His jaw went tight. “That’s it,” he said. “Use me.”
The words went through you like a match dropped into gasoline. Your hips rocked again, slower this time, dragging the ache into something hotter, brighter, harder to ignore. Jack’s hand slid up your back, then stopped halfway, like he had to remind himself he was allowed to touch but not steer. His other hand stayed at your hip, fingers spread wide, holding you steady while you took what you needed from the firm line of his thigh.
You kissed him because you needed somewhere to put the sound building in your throat. Jack took the kiss and gave it back deeper. Hungrier. Still yours. Still letting you lead.
But his restraint was beginning to show cracks.
You could feel it in the way he breathed against you. In the way his thigh pressed up just slightly, giving you more without forcing it. In the way his hand flexed at your hip every time your rhythm stuttered.
“Jack,” you breathed against his mouth.
His eyes opened. “Yeah?”
You moved again, and the word disappeared from your head. Jack’s expression changed. Softer. Darker. Focused in a way that made you feel seen down to the bone.
“There you go,” he said, voice low. “That’s what you needed.”
Your face warmed. Your body did not care. You rolled your hips again, and the pleasure pulled tighter, building with every slow drag against him. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his shirt, curling in the fabric, using him for balance while your body found a rhythm it did not want to lose. Jack watched you like he would let you ruin him if it meant you kept looking like that.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
You could not answer. You could only move. Again. Again. The pressure sharpened, heat spreading through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your breathing turned uneven, and Jack’s hands held you through it, firm enough to anchor, gentle enough to remind you he was still waiting for you to decide.
Your forehead dropped to his.
He turned his face just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth.
“Take it,” Jack said.
Your rhythm broke. A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. Jack’s hand slid to the small of your back, holding you closer, his thigh steady beneath you.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
You shook your head once, barely. “I thought I was—”
“In charge?” Jack finished, voice rough.
You nodded, breathless.
His mouth brushed yours. “You are.”
His hand pressed warm at your back. Solid. Steady. “Take what you want.”
The words broke something open. You moved harder, chasing the pressure now, less careful, less graceful, your whole body narrowing down to his thigh between yours, his hands on you, his mouth near your jaw, his voice low in your ear.
Jack kept still beneath you.
Not passive. Holding. Watching. Letting you use him exactly the way he told you to. Pleasure climbed fast. Too fast. Your fingers twisted in his shirt, and your hips lost their smooth rhythm, turning uneven and desperate.
Jack felt it.
His hand tightened at your back.
“There,” he said, voice wrecked. “Right there, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught. Your body tensed. Jack’s mouth found your throat, warm and open, and the feeling of it pushed you right to the edge.
“Jack,” you gasped.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
His thigh pressed up just enough.
Your whole body snapped tight.
The orgasm hit hard, sudden and bright, spilling through you in waves that made your hips stutter helplessly against him. Jack held you through it, one hand at your back, the other at your hip, his mouth against your skin, murmuring something low and rough that you could not quite hear over the rush of your own pulse.
You clung to him.
Jack let you. He did not move you. Did not rush you. Did not take advantage of the way your body went soft and trembling in his lap. He just held you there, steady and warm, while you came down against him.
When you finally opened your eyes, Jack was looking at you.
Gone. Utterly gone. His breathing was uneven, his shirt twisted in your hands, his jaw tight like he was holding himself together by force.
You swallowed.
A slow smile pulled at your mouth.
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Careful.”
Your smile widened. You shifted once in his lap, just enough to feel what you had done to him. His eyes went dark. Very dark. You leaned in and kissed him softly.
Then you pulled back.
Jack followed you half an inch before he caught himself.
You placed one hand on his chest. “Stay.”
Jack froze. The word settled over him. His fingers flexed once at your hips. Then they loosened.
He looked up at you from the edge of your bed, wrecked and waiting and so beautiful like that you almost forgot what you meant to do next.
Almost.
You climbed out of his lap slowly.
Jack’s hands stayed on your hips until the last possible second. Then they fell back to his thighs. His fingers flexed once against the denim, but he did not reach for you. Did not pull you back into his lap. Did not chase, even though his eyes dropped over you like every inch of distance was a personal offense.
You were still trembling a little. Still warm and soft from what had just moved through you. Still aware of the steady ache between your thighs, the damp heat of your underwear, the place where his thigh had been.
Jack noticed all of it.
His gaze lifted back to your face, dark and wrecked and so focused it made your stomach pull tight all over again.
You took one step back. Then another. Jack watched you like moving away from him was the cruelest thing you had done all night. Maybe it was.
Your fingers reached behind your back.
Jack stopped breathing.
The clasp gave beneath your touch. For a second, you held the bra against your chest, watching him watch you. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against his thighs.
You let the bra fall.
Jack’s eyes moved over you. Slowly. Not polished. Not polite. Hungry in a way that made your skin feel too warm and your pulse too loud.
Your first instinct was to cover yourself. Not because you did not want him looking. Because he was looking like that. Like he saw you.
Like he wanted you.
Like every careful thing he had done all night had been leading to this moment and he was still trying, somehow, to be worthy of it.
Your hands stayed at your sides.
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours. He did not move. That almost broke you. The wanting was written all over him. In his mouth. In the hard set of his shoulders. In the way his breathing had gone rough and uneven. In the way his hands stayed locked to his thighs like he did not trust himself to touch until you told him he could.
So you stepped back between his knees.
Jack looked up at you like he was fighting every bad idea he had ever had and losing ground fast.
You touched his jaw first. Just because you could. Just because he let you. His eyes closed for half a second when your thumb brushed along the edge of his mouth.
Then you leaned down and kissed him.
Soft. Slow. Mean, maybe, because you did not give him enough.
Jack made a sound against your mouth and started to lift one hand.
You pulled back. His hand stopped midair. Your eyes dropped to it. Jack saw where you were looking. He lowered it back to his thigh.
“Sorry,” he said, voice low.
You shook your head. “Don’t be.”
His eyes stayed on yours. You took his wrist and placed his hand against your waist again, this time with nothing between his palm and your skin. Jack’s fingers spread carefully. Warm. Rough. Reverent in a way that made your chest ache and your body respond at the same time.
“You can touch,” you said.
His thumb moved once along your side. “I remember the rule.”
Your mouth curved. “Tell me.”
His eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the air between you held still. Then Jack said, “Don’t take over.”
Your pulse jumped. “Good,” you whispered.
His hand moved slowly up your side. Careful. So careful it almost hurt. He stopped just beneath your breast, his thumb resting against your ribs, waiting there like he would stay on the edge of what he wanted forever if you asked him to.
You looked down at him.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
Not your chest. Your eyes.
That was somehow worse.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it higher. His breath caught. The first touch made both of you go still. Jack’s palm closed over you, warm and firm, and the sound he made was barely there. Almost nothing. It still went straight through you.
Your fingers tightened around his wrist. “Jack,” you breathed.
His eyes dropped then. Finally. His control slipped in pieces across his face. His jaw. His mouth. The rough rise of his breathing. He touched you like he had been thinking about it all night. Like every opened door, every careful pause, every inch of distance he had kept between you had led to this exact second where you put his hand where you wanted it and let him have something back.
His thumb moved. Slow. Intentional.
Your breath broke.
Jack watched your face. “There?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded. His hand tightened slightly, and pleasure sparked low in your stomach. Then he leaned forward. Not fast. Not taking. Still giving you time to stop him.
You did not.
His mouth found your chest. Warm. Open. Devastating.
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him there as his tongue moved over you, slow enough to make your knees weaken, then harder when your breath caught above him.
Jack groaned against your skin. The vibration made your hips shift without permission.
His free hand caught your waist. Not to control you. To steady you. His mouth moved lower, then back up again, tasting, licking, sucking until your fingers tightened at the back of his head and your whole body leaned toward him.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. He liked that. You felt it in the way his mouth got hungrier, in the way his teeth grazed carefully before his tongue soothed the same place, in the way his breathing turned rough against your skin.
For a minute, you let him have it.
Let him touch. Let him taste. Let him ruin the careful little line you had drawn because he was still following it, still waiting for every next yes your body gave him.
Then you pulled his mouth back to yours.
Jack came with you immediately. Hungry. Wrecked. His hand still at your breast, the other at your waist, his mouth opening under yours like he had been starving quietly since the restaurant.
You kissed him until he stopped trying to be composed. Until his hand tightened. Until his breathing went rough enough that you felt it in your own body.
Then you reached for the top button of his shirt.
Jack went still beneath your hands.
The first button slipped free. Then the next. Then the next. Your fingers moved slowly, more confident with every breath he failed to hide. The shirt opened inch by inch, revealing warm skin, solid muscle, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.
You pushed the fabric aside.
Jack’s breath hitched when your palms touched him.
You looked up.
His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on your face.
You slid your hands over his chest, then down, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath your touch. The heat of him. The strength. The restraint.
He was so still. So careful. So clearly suffering. “You like this,” Jack said.
It was not a question.
Your hands paused near his stomach. You looked at him. “Yes.”
His mouth tipped faintly, rough and wanting. “Good.”
You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then the side of his throat. Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. You smiled against his skin.
There.
That reaction.
You wanted it again.
Your mouth moved lower, kissing the warm line of his neck, the faint jump of his pulse beneath your lips. You let your teeth graze him lightly.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. “Fuck,” he said.
Low. Ragged. Barely controlled.
You did it again. A little harder. His fingers dug into your waist. Still not moving you. Still not taking over. But barely. You soothed the bite with your tongue, then sucked at the same place until his head tipped back and his throat worked beneath your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice wrecked.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His shirt hung open. His hair was mussed. His mouth was swollen. There was a mark starting low on his neck where your mouth had been.
Your mark.
Your stomach flipped.
Jack’s eyes tracked your expression. His voice came quieter, but no less rough. “Proud of yourself?”
You touched the mark with your thumb. He swallowed. “Yes,” you said.
His eyes went dark.
You smiled and moved your hands to his belt.
Jack’s entire body went still. Not tense. Waiting.
Your fingers found the buckle. The sound of leather sliding free felt too loud in the quiet room.
Jack watched your hands. Then your face. Then your hands again, like looking directly at you was becoming a problem.
You opened the belt slowly. Because you could. Because he had made you wait all night. Because he was sitting on the edge of your bed with his shirt open, breathing like patience was starting to hurt.
Your fingers moved to the button of his jeans.
Jack’s hand lifted from your waist like instinct. Then stopped.
You looked at it.
Jack looked at you.
For one long second, neither of you moved. Then you smiled. “I’ll tell you when I need help.”
His jaw tightened.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
The words were low. Dry. Absolutely devastating.
You laughed once, breathless, and pushed at his jeans just enough for him to understand.
Jack lifted his hips. Only when you gave him the pressure. Only enough to help. The denim shifted lower, but his boxers stayed in place, dark fabric stretched over the thick, hard shape of him.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Jack heard it. His mouth parted slightly, but he did not say anything.
You looked up at him as your hand settled over him through the fabric. Jack’s head tipped back.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
You pressed your palm against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of him through his boxers, the way his body reacted immediately beneath your hand.
His fingers curled hard against the edge of the mattress.
You leaned down and kissed him. Soft at first. Almost sweet. Then you moved your hand again. Jack’s mouth opened under yours, his breath dragging in sharply as you stroked him through the fabric.
The kiss changed. Got messier. Hotter.
His restraint fraying against your mouth while his hips tried, once, to press up into your hand. He caught himself immediately. You felt the effort of it. Felt the way his body wanted more and the way he held himself still anyway.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack’s hand flexed against the mattress.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured.
His laugh came rough and low. “I’m trying not to say about twelve things at once.”
Your stomach flipped. You stroked him again, firmer this time. His jaw tightened beneath your mouth.
“Pick one,” you said.
Jack’s eyes opened slowly, dark and ruined. “You are going to ruin me,” he said.
Heat moved through you. You kissed him again, because you needed to, because his mouth was right there, because the idea of ruining Jack Abbot made something low and reckless unfurl inside you.
Your hand moved over him again. Slow. Then slower. Learning the shape of him through the fabric, the places that made his breath catch, the pressure that made his fingers dig harder into the mattress.
Jack let you.
He sat there with his shirt open and his jeans shoved low on his hips, letting you touch him over his boxers while you kissed him like you had all the time in the world. Like he had not spent dinner proving he could wait. Like you had not decided to make him regret how good he was at it.
“You like this,” Jack said against your mouth.
It was not a question. You smiled. “Yes.”
His voice dropped. “I can tell.”
Your hand stilled. Jack’s eyes held yours.
The corner of his mouth moved, rough and almost smug, even like this.
You narrowed your eyes. “Careful.”
His answer came low. “You first.”
That did it. You pulled back from his mouth and looked down between you. Then your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
Jack went still again. His breathing was uneven now. Rough. Audible in the small room.
You eased the fabric down just enough to free him, and for one second, both of you just looked. At your hand. At him. At the way his cock fit against your palm, hot and heavy and hard enough to make your mouth go dry.
Jack’s head dropped back again. “Fuck.”
Low. Wrecked. Barely controlled.
Your confidence came back in a rush. You wrapped your hand around him. The first stroke made his entire body tense beneath you. You looked up at his face. At the way his throat moved. At the way his open shirt framed his chest. At the way his hands gripped the mattress like he was holding himself there by force.
You stroked him again. Slow. Firm. Watching for every little change. The way his stomach tightened. The way his thighs went tense. The way his mouth parted around a breath he did not quite manage to control.
You liked knowing. You liked making him show you.
Jack looked back down at you, eyes dark enough to make your pulse trip.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
You held his gaze. “Yes.”
His mouth tipped faintly. Then his eyes dropped to your hand. The tiny shift in his expression made your whole body warm. You moved again, twisting your wrist slightly, and Jack’s hips jerked once into your grip before he caught himself. His eyes closed. Your name left his mouth on a breath. Soft. Rough. Almost unwilling.
It went straight through you.
You leaned in and kissed him again, still stroking him, letting him breathe hard into your mouth while your hand took him apart inch by inch.
Jack’s hand finally moved to your waist. He stopped there. His fingers spread over your skin. Warm. Firm. Not guiding. Just holding on.
You let him.
Then you kissed down his jaw. His neck. The open line of his shirt. You moved lower slowly, your hand still wrapped around him, your mouth tracing over warm skin and tense muscle until you were lowering yourself between his knees. Jack’s hand twitched at your waist before falling away. Your eyes lifted to his. He looked almost pained.
Almost reverent.
Almost angry with himself for wanting so badly.
You settled between his knees, hand still moving over him.
Jack’s breathing changed. His eyes stayed on you, fixed and dark, as you leaned closer. Your mouth brushed the head of him. Barely there. A tease. A promise. His hand lifted. Stopped. Hovered.
You reached up, took his wrist, and brought his hand to the side of your face. Jack’s palm settled against your cheek. Warm. Careful. Reverent. Your cheek pressed into it.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
One word. Rough. Asking everything he needed to.
You nodded.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your cheek. The gesture was tender enough to make the next thing feel even filthier. You smiled up at him.
Then you took him into your mouth.
Jack’s entire body locked.
“Fuck,” he said, voice breaking on the word.
His hand stayed against the side of your face. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there because you had put it there.
You moved slowly at first, watching him watch you, learning him the way he had learned you at dinner. The way his breath caught when you used your tongue. The way his fingers curled carefully against your jaw and then loosened immediately, like he was reminding himself even now. Like he was letting you have this too.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Jack’s eyes were almost black. His voice came low and wrecked. “You look so good like that.”
Your body clenched at the words.
His thumb moved once along your cheek.
“Yeah,” he said, rougher now. “You like hearing that?”
You held his gaze. Then you took him again. His head dropped back, a rough sound tearing out of him before he could swallow it. There he was. Not composed. Not careful.
Not Doctor Abbot.
Just Jack.
In your bed.
Under your hands.
Coming apart because you wanted him to.
And God, you wanted him to.
You took your time. Because you could feel what it did to him. Because every slow pull of your mouth made his breathing worse. Because every time your tongue moved, his hand flexed against your face like he was fighting the urge to guide you deeper and refusing himself the satisfaction.
You let him suffer with it.
Let him feel exactly what it meant to give you control.
Jack’s chest rose and fell hard above you. His open shirt shifted with every breath. His other hand gripped the mattress so tightly his knuckles went pale.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
Your eyes lifted.
Jack looked down at you, jaw tight, eyes dark, mouth parted. The word came out like a warning. Like a plea. Like praise.
You did not stop. You took him deeper, just enough to make his hips jerk once beneath you.
Jack caught himself immediately. His hand left your face and gripped the mattress instead. “Fuck,” he said, harsher this time. “Sorry.”
You pulled back. Only enough to breathe. Only enough to let him see your smile. Then you took his wrist again and put his hand back against your face.
You kissed the inside of his palm once. Then you went back down.
Jack made a sound that should have embarrassed him. It did not.
It ruined you instead.
You moved with more confidence now, one hand around what your mouth could not take, the other braced against his thigh. His muscles were tight beneath your palm. Solid. Trembling just enough for you to feel how close he was getting.
You felt powerful.
Soft and shaky and half-naked between his knees, yes.
But powerful.
Because Jack Abbot was looking at you like you had taken him apart with your bare hands, and he would let you keep going until there was nothing left.
His breathing changed. You felt it before he said anything. The way his stomach tightened. The way his hand went still against your face. The way his thighs tensed beneath your palm.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice low and strained.
You looked up. His eyes held yours. “If you keep going, I’m not going to last.”
The words moved through you hot and bright. You slowed. Jack’s jaw clenched. You slowed more. His hand flexed once against your cheek. You pulled back completely, pressing one last soft kiss to the head of him before sitting back on your heels.
Jack stared at you. Breathing hard. Shirt open. Jeans low on his hips. Eyes dark enough to swallow the room whole.
For one long second, neither of you spoke.
Then his mouth tipped faintly. It was not a smile. Not really. It was something rougher. More dangerous.
“You’re proud of yourself again,” Jack said.
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb and looked up at him.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
His expression went still. Very still. Then he looked back at your eyes. “Come here.”
Your pulse jumped. Not because he was taking over. Not yet. Because he sounded like he wanted to. Because for the first time all night, his voice had an edge sharp enough to make you wonder exactly how much control you had left.
You rose slowly.
Jack watched every inch.
When you stepped between his knees again, his hands found your hips. Firm. Hot. Still waiting. Barely. You looked down at him. At his open shirt. At his mouth. At the mark you had left on his neck. At the man who had taken you to dinner first and was now sitting on your bed, hard and wrecked and ruined because you had decided to make him that way.
Your confidence returned. Not smooth this time. Not polished. Hotter than that. You climbed back into his lap. Jack’s hands gripped your hips like he had been waiting for exactly that.
You settled over him, bare skin against open shirt, your underwear dragging against the hard length of him. Both of you breathed in at the same time.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Focused. Starving.
You smiled.
His jaw tightened. “You are playing a very dangerous game,” Jack said.
You lowered your mouth until it hovered over his. “I know,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him.
Jack kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. His hands stayed at your hips, fingers spread wide, holding you right above him, not pulling you down, not forcing the next step, but close enough that you could feel the question in every inch of him.
You shifted against him. His breath broke against your mouth. You did it again. Slow. Deliberate. Cruel. Jack’s fingers dug into your hips.
“Sweetheart,” he warned.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was wrecked. Mouth swollen. Eyes dark. Shirt open. Control hanging by a thread you had been pulling at all night.
You reached between your bodies.
Jack went still. Completely.
Your fingers found the waistband of your underwear. His eyes dropped. Then snapped back to yours. You held his gaze as you shifted, just enough to push the fabric aside.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your hip.
The first bare slide of him against you made your breath catch. Made his eyes close. Made the whole room feel too small.
“Fuck,” he said again, but this time it sounded helpless.
You rocked against him slowly, slick and hot and aching, and Jack’s head tipped back as if that one touch had almost ended him. You watched him. Watched the way his throat worked. Watched the way his chest rose hard beneath his open shirt. Watched the way he kept his hands still, even now, even with you bare against him, even with every part of his body begging to take more.
You lowered your mouth to his ear. “Still not taking over,” you whispered.
Jack’s laugh came rough and broken. “No,” he said.
His hands tightened at your hips. “But you are making it very fucking difficult.”
The words went through you hot and sharp. You smiled against his mouth, but it was not as steady as it had been before. Because he was right. You were making it difficult.
For him.
For yourself.
For the last fragile thread of control you were still pretending to hold.
You shifted against him again, slow and slick, and Jack’s breath broke against your cheek. His hands stayed on your hips. Firm. Hot. Still waiting.
Barely.
You let yourself move over him for another moment, letting the pressure build again, letting the ache sharpen into something bright and needy. Jack watched you through it, eyes dark, mouth parted, chest rising hard beneath his open shirt. He was still too dressed. Shirt open. Jeans shoved low.
You were nearly bare in his lap, underwear pushed aside, hips moving against him like you had any chance of pretending this was still controlled. The contrast made your stomach flip.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your hip. “Sweetheart.”
Your eyes lifted to his. His voice was rough. “What do you want?”
You swallowed. The question should have been easy. It was not. Because you wanted too much. His mouth. His hands. His weight. His control. The part of him he had been holding back all night. You wanted to stop teasing him and start finding out what it felt like when Jack Abbot finally stopped waiting.
You rocked against him again, and both of you went still for half a second. There. That edge. That place where almost was starting to feel cruel.
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on yours. “You have me,” he said.
The words landed deep. Not smooth. Not practiced. Fact.
Your fingers tightened in his open shirt. “No,” you said.
Jack’s breathing changed. You leaned closer, mouth brushing his. “I want to fuck you.”
His entire body went still beneath you. The words hit him hard. You felt it in the sudden grip of his hands at your hips, in the rough sound he tried to swallow, in the way his eyes went dark and fixed on yours. You held his gaze.
“I want to feel you,” you said.
Jack’s jaw worked once.
For a second, he looked like he was fighting for one last responsible thought. You shifted off his lap before he could find one. Jack’s hands fell away immediately. He watched you stand between his knees, watched your fingers slide to the sides of your underwear. His expression went still. Dark. Focused. Completely gone.
You pushed the fabric down your thighs and stepped out of it. Jack’s eyes followed the movement. Not rushed. Not polite. Hungry enough to make your knees weak.
When his gaze lifted back to yours, his voice was almost unrecognizable. “Come here.”
You shook your head once. Jack froze. Not hurt. Not confused. Waiting.
Your mouth curved faintly. “Not yet.”
His jaw clenched.
You reached for his jeans. This time, Jack did not move until your hands pushed at the denim. Then he lifted his hips. Only enough. Still letting you do it. You dragged his jeans and boxers down together, and Jack helped just enough to kick them aside. Then he was sitting there on the edge of your bed with his shirt hanging open, completely bare beneath you, hard and wrecked and breathing like every second was pulling him closer to the edge.
For a second, you just looked at him.
Jack’s hands curled against the mattress. “You done looking?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked back at his face. “No.”
You stepped closer and reached for his shirt. Jack lifted his arms only when your hands pushed the fabric back, letting you drag it off him the same way he had let you take everything else. The shirt fell somewhere beside the bed.
Then he was bare in front of you. Chest rising hard. Jeans and boxers gone. Hair mussed. Mouth swollen. The mark on his neck was darkening where you had left it.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Now?”
Your pulse jumped. You stepped between his knees. “Now,” you said.
His hands came to your hips the second you were within reach. He stopped there, fingers spread wide, holding you without pulling. Still waiting. Even now.
You climbed back into his lap. The first bare press of him against you made both of you inhale. Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. “Fuck,” he breathed.
You shifted slowly, dragging yourself over him, feeling the hard length of him slide against you, hot and slick and almost enough to make your confidence falter.
Almost.
Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. His mouth brushed yours. “You’re killing me.”
You rolled your hips again. His breath hitched. “You made me wait,” you whispered.
Jack’s laugh was rough and ruined. “Fair.”
You smiled against his mouth. Then you reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. Jack went still beneath you. Completely. His eyes opened. You held his gaze as you positioned him against you. The room narrowed to the space between your bodies. Your breath. His. The lamp beside your bed. The flowers somewhere out in the kitchen. The quiet apartment that was yours again.
Jack’s voice came low. “Condom?”
The word landed between you. Responsible. Careful. So Jack it made your chest ache and your body throb.
You shook your head. “I don’t want one.”
His hands flexed at your hips. “Sweetheart.”
“I’m on birth control,” you said.
His breathing went rougher. You swallowed. “I’m clean.”
Jack did not move. You tightened your fingers around him. “I want to feel you, Jack.”
Something broke across his face. Not restraint. Not fully. But something close.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You lowered your mouth to his. “Yes.”
The word brushed his lips. Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, there was nothing calm left in them.
“Then go slow,” he said, voice wrecked.
Your pulse kicked. He held your gaze. “I want to feel you too.”
Your breath left you.
You started to sink down onto him.
Slowly. So slowly it almost hurt. Jack’s hands tightened at your hips, but he did not pull. Did not rush. Did not take the pace from you. He just held you while you took him inch by inch.
Your mouth fell open.
Jack watched your face like he could not look away. “That’s it,” he said, voice low and strained. “Just like that.”
You stopped halfway down, breath shaking. He was big. Hot. Bare. So much more than you had prepared yourself for, even after all of that teasing, all of that wanting, all of that confidence.
Jack’s hand slid up your back. Steady. Grounding.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, but your fingers dug into his shoulders. His jaw tightened. “Words.”
Your eyes lifted to his. You swallowed. “Yes.”
His hand moved slowly up your spine. “Good.”
The word sounded ruined. You moved again. Another inch. Jack’s head tipped back, his throat working as he fought for control.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The sound made you clench around him. His hands tightened hard at your hips. For one second, you thought he might lose it. You almost wanted him to. But he held still. Letting you have it. Letting you take him. Letting you decide exactly how much, exactly how fast, exactly when.
Your body stretched around him, slow and aching and impossibly full.
You lowered yourself the rest of the way.
Both of you went still.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. His breathing was ragged. Yours was worse. For a second, neither of you moved. There was only the feeling of him inside you. No barrier. No almost. No careful distance left.
Just Jack. Warm.
Deep.
Still holding you like you were something he had been trusted with.
His voice came rough against your mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
You rolled your hips once.
His eyes darkened.
“There you go,” he said, voice low. “Take your time.”
You did. You moved slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders, body still adjusting to the feel of him inside you. Jack’s hands stayed at your hips. Firm. Hot. Still not guiding. Still not taking. Just holding you there while you learned him.
The room felt impossibly quiet around you. The soft light. The rumpled sheets. The sound of your breathing and his. The low, broken way Jack exhaled every time you sank down again. You watched his face because you could not help yourself. Because Jack Abbot looked wrecked beneath you.
Gone.
Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Chest rising hard beneath your hands. The mark on his neck stood out against his skin where your mouth had been, and every time you looked at it, something possessive and unfamiliar moved through you. You had put that there. You had made him look like this.
You rolled your hips again.
Jack’s head tipped back. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word came out rough. Almost helpless. It made you clench around him. His hands tightened at your hips, but he did not pull you down. He did not speed you up. He just felt it. Let you feel it too.
You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, and Jack opened for you immediately. His mouth was hot under yours, hungry in a way that made you feel powerful and unsteady at the same time. You lifted your hips and sank back down. Jack broke the kiss on a sharp breath.
“That’s it,” he said, voice strained. “Just like that.”
Your stomach fluttered. You did it again. And again. Each time, it got easier. Hotter. Less careful. Your body started to find a rhythm, and Jack let you have it. He sat beneath you with his feet planted, thighs tense, hands locked on your hips like he was anchoring himself as much as you.
You could feel him everywhere. Deep.
Thick.
Bare.
Every slow drag made your breath catch. Every time you sank down fully, Jack’s grip tightened like he had to remind himself not to take over.
You smiled, breathless. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “You like this.”
You nodded. His mouth parted slightly. Your hips rolled again, and his jaw clenched.
“You like having me like this,” he said.
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails catching lightly against his skin. “Yes.”
His eyes went darker. You expected him to tease you. Expected the corner of his mouth to move. Expected some dry, devastating thing that would make you want to kiss him and shove him at the same time. But Jack only looked at you. Like the sight of you taking what you wanted from him was doing something to him he had no interest in hiding anymore.
“Good,” he said.
The word was low. Wrecked. Yours.
You moved harder. Jack groaned, one hand sliding around to your lower back before stopping there, holding steady instead of pushing.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said against your mouth. “Look at you.”
Your rhythm faltered for half a second. He noticed. His hand moved once over your back, grounding you.
“You’re perfect,” Jack said. “You hear me?”
Your breath broke. You nodded, but it was not enough for him.
His fingers tightened at your hip. “Say it.”
Your eyes lifted to his. Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on yours, dark and intent and too close to tender for how filthy it felt to be sitting on him like this.
Your voice came out thin. “I hear you.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”
The praise hit you hard. Your whole body clenched. Jack’s breath punched out of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, head dropping back for a second. “You’re going to kill me.”
You should have laughed. You could not. Not with him inside you. Not with his hands on you. Not with his voice ruined and his restraint fraying beneath you, thread by thread.
You moved again, and this time Jack’s hips lifted slightly beneath yours. Just once. A small, involuntary thrust that made both of you freeze. His eyes snapped to yours.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough.
Your pulse thundered. You shook your head. Then you did it again, lowering yourself onto him with purpose, chasing that same pressure.
Jack’s hands tightened. “Sweetheart.”
You moved again. His hips jerked up, shallow but devastating, and pleasure punched through you hard enough that your mouth fell open. Jack saw your face change. His expression shifted. Focused. Hungry. Barely controlled.
“There,” he said, voice low. “You felt that.”
You nodded, breathless. His hands stayed at your hips, but his thumbs moved slowly, almost soothing. Like he knew exactly how close he was to taking more and was forcing himself to offer steadiness instead.
You kept going. Slow turned to steady. Steady turned to desperate. The control you had felt before started to blur at the edges. It was still yours, but it was harder to hold now. Harder to keep the rhythm smooth. Harder to remember that you were the one setting the pace when every drag of him inside you made your thoughts scatter.
Jack watched it happen. You knew he did. His eyes were on your face, your mouth, the way your breath kept breaking, the way your hips started to stutter when the angle hit too deep. Your hands tightened on his shoulders. He hissed softly through his teeth.
“You okay?” he asked. You nodded too fast. Jack’s brow furrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Yes, I’m okay.”
His expression softened for half a second. Then you moved again, and both of you lost the thread of softness entirely. The pressure built low and hot, different from before. Deeper. Less sharp, more consuming. It spread through your hips, your thighs, your stomach, until every muscle felt warm and unsteady.
You tried to keep the rhythm. Tried to stay slow. Tried to stay in charge. But your thighs were starting to shake. The pace broke. You sank down hard, then stopped, breathing against his mouth.
Jack’s hand slid up your back. “There you go.”
You shook your head, frustrated. “I can—”
“I know,” Jack said.
The words came instantly. No doubt. No teasing.
His hand moved slowly down your spine. “I know you can.”
Your chest tightened. You lifted yourself again, stubborn, and tried to find the rhythm you had before. For a few seconds, you had it. Then pleasure caught too hard and your hips stuttered again. A sound slipped out of you, frustrated and needy and too honest.
Jack’s face changed. His hand tightened at your hip. Not taking. Not yet. But ready.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
You shook your head again, even though your forehead had dropped to his.
Jack’s mouth brushed your cheek. “Let me.”
Your breath caught. You did not answer. You tried again, rolling your hips, chasing the angle, chasing the feeling, chasing the control you could feel slipping through your fingers.
Jack let you. For another breath. Another broken movement. Another shaky attempt that made your body clench around him, and his own restraint crack audibly in the rough sound he made against your skin.
Then his arm slid fully around your waist. Firm. Secure. Still waiting at the edge of permission.
“I’ve got you,” Jack said, voice low and wrecked. “Let me take care of you.”
Your whole body went hot. The words moved through you worse than any command could have. Because he was not taking it from you. He was offering to carry it. Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck. You stayed there for one last second, breathing hard, forehead pressed to his, him buried deep inside you, his arm around your waist, his hand at your hip, his control hanging by almost nothing.
Then your voice broke. “Please.”
Jack went still beneath you. Completely. Then his eyes opened. Dark. Focused. Gone.
His hand tightened at your hip. “There she is,” he said.
The words hit you low. You barely had time to breathe before Jack moved. Because he was still sitting on the edge of your bed. Because your knees were still bracketing his thighs. Because his feet were planted firmly on the floor like that was the only thing keeping him grounded.
His arm locked around your waist. His hand stayed firm at your hip. And then he took the rhythm from you. Not gently. Not carelessly. Completely.
Jack fucked up into you, deep and sudden enough that your mouth fell open around a sound you did not recognize. Your hands grabbed at his shoulders. His mouth found yours immediately, catching the broken noise, swallowing it like it belonged to him.
“There,” he said against your mouth. “That’s it.”
You tried to move with him. Tried to help. Tried to keep some piece of the pace you had started. Jack’s hand tightened at your hip.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “Let me.”
Your whole body went hot. He did it again. Harder. Deeper. His arm around your waist kept you close, kept you from pulling away from the force of it. Every thrust drove the air out of you, every drag of him inside you making the pleasure sharpen until your thoughts started breaking apart.
Jack watched your face. Even like this. Even with his jaw tight and his breathing wrecked and his control finally, finally turned loose. He watched. He noticed. His hand slid from your hip to between your thighs, fingers finding you with devastating accuracy.
Your body jolted. “Jack.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was low. Almost soothing. His hips were not.
He kept fucking up into you, one arm holding you steady, the other hand working between your bodies until your back arched and your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Right there?” he asked.
You could only nod.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “Words.”
Your breath broke. “Yes.”
His fingers moved again, firmer this time. Your whole body clenched around him. Jack cursed under his breath, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he caught it again.
“Fuck,” he said. “That’s it. Right there, sweetheart.”
You pressed your forehead to his, shaking now, overwhelmed by the pressure of him inside you and his hand between you and the way he was holding you like he had known exactly when you would need him to. Because he had. You had taken control. He had let you. Now he was proving what he could do with it.
His voice dropped, rough against your mouth. “You did so good.”
The praise cracked through you. Your eyes squeezed shut.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “No. Look at me.”
Your eyes opened. He was right there. Dark. Focused. Gone and still somehow entirely yours.
“There you go,” he said. “Stay with me.”
His fingers circled again. His hips drove up into you at the same time. The orgasm hit like a wire pulled tight and snapped. Your whole body locked around him, pleasure tearing through you so hard your mouth opened on a broken cry.
“Jack—fuck, Jack.” His name came out ruined. Too loud. Too helpless. Exactly his.
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist, and his own sound broke against your mouth, rough and wrecked, like hearing you come apart on his name had nearly taken him with you.
You clung to him, still crying out against his mouth as he fucked you through your orgasm, his hand steady between your bodies, his hips relentless beneath you.
“That’s it,” Jack said, breath hot against your jaw. “Let me hear it.”
You could not have stopped if you tried. His name broke out of you again, softer this time, shaking and breathless as the last waves rolled through you. Jack held you through all of it. Fucked you through all of it. Murmuring low and rough while your body shook in his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you. There you go.”
You clung to him, breathless and trembling, barely aware of anything beyond his body under yours and inside yours and wrapped around you. Jack slowed only when you started to go soft against him. Only when your forehead dropped to his shoulder, and your hands loosened against his skin.
For one second, he held you there. Breathing hard. Still buried deep. Still so hard inside you that your body pulsed around him in helpless little aftershocks. His hand moved slowly up your back.
“You with me?” he asked, voice wrecked.
You nodded against his shoulder.
Jack’s hand tightened once. “Words, sweetheart.”
Your mouth brushed his skin. “I’m with you.”
He exhaled. Then his mouth found your ear. “Good,” he said.
The word was not gentle anymore. Your stomach flipped. Jack shifted beneath you. You barely had time to understand the movement before he was turning with you, one arm firm around your waist, guiding you back onto the mattress without ever really letting you go.
Your back hit the sheets.
Jack followed you down just long enough to kiss you once. Hard. Deep. Then he pulled back. You blinked up at him, breathless, dazed, empty for barely a second before he was standing at the end of the bed.
The sight of him there made your whole body go still. Bare. Chest rising hard. Mouth swollen. The mark on his neck dark where you had left it. Eyes fixed on you like he was done pretending he could survive wanting you politely. Jack’s hands wrapped around your thighs. Then he pulled you closer.
Your breath caught as your hips slid to the edge of the mattress. The movement was smooth. Certain. So controlled it made the roughness underneath feel even more dangerous. Jack stepped between your thighs and wrapped your legs around his hips. The head of him pressed against you again. Your fingers twisted in the sheets.
He looked down at you. “Still with me?”
Your pulse slammed. “Yes.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. Then he pushed back inside you. Both of you sucked in a breath. The angle was different like this. Sharper. Enough that your back arched off the bed and Jack’s hand flattened against your stomach for half a second, not holding you down, just feeling the way your body took him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
Your head fell back. Jack’s hand came to your jaw. Firm. Not rough. Commanding anyway.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. He was right there above you, standing between your legs, your body pulled to the edge of the bed, your ankles locked behind his back. The position should have made you feel exposed. It did. But not unsafe. Never unsafe.
Not with Jack watching your face like your pleasure was the only thing in the room worth understanding. Then he moved. Deep. Hard. No longer patient. No longer careful in the way he had been before.
He fucked you like the whole night had finally snapped in half, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, the mattress when he needed the leverage. Every thrust pushed you higher, sharper, closer to too much. You grabbed at the sheets. Jack watched you do it. His mouth parted.
“There,” he said, voice low. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
Your breath broke. He drove into you again, and you cried out. Jack’s rhythm stuttered for half a second. Then his grip tightened at your thigh.
“Not rushed,” he said, voice rough. “Not guessed at.”
Another thrust. Deeper. Your hands twisted harder in the sheets.
He groaned, “Not some boy taking what he can get.”
Oh.
Your whole body clenched around him. Jack’s eyes went dark. He felt it. His jaw worked, and for a second, he looked like the words had ruined him too. His hand slid under your knee. Slow. Firm. He lifted one of your legs from around his hip and guided it higher, over his shoulder.
The angle changed immediately. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out.
Jack froze. Just for a second. Just long enough to watch your face.
Then his hand moved to your wrists. He gathered them together and pressed them above your head, pinning them to the mattress with one hand. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that your whole body went still beneath him.
His other hand held your thigh against his shoulder. His eyes stayed on yours. “There?”
Your pulse slammed. You pulled once against his grip. Not to get free. To feel it. Jack knew the difference immediately. His expression went almost feral.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His hand tightened around your wrists. Then he moved. Hard. Deep. The air left your lungs in a broken sound, and Jack caught it with his mouth, kissing you like he could swallow every noise you made and still want more.
His hand stayed firm around your wrists. His other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him, keeping your leg over his shoulder as he drove into you again. And again. No more dinner.
No more almost.
No careful distance.
No gentlemanly restraint.
Just Jack above you, inside you, fucking you like the whole night had finally snapped in half. You could not move your hands. Could barely move your hips. All you could do was take him.
Feel him.
Hear the rough, wrecked sounds he made against your mouth, your jaw, your throat.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
Your eyes fluttered.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “No. Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open. Jack was right there. Gone and focused at the same time. Rough and careful. Animal and anchor.
His mouth parted on a breath. “There you are.”
The praise hit low and hot. You cried out, and Jack’s rhythm stuttered for half a second before he drove into you harder.
“That’s it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Take it.”
Your body answered before your mind could. Jack felt it. His eyes darkened.
“I know,” he said, softer now, even as his pace stayed brutal. “I know. I’ve got you.”
The words should not have made it worse. They did. Because he did have you. Pinned beneath him. Open for him. Overwhelmed by him.
And still, impossibly, safe.
His thrusts started to lose their perfect rhythm. Just slightly. Enough that you knew. Enough that heat moved through you all over again. Jack’s jaw clenched. His hand tightened around your wrists, then loosened immediately, his thumb brushing once over your skin like he was still checking himself even now.
You lifted your hips as much as his hold allowed. Jack’s breath broke.
“Fuck,” he said, rough and helpless.
You did it again. His head dropped near your shoulder. Another sound left him. Lower. Wrecked. Your name came out of his mouth like it had been dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. Not polished. Not controlled. Yours. You clenched around him. Jack groaned, harsh and broken, and drove into you deep.
Once. Twice. Then he stilled all the way inside you. His whole body locked over yours. His mouth fell open against your shoulder.
“Fuck—sweetheart—” His voice broke on it.
A low, gutted groan tore out of him, turning into your name again as he came, rough and helpless against your skin. You felt all of it. The heat. The pulse. The tremor that moved through his body after, like every ounce of restraint he had carried all night had finally left him.
And the sound. God, the sound.
Jack Abbot, who had opened every door and paid the check and waited until you asked, coming apart above you like this was the one thing he could not make quiet.
For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed right. Jack’s grip loosened around your wrists immediately. His thumb brushed over the place he had held them, gentle now, almost apologetic. You kept your hands above your head anyway. Not because he held you there. Because you could still feel him everywhere.
Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. Soft around the edges now. Wrecked in a different way.
“You okay?” he asked.
Your laugh came out breathless and ruined. Jack’s mouth curved faintly, but his gaze stayed attentive. You nodded. His brow lifted.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His thumb moved over your wrist again.
“Good,” Jack said, voice rough.
Then he lowered his mouth to yours. The kiss was different. Slower. Still filthy with what had just happened. Still warm with it.
But softer now.
Careful again, because Jack knew exactly when to come back to you. You kissed him back, boneless and breathless beneath him, your hands still above your head even though he was not holding them there anymore.
His mouth left yours. His thumb brushed over your wrist again, then your palm, then your fingers, like he was reminding your body that it could move now.
“You can put your hands down, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough.
Your eyes opened. He was watching you. Still close enough that every breath pressed his chest to yours. But his face had changed. The hunger was still there, softened around the edges by something quieter. Something tender. Something that made your throat feel tight in a way sex had not.
You let your arms lower slowly.
Jack took one of your hands before it reached the mattress and brought your knuckles to his mouth. The kiss he pressed there was careful. Almost reverent. Your chest ached.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah?”
You did not know what you meant to say. Thank you felt wrong. Too small. Too polite. Too far away from the feeling of him still shaking faintly above you, from the way your whole body felt wrung out and safe and claimed without ever feeling taken.
So you said the only thing that was true. “That was…”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Yeah.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. It sounded wrecked. So did his answering exhale. He lowered his forehead to yours for one second, eyes closing like he needed to collect himself before moving. His hand slid gently along your thigh, easing your leg down with the kind of care that made your stomach flutter even after everything. The stretch of your muscles protested. You winced before you could hide it.
Jack’s eyes opened immediately. “Sore?”
“A little,” you admitted.
His jaw tightened, but not with regret exactly. Attention. Concern. A little bit of that devastating Jack guilt trying to sneak in around the edges.
You touched his face before it could settle there. “Good sore.”
His eyes searched yours. You lifted your brows. “Do not make that face.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “What face?”
“The face where you decide you personally invented consequences.” You replied.
That got you a faint smile. A real one, small and tired and warm enough to undo you.
Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. “I didn’t?”
You huffed a laugh. “No.”
His smile softened, but his eyes stayed attentive. “You sure?”
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He held your gaze for another second. Then he shifted carefully, pulling away from you with a slowness that made your breath catch for an entirely different reason. Both of you went still. Jack’s jaw flexed. Your fingers tightened against his shoulder. The absence of him hit almost as hard as the fullness had.
He saw that too.
His hand moved to your hip, thumb stroking once over your skin. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Just understanding. Your throat tightened.
Jack leaned down and kissed you once more, softer this time, then shifted off you, careful not to drop his weight or jostle you too much. The bed dipped beside you as he sat on the edge for a second, breathing hard, head bowed.
You paused a moment and took him in. Not Date Jack. Not Doctor Abbot. Not the man who opened doors and made reservations and held his restraint between his teeth until you asked him not to.
Just Jack.
Bare back flexing with each breath. Shoulders marked faintly where your nails had dragged. The darkening place on his neck where your mouth had been. Human. Wrecked. Yours in a way you were almost afraid to name.
He turned back toward you. “Stay there.”
Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That sounded like an order.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved, tired and warm. “It was a request.”
You were too boneless to argue, so you watched him stand. For one second, you thought he was going to leave the room. Instead, he bent and picked up his boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. Then Jack disappeared down the hall.
You heard the bathroom faucet turn on. He let the water run for a moment, and something about that made your throat tighten. Of course, Jack would wait for the water to warm. The faucet shut off, and a few seconds later, he came back with a damp washcloth in one hand.
No hesitation. No performance. No big speech. Just care. Practical. Steady.
Jack.
He sat beside you, careful and slow, giving you every chance to tell him no even now.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. He waited. Your mouth curved faintly. “Yes, Jack. Words. I know.”
His eyes softened, but his voice stayed low. “Good.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when he pulled the sheet back just enough to clean you carefully. The first touch made you inhale.
Jack paused immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “Warm.”
His mouth barely curved. “That was the idea.”
You looked at him. He looked back. Then both of you smiled.
It was ridiculous. Tender. Devastating in its own quiet way.
Jack cleaned you with the same attention he brought to everything else. Not clinical. Not detached. Just careful. His hand stayed warm against your thigh, his touch gentle where his mouth and body had been anything but gentle minutes ago. The contrast nearly undid you. When he was finished, he covered you again, tucking the sheet loosely over your hips.
Then he stood and looked around your room for half a second. “Laundry?” he asked.
You blinked at him. “What?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Washcloth.”
“Oh.” You pointed weakly toward the hall. “Basket by the bathroom door.”
Jack nodded and disappeared again. You heard the soft sound of fabric dropping into the hamper. Then, after a second, the faint creak of the washer lid. Your smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. When he came back, he had a glass of water in his hand. He passed it to you, then sat beside you again.
“Drink,” Jack said.
You took the glass from him. “Bossy.”
His mouth barely moved. “Hydrated.”
You gave him a look over the rim of the glass. “You’re very proud of yourself.”
Jack’s eyes dropped over you, then came back to your face. The look in them changed. Softened. Deepened.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”
Your chest went tight. You looked down at the water because looking at him directly suddenly felt like too much. Jack’s hand settled on your knee over the sheet. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just there.
You took a few drinks and handed the glass back. Jack set it on the nightstand, then stayed sitting beside you like he was not sure whether he was allowed to lie down. That made something ache.
After everything he had done to you. After everything he had let you do to him. He was still waiting. Still leaving the next choice in your hands.
You shifted back on the bed and lifted the sheet. “Jack.”
His eyes lifted to yours. You swallowed. The words felt bigger than they should have. Not because you were afraid of them. Because you meant them.
“Stay,” you said.
Jack went still. Only for a second. Only enough for you to see it land. His gaze searched yours, dark and tired and softer now than it had been before.
“You sure?” he asked.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, voice quiet.
“I know.” You murmured.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. You held the sheet open a little farther. “I want you to.”
For a second, he did not move. Then something in his face changed. Not hunger. Not restraint. Something quieter. Something that looked almost harder for him to let himself have.
“Okay,” Jack said.
The word came rough. Gentle. Almost careful.
Then he got in beside you. Not quickly. Not carefully enough to make it strange. Just with the same quiet intention he had given every choice all night. The mattress dipped under his weight. He settled on his side facing you, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the other resting between you until you reached for it.
He let you take his hand. You pulled it around your waist. Jack’s expression softened in a way that made your throat feel too small. He drew you closer, warm and solid beneath the sheets, his chest against your back when you turned into him. His arm settled around you, heavy and safe, and you felt his mouth press once to your shoulder.
Not hungry now. Not asking. Just there.
Your eyes closed.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.
The apartment was quiet. Really quiet. Just the hum of the building around you. Jack’s breathing behind you. The faint smell of flowers drifting in from the kitchen. Your own room, messy and warm and no longer feeling like something that needed to be checked.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your stomach. “You’re thinking.”
You huffed a breath. “You say that like you aren’t.”
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I’m always thinking.”
You sighed, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Jack said.
You smiled into the pillow. Then his arm tightened slightly around you. Not enough to hold you in place. Enough to remind you he was there.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
You opened your eyes. The lamp cast a soft glow across the wall. Your book was still face down on the nightstand, its spine apparently still enduring injustice. Your clothes were on the floor. His jacket was somewhere by the front door. His flowers were in your kitchen. Your apartment was still yours. More yours, somehow, than it had been that morning.
You swallowed. “I thought it would feel strange,” you said.
Jack went quiet behind you. You felt it in his body before he answered. “Me being here?”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
His thumb stilled. You breathed in slowly. “After everything. I thought it might feel like too much.”
Jack did not rush to answer. Did not tell you how you should feel. Did not try to make the moment cleaner than it was. He just waited. So you kept going.
“It doesn’t,” you said softly.
His exhale moved against your shoulder. You looked toward the open bedroom door, toward the faint light from the kitchen.
“It feels like I chose it,” you said.
For a second, Jack did not move. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder again. Longer this time. His voice came low. “You did.”
Your eyes burned, suddenly and inconveniently. Jack’s arm tightened around you.
“Every part,” he said.
Your breath caught. The words landed exactly where they were supposed to. Your apartment. Your body. The locked door. The bed. Him. Every part.
You closed your eyes.
Jack’s lips brushed your shoulder once more. “Still yours.”
You knew what he meant.
Everything.
You turned in his arms slowly until you were facing him. His eyes searched yours in the low light, dark and tired and soft in a way you had not seen before tonight. You touched the mark on his neck with your fingertips.
His mouth curved faintly. “Proud of that one?”
Your laugh came out watery. “A little.”
Jack’s expression softened.
You let your hand drift from his neck to his jaw. “You stayed.”
His brows pulled together faintly. “You asked me to.”
“I know,” you said.
Your thumb moved along his jaw. “That’s why it matters.”
The look on his face changed. Just enough. Enough to make your chest ache. Jack reached up and covered your hand with his, pressing your palm more firmly against his face. For one second, the two of you just looked at each other. No jokes. No almost. No dinner first. No rules left to hide behind. Then Jack turned his mouth into your palm and kissed it.
“I’m here,” he said.
You believed him. That was the terrifying part. That was the easy part. You moved closer until your forehead rested against his chest. Jack wrapped around you immediately, warm and steady, his hand sliding slowly over your back beneath the sheet. The room went quiet again. Soft this time. Safe.
Yours.
For the first time all week, your apartment did not feel like a place someone had found. It felt like a place you had chosen. And Jack, warm and solid beside you, had only come in because you asked. Only stayed because you wanted him to. Only held on because you let him.
You closed your eyes.
Outside your bedroom, the flowers sat in water on your kitchen counter. Inside it, Jack’s breathing evened out against your hairline, his arm heavy around your waist, his body curled close behind yours like he had been built for exactly this kind of quiet. You let yourself sink into it. Into him. Into the room that was yours again.
And when sleep finally started to pull at the edges of you, you did not fight it. You did not check the door. You did not listen for footsteps. You just let Jack hold you.
adult zuko x reader nsfw | smut | minors dni. | wc: 2,3k
summary: in which adult zuko worships his overwhelmed wife on the fire nation throne because words alone aren’t enough.
content: fire lord adult!zuko x fire lady reader, explicit sexual content [throne room spice!], praise, comfort.
note: it’s just a little something but i hope you like it, not proofread tho we die like men.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The throne room of the Fire Nation palace glowed beneath the amber blaze of ornate fire sconces, their flames licking along the walls and casting restless shadows across polished obsidian. At the center of the vast chamber, elevated atop a dais of black marble veined in gold, stood the Fire Lord’s throne: a magnificent seat of dark wood and burnished metal, its back carved with the eternal flame symbol of the royal crest.
And upon it sat Zuko.
He looked every inch the Fire Lord now. Crimson-and-gold robes draped over broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled back in the traditional topknot, the scarred side of his face turned partially toward the chamberlain who stood at the foot of the dais, reviewing a scroll of council agenda items. Two attendants waited near the side doors, ready to announce arriving nobles. Royal Guards stood motionless at the entrance, spears gleaming beneath the flames.
But Zuko’s attention had drifted long before the chamberlain finished speaking.
The moment you stepped through the doors, his golden eyes lifted to you.
He noticed everything immediately: the rigid set of your shoulders, the exhaustion hidden beneath careful poise, the way your fingers twisted together as though holding yourself upright through sheer force. You were beautiful, devastatingly so, wrapped in ceremonial silks embroidered with molten gold flames, but there was strain beneath the elegance. A quiet ache you tried too hard to conceal.
And he hated seeing it.
The weight of the palace pressed against you from every direction. Endless petitions. Trade negotiations. Noble families whispering behind painted fans. Every corridor felt lined with judgment. Too young. Too soft. Too harsh. Too loud. Too quiet. Too ordinary. Too unworthy to stand beside the Fire Lord.
"Apologies," you said, voice quieter than intended. “I didn’t realize you were preparing for council. I’ll come back later.”
You turned to leave, your hand already on the door handle.
"Everyone out."
His voice cracked through the chamber like flame striking oil.
The chamberlain blinked. "My Lord, the council preparations—"
"Can wait." Zuko's golden eyes swept over the room. "Attendants, guards, do take a break. All of you. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the Fire Lady. Privately."
No one dared argue. The attendants scattered immediately, guards bowing before retreating through the towering doors. The chamberlain hesitated only a heartbeat longer before lowering his head and following after them. Heavy doors shut with a resonant thud, sealing the throne room in silence save for the soft roar of firelight.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft, searching your face with those intense eyes that had seen too much war and too much loss, yet still looked at you with nothing but tenderness.
You tried to hold it in. You really did. But the words came tumbling out as you began to pace the throne room floor, your hands gesturing helplessly.
"The noble families are circulating rumors that I'm not fit to sit on the throne because I wasn't born into this life. They say I don't deserve this. That I'm just a decorative piece on your arm. That my efforts on the trade agreements are pointless because I'm not a warrior, not a firebender, not enough."
You climbed the steps toward him, frustration sharpening your movements.
"Today the governor of Yu Dao implied the orphanage reforms are a vanity project. Said you would’ve never wasted time on something so frivolous" Your voice cracked. "I'm trying so hard. I've memorized every protocol. I've studied the histories until my eyes ache. I greet every petitioner with respect. But it's never enough. They don't see me. They see some—some outsider who doesn't belong."
Zuko watched you for a long moment before holding out a hand.
"Sit with me," he murmured, and he patted his lap. "Come here."
You glanced toward the closed doors. “Zuko—”
"I don't care about the council," he said simply. "I care about you. Sit."
Slowly, you crossed the final steps and settled onto his lap sideways, silk cascading over his thighs and spilling down the throne like liquid flame. The moment you touched him, his arms wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and smoke enveloped you. He pressed his lips to your temple.
"Now listen to me," he said, his voice low and fierce, his forehead nearly touching yours. "You are not an outsider. You are my wife. You are the Fire Lady. And you are doing more for this nation than half the men who criticize you."
A kiss pressed against your cheek. Then another near the corner of your mouth.
"You care about people they’ve spent years ignoring. Those children in the orphanages know your name. The people in the lower districts wait for your visits because you actually listen to them.” His lips drifted lower, grazing the curve of your jaw. “You walked into a fractured kingdom and started stitching it back together with your bare hands. With me.”
Your breath caught softly when his mouth brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear.
“I see every sleepless night,” he whispered. “Every sacrifice. Every burden you carry when you think no one notices.”
His fingers curled beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.
“You are brilliant,” he said, voice low and rough. “You are brave. And Spirits help anyone who tries convincing you otherwise.”
You felt the tears prick at your eyes, but you held them back. You turned your head to look at him, and he captured your lips in a kiss that was slow and deep and full of everything he couldn't put into words. His hand slid into your hair, careful not to disturb the intricate pins as his lips parted yours deeper. Warmth bloomed through your chest immediately, dissolving tension beneath the relentless tenderness of his touch.
You melted against him with a shaky sigh.
The kiss deepened.
His tongue swept against yours languidly, savoring every soft sound you made while his hands roamed your waist possessively. Heat curled low in your stomach, replacing frustration with something dizzying and molten. Your hands finding his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robes.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down your neck, laying soft, reverent kisses along the line of your throat. His hands moved, unbinding the sash at your waist, loosening the intricate folds of your ceremonial robe. The fabric fell away, baring your shoulders, your breasts. The cool air kissed your skin, but his warmth instantly replaced it as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. He had kicked off his outer robe somewhere in the process, and now your back pressed against the firm muscle of his torso, the heat of his skin seeping into yours.
"I want to remind you how powerful you are," he whispered, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck. "How beautiful. How utterly irreplaceable."
His right hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple with a practiced gentleness that made you gasp. At the same time, his left hand slid down your stomach, past your navel, between your thighs finding you wet and ready, and he let out a soft, appreciative hum against your ear.
"Perfect. You're perfect. Every inch of you. Every curve. Every thought in that brilliant mind."
His fingers found your clit through the thin fabric of your inner robe. You arched against him, your head falling back against his shoulder, and he caught your mouth in another kiss as his fingers moved in torturously slow circles, each movement drawing a shudder from your lips. He knew your body as intimately as he knew the pull of fire beneath his skin.
His other hand kept rolling and teasing your nipple, alternating between soft strokes and firmer squeezes. When you began to move against his fingers, he chuckled low in his throat.
“That’s it,” he praised softly. “Let me take care of you.”
His middle finger slid inside you, then a second, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot. You cried out, your hands gripping his thighs for purchase. He pumped slowly, deeply, his thumb still working your clit. Your head fell back against his shoulder immediately, breath breaking into soft moans as he worked you open.
His mouth never stopped moving against your skin.
Kisses along your throat. Your jaw. The sensitive place beneath your ear that always made you tremble.
"You feel that?" he whispered. "That's yours. Every bit of pleasure you feel is yours. You earned it. You deserve it. You are enough, you always have been, and if anyone says otherwise, they answer to me."
His thumb circled your clit relentlessly while his fingers thrust deeper, slower, dragging broken sounds from your throat with every movement. You clutched at his robes helplessly, grounding yourself against the overwhelming heat unraveling through your body.
The pressure built, warm and urgent, coiling low in your belly. You ground down onto his fingers, whimpering, and he matched your rhythm, speeding up just slightly. He felt the way you tightened around him, the way your breath caught, and how your body surrendered to his touch.
"You're doing so well..."
"I'm close," you gasped, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
“I know," he breathed. "Let go for me. I've got you."
And you did, your climax crashed over you in waves, your body shuddering against his, a choked moan escaping your lips as he worked you through it, his fingers slowing. Zuko held you firmly through it, murmuring praise like a litany against your mouth while your thighs trembled around his hand.
“So beautiful,” he breathed. “That’s my girl…”
When you came back to yourself, you were breathing hard, your body limp against his, and he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
You barely had time to recover before you felt the hard outline of him pressing insistently against your lower back. You shifted, grinding against him, and heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Someone's eager," you murmured.
"You make me that way." He kissed your shoulder.
With surprising ease, he lifted you from his lap and rose from the throne. Your legs wobbled beneath you while he shrugged free of the remaining layers of his robes, exposing the toned planes of his chest and stomach beneath the light.
Scars marked his skin here and there. Proof of battles survived. Lightning endured. Beautiful in ways words could never fully capture.
He guided you gently back onto the throne itself.
The sight alone nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
Silk pooled around your thighs, hair slightly disheveled, lips swollen from his kisses while you sat upon the Fire Nation throne looking utterly ruined beneath his gaze.
Zuko dropped to his knees before you without hesitation.
“This throne belongs to you too,” he murmured, spreading your thighs carefully apart. “Allow me to show just how much you do.”
His tongue swept through your folds slowly, savoring you with an audible groan that sent heat spiraling straight through your body. He kissed and licked you with infuriating devotion, alternating broad strokes with flicks of his tongue against your clit until your fingers dug desperately into the throne’s armrests.
“Spirits,” he muttered against you. “You taste incredible.”
The vibration of his voice made your thighs shake.
He devoured you like a starving man, entirely unrestrained now. His fingers slid inside you again while his mouth worked your clit mercilessly, dragging you higher faster than before.
“Zuko—”
You tangled a hand in his hair instinctively, earning a deep sound from him that went straight through your core. His grip tightened on your thighs immediately, holding you open while he buried himself deeper between them.
“That’s it,” he growled softly. “Use my mouth. I want to feel you.”
The second orgasm built frighteningly fast.
Your body was already sensitive, trembling from the first release, making every stroke of his tongue almost unbearable in the best possible way.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
His golden eyes lifted to yours briefly, darkened completely with desire.
“Come for me again.”
The command shattered whatever restraint remained.
Pleasure ripped through you violently, your cry echoing against the towering walls while your body convulsed beneath his mouth. Zuko drank in every tremor greedily, refusing to stop until your legs nearly gave out entirely.
Only then did he pull back.
When you finally turned, your legs shaky, you saw him still seated, his face glistening, his erection straining visibly against his trousers. He looked utterly, sinfully satisfied.
And Spirits, he looked devastating.
For several long moments, the throne room dissolved into silence broken only by the crackling braziers and your ragged breathing.
When he finally rose, his hand cupped your cheek with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing away the tear you hadn’t realized escaped.
He tilted your chin upward and brushed one final kiss against your lips- soft this time, almost boyish despite the crown resting atop his head.
“You are one of the best women this palace has ever seen,” he murmured.
The sincerity in his voice nearly undid you more than his touch ever could.
A watery laugh escaped you. “You’re biased.”
“Absolutely.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “But I’m also right.”
He bent down and kissed you again, deep and lingering, stealing the air from your lungs.
“What about you?” you murmured against his mouth, glancing downward meaningfully.
“It’s not necessary.” He rested his forehead briefly against yours. “Watching you fall apart for me is more satisfying than anything else.”
When you reached for your discarded robes, he caught your wrist gently.
“Take your time,” he said, quickly kissing the back of your hand. “I’ll delay the council.”
He crossed the throne room barefoot, gathering the remaining pieces of his clothing before stopping near the massive doors. He glanced back one final time.
His gaze swept slowly over you sprawled across the throne.
A dangerous smirk curved his mouth.
“I think the throne suits you, you look magnificent on it.”
And then he was gone, the doors closing behind him, leaving you alone in the throne room with the echo of his words, and the unshakable certainty that you belonged exactly where you were.
Part 2.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
note: i had a bunch of ideas written and in mind, and mixed them on this so i hope it makes sense. aaaand I’m thinking of a part 2 following Zuko’s turn on the throne…
Content warning: mdni!, suggestive themes, full term pregnancy, back labor, amniotic fluid, contractions, childbirth (explicitly described-waterbirth), precipitous birth, zuko catches the baby
a.n: A Mother’s Day special. Hi guys Atla has temporarily revived me, how have you guys been? Lol, I’ve been working on this for a while and I was nervous to post it honestly. The ending is a tad rushed I was legit fatigued at that point. Anywho…
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there 💖
w.c: 5k
— —
He’s been more clingy now that you could have the baby any day now. He doesn’t want to leave your side, and that means if he has to go somewhere, you have to go too.
You stir in your seat for the fourth time, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Your belly is heavy and low since the baby dropped. So now your positions are limited—it’s either the left side, or the right side.
Zuko glances over his shoulder at you, for the tenth time, physically bothered and uptight by the fact that you’re not comfortable. He wants nothing to do with the throne he currently sits on. You give him a tired, reassuring smile and shift your hips a little. Zuko sighs quietly, nostrils flaring as he looks directly into the Chamberlain's eyes.
“Chamberlain.” Zuko interrupts the older man, a displeased look on his face. “Do you have anything urgent to address?”
“Oh—well, no, Fire Lord Zuko.” He bows quickly.
“Dismissed.” Zuko affirms, being the first to stand and leave.
He comes straight to you, helping you up out of your own overly padded ‘throne’, one hand under your elbow and the other on your hip.
“Up we go.” Zuko waits for you to find your balance, supporting you, his hand shifting from your hip to your belly. “He’s low.”
“How do you know he’s low? What if she’s low?” You reply, out of breath, feeling the pressure bud between your legs the longer you stand. You were hoping you wouldn’t have to waddle out of here in front of so many people. Zuko smiles, but it fades when he sees your face sour with discomfort.
“Where does it hurt?” He asks, guiding you out of the throne room. “Take your time.”
“My back.” You wince. Actually, your entire body aches. But you do your best not to show it.
“A warm bath, shall we?” Zuko suggests and you nod.
He mutters something like, ‘careful’, as he shifts and supports you down the stairs and into your living quarters.
“The avatar arrives in less than an hour.” Zuko regretfully informs you as he draws you a full bath. “We have a meeting.”
“Zuko…” You moan and lower yourself at a painfully slow rate onto the wooden chair in the bath room. You exhale slowly through pursed lips, a hand cradling underneath your bump. “I…I don’t think—I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Zuko abandons the filling tub and comes over to help slip your robe off you, a remorseful expression tightening his face. The moment your belly is exposed, his hands find it, caressing and feeling, his lips pressing into the crown of your head. He pulls back and lowers himself level to you, gently hooking his arms under yours.
“I know.” He mutters in a defeated way. He’s painfully aware that it’s unreasonable to expect you to accompany him everywhere he goes. Not when you’re so close to having the baby. “Come. It’s ready, darling.”
Zuko carefully tugs you up and you allow his strength to do all the work. You follow his movement, throwing your leg over the tub to get inside. He quickly turns off the pipe. The water is so warm and you can’t help the noise that bubbles up your throat when he lowers the rest of your body in. Immediately all that weight, the pressure, the aches, they’re all relieved from the water.
“Yeah? It’s that good?” Zuko chuckles softly, his eyes flicking down to your swollen breasts floating at the water's surface.
His jaw clenches and his eyes trail further down. Just underneath them lays your belly, as big and as round as ever. He's done this to you. Zuko feels pride bloom in his chest. If you’d allow it, he’d keep you pregnant and full with his heir each year that passes.
Perhaps he will.
“A little hotter, please.” You growl the last word, spreading your legs wide enough for the pressure to release from your pelvis. Oh, that position does something to Zuko. His cheeks tinge pink and he has a hard time looking away as you spread.
“Mhh—” He clears his throat and sits up straight, tugging his sleeves up his forearms. His hands dip into the bath, swirling in circular motions as the water heats up around you. You moan a sigh of relief. “It’s not good for you to have it any hotter than this, love.”
“It’s good. This is good.” You whisper as you lean back, resting your head against the pillow on the side of the basin. Your protruding belly button breaks the water's surface, along with your dark, puckered nipples.
Baths are becoming more frequent. They’re the only thing, aside from Zuko’s hands themselves, that are able to relieve some of these aches and pains.
Zuko reaches for the cloth and begins at your shoulders, wiping you down with the warm water. He wipes the back of your neck, dipping the cloth back into the water when it’s gotten too cold.
“Think he’s coming soon, Zuko.” You mumble mindlessly, focus on that little bit of pressure that never fades. The kind that makes you want to settle into a squat and stay there.
“Yeah? He is?” Zuko responds with a similar tone, but then his expression shifts to something less calm. His eyes check you over, narrowing as they graze over your belly that hangs heavily between your legs. “Darling,” His tone hardens, “…how soon?”
“Don’t know.” You mutter, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of him dragging the cloth across your chest. “Feels like—her—head is right there.”
Zuko’s jaw tightens. How can he leave you now that you’ve said that?
“I’ll reschedule the meeting.”
“No, no.” It takes too much energy to say that, but you think he’s just being silly at this point. “It’s the avatar, Zuko.”
Zuko only laughs. The times that Aang has requested his presence or ‘help’ just for it to be a side quest or some air temple adventure—this is likely no different.
“He’ll survive without me.” Zuko says, shifting behind you now, dragging the cloth down your arms. He feels the water, and reheats it slightly, keeping it at the temperature you like best.
“Go, Zu. I’m going to be fine. I’ll probably be back in here when you’re finished.”
“And who will help you with that?” Zuko asks in all seriousness, as if attendees didn’t garnish this palace like jewels on a crown.
“Anyone.” You mumble, getting comfortable enough to doze off now.
“I don’t want just ‘anyone’ to undress you and put you in this bath, darling.” Zuko speaks under his breath, his tone sharp and controlled. His voice lowers to a hushed whisper, and his soft lips press into the shell of your ear. “That sight…is only for me to see.”
Your body breaks out into a shiver. You didn’t consider it like that.
“Yes, Fire Lord Zuko.” You smile dopily, letting your eyes close all the way. “I expect you will be delivering the baby then.”
There’s a pause, and silence. Zuko tenses behind you, the cloth stopping just on the back of your elbow. Then he answers sternly. “If I must, yes.”
You keep your eyes closed, but give him a smile anyways. “Understood, Fire Lord.”
“You make it sound like a joke.” He exhales harshly, dipping the cloth underwater now, wiping it gently between your breasts. “It isn’t.”
“Mm—I know, but you act as if I’ll vanish if you leave me for an hour.” You say with as little effort you can, you’re tired.
You feel his warm hands make their way over your tight nipples, and you moan softly.
“And if you do?” Zuko asks through a clenched jaw.
“You won’t lose me in an hour, Zuko.” You try to force as much finality into your voice, but your exhaustion settles deep in your bones. If you have to come out of this bath now, you’ll surely burst into tears.
“Logically…but—” Zuko doesn’t finish his sentence. His hand drags further down, and your belly hardens against the cloth. He looks up at you expectantly, just to witness your face tighten with discomfort. “You’re in pain all the time now.”
“It comes,” Your voice strains, and you breathe slowly through your mouth, feeling your body finally relax. “And goes.”
“That doesn’t make me any less…any less—”
“Any less, what?” You peek at him, and see his expression bounce between restraint and panic.
“Any less worried.” Zuko says, irritated with his own inability to find the words to explain his feelings. “It kills me…that I cannot make this better.”
“My Zuko…” You begin, turning your head to look at him properly. He looks tense. Like he has the world and more resting on top of him. “I don’t need you to make it better, I just need you here.”
“I am here.” He says. But being here didn’t feel like enough.
“Exactly.” You let your eyes slip shut, and as the word hangs in the air, he moves down to your thighs with the cloth. “Go meet with the avatar, Zuko.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“And I don’t want to leave this bath.”
Zuko almost chuckles, though it sounds more like a scoff. He wrings out the cloth and hangs it on the edge of the basin. “I will go to the meeting.”
“Mm.” You hum lightly, already half drifting off somewhere else.
“But I’ll be back immediately after.” He states earnestly, his mouth partially open like he’s not quite finished talking. “And if anything changes…anything, y/n. Send for me.”
“I’m in a bath, Zuko.” Your lips curl in your last attempt to reassure him.
“I don’t care.” He insists, showing you exactly how serious he is.
“Right. I will summon the Fire Lord from his meeting with the Avatar if my water gets too cold.” Now your smile is beaming, and you peek up at him again.
He is, too, smiling softly, that sweet smile. “Good. And don’t stay here too long. Actually, it’s better if I stay until you're ready—”
“No, go. I can get out of the bath on my own, Zu. Okay?”
Zuko leans in and presses his forehead against your temple. After a few long moments, he reluctantly pulls away. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Eventually, Zuko leaves after returning many times. Each time he’d get a little farther, he’d turn back. Say his goodbyes again, give you another kiss on the head. Rub your belly and tell his unborn wa that he’ll be back soon.
By the time he walked through the doors of the throne room, Aang and Katara were already seated and waiting for his arrival. As Zuko walks in, all of the attendees and servants stand and bow. He walks past them, shoulders square and head straight, ready to end the meeting before it even starts. As Zuko approaches the long, narrow table, Aang rises to his feet and turns to Katara. Zuko immediately recognizes the movement, the way he hunches forward to provide his body as leverage, the positioning of his arms—the patience.
So when he sees Katara clutching onto Aang for support with one hand, and the other under the swell of her stomach, Zuko intervenes.
“Avatar Aang.” Zuko greets his long-time friend with a firm squeeze of his shoulder.
“Fire Lord Zuko.” Aang addresses him properly as he helps Katara out of her seat. “Please, sit.” Zuko insists, resting his hand on Aang’s wrist to stop him. Katara sits back down with a warm smile, her small bump nestled high under her ribcage. Zuko notes that she doesn’t seem any further than six months.
“Katara. You look well.” Zuko says respectfully. Has that much time really passed since he last saw them?
Katara smiles, but the exhaustion is evident in the slight discoloration under her eyes. “Thank you, Zuko.”
“Zuko.” Aang’s tone turns grave, and Zuko picks up on it right away. This isn’t going to be one of his fun adventures or side quests, he can sense that much in the pit of his already uneasy stomach.
Zuko finally takes his seat, his eyes glancing over Katara’s bump, and then to the doors before landing back on Aang. He’s distracted. And it’s clear as day.
“This must be very important for the both of you to make the journey here. Please, let’s begin.”
But before the first document is presented, Zuko is already elsewhere mentally. His mind runs on you, how you’re probably—finally—struggling to step out of that bath on your own.
What if you slip?
Or how you’re probably clutching your back as you shuffle into bed with your hair wet.
What if you get sick?
All of his intrusive thoughts drive him further away from where he is. It’s Aang’s voice, which seems to fade in and out as he outlines each concern, that forces Zuko out of his thoughts.
Hours pass like days, and Zuko is more tormented than ever. Every point piles on top of him, like one boulder after the next—the weight of the world weighing heavier on his shoulders.
And the cherry on top is you.
—
You’re still in the bath, but the water's gone cold. And despite your promise, you refuse to call the Fire Lord to come reheat it. You know this meeting is of great importance, and your duty as Fire Lady in this moment is to ensure it goes uninterrupted.
But you didn’t expect it to last for hours.
Another wave of fire floods your lower back and you grit your teeth and breathe through it. Your fingers clutch onto the edge of the tub as your knees settle into the floor of the basin. The pressure worsens each time your back flares up.
The pains huddle closer together, less space and breaks between them. You get to the point where you start rocking side to side, contorting your body as best you can into whatever position that provides a bit of relief.
But relief never comes.
You glance over at the window—the sun is setting and the sky is a beautiful blood orange. Interrupting a diplomatic meeting to complain about back pain won’t be your proudest moment. But now that you’re trying to get out of the tub and can’t, it’s something you’re going to have to do.
Because this might not be just back pain.
“Guard!” You whimper out, voice shaky but strong. Metal footsteps hastily clink towards you and stop just outside of the door.
“Fire Lady—”
“Get my husband! Oh—get Zuko, now!”
“Yes, Fire Lady.”
—
Aang finally introduces the final point—the resistance of some of the fire nation colonies, and how that’s been a significant threat lately to the balance of things. Zuko just nods and glances over at the door once again.
“…if we don’t approach this correctly, it could turn into a war that neither of us want…you do understand that?” Aang follows Zuko’s gaze to the door, “Zuko?”
“Yes. I understand and I agree. We will need to approach it strategically.” Zuko begins, growing more tense as that feeling inside him starts ringing like a siren. “I apologize. My mind is in two places at once, today.”
“If I have to be honest, Zuko. You look like you want to bolt out of your chair.” Katara jests carefully.
Zuko looks away from the door, right at Aang and Katara. He didn’t think it was that obvious. He never wanted to come off as uninterested. He swallows quickly, huffing a sigh.
“My wife is due any day.” Zuko admits, fixing his slightly curved posture. “She was very…uncomfortable when I left her.”
Katara’s expression softens, and Aang goes rigid.
“We understand.” Katara says as she looks over at Aang.
Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a young, breathless attendee stumbles in and onto the carpeted floor. He scrambles to his feet and bows as low as he can.
“Fire Lord Zuko, I—I apologize.” The attendee heaves in a grating breath, and Zuko’s body primes to act, to do, to run. “Th-the Fire Lady—,” He gasps loudly and Zuko immediately stands, his chair screeching behind him, his hands gripping the corners of the table.
“Speak!” Zuko commands.
“The Fire Lady requests your presence at once!”
Zuko is already moving around the table, his voice thick with worry, “What happened?”
“The Fire Lady said only to fetch you, Lord Zuko.”
“My apologies.” Zuko huffs as he hastily passes Aang and Katara.
“Go. We’ll stay here.” Aang projects his voice. Katara’s hand instinctively hovers over her spirit water pouch, like she wants to follow and help.
— —
When Zuko bursts through the door to your living quarters he doesn’t see you in the bed with damp hair like he imagined. His heart slams into his ribcage, and he immediately rushes into the bath room.
There he finds you perched on the edge of the tub, curved back heaving from heavy, uneven breaths, belly hanging tight underneath. It looks bad, worse than usual, actually. Your face is hidden in your crossed arms, and your hips wade side to side half submerged in the water.
Zuko shouts your name, closing the distance between you in a few strides, adrenaline high. You raise your head from your arms, revealing a face screwed with pain, and Zuko sinks to a crouch in front of you. His fingers comb away your sweaty hair from your face.
“You’re back in the bath, my love.” Zuko says it like a question as his eyes search yours, slightly confused and mostly concerned. His hand leaves your face, shaking slightly as it dips into the water. His pupils blow when the horrifying realization hits him the second the water registers as cold—
“This is the same bath I left you in.” Zuko’s voice shakes with restraint.
He quickly strips himself of his robes and enters the tub behind you, water sloshing out the sides and onto the floor. Anger bubbles inside him, anger directed towards himself.
“You’ve been in here for hours.” He growls.
“Zuko…” You sob weakly as heat floods your pelvis in the most excruciating way, and the pressure makes your legs spread further.
“Okay, breathe. Breathe.” Zuko coos as he heats the water with his body as fast as he can without hurting you. “Talk to me darling, is it your back?”
You nod your head desperately, and a deep, lengthy groan erupts from your throat. The sound of it makes Zuko grit his teeth. His hands move quickly to your back, pressing firmly against it, his thumbs massaging deep into the tissue.
“You should have sent for me sooner.” He grinds out a tight jaw, careful and deliberate with his every movement. “How long has it been like this?”
You shake your head, unable to speak during. Zuko waits patiently, massaging your back as he continues to heat the water. His eyes scan you like he’s trying to figure out what is about to happen next. These didn’t seem like the usual back pains you’ve been getting lately.
“F-Few hours…haah, my back—oh, there’s pressure,” you cry softly the second it’s over, and Zuko embraces you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. You allow your head to fall back onto his shoulder as you reestablish your breath. “I—I can’t get out…”
The thought of you here, trapped and cold, makes his stomach twist. His hands instinctively slide over your belly, yearning to connect, fingers pressing softly as he checks the position of the baby. Much lower.
“I’m here. Does the pain come and go?”
Your eyes slam shut, and your breath catches in your throat. The pain is back, and the pressure is at an all time high. You begin groaning again, even louder this time. Zuko supports you in the water, his body hot against your back. But not even that helps you. Zuko’s fingers splay across your stomach as it pulls closer to you—tightening up.
“Oh.” Zuko breathes, looking down into the warped water to see your stomach seized in a way he’s never seen before. “These are contractions.”
And it hasn’t been long between this one and the last one.
How close are you exactly?
“Wha—aah!” You’re cut off by the pressure morphing into something else entirely. You grab his forearm, using everything in you to hoist yourself up. “Zuko…I need the toilet!”
Zuko’s heart leaps into his throat and he tries to swallow it down. He’s only able to say your name before he finds himself holding you up, bringing you both to a standing position.
Once the cold air hits your thighs, gravity comes into play and the pain concentrates in your pelvis now. The tightening crests, leaving you shaking as you slump back into Zuko entirely.
“I’ve got you.” He says through a ragged breath, securing you properly in his hold. “Breathe darling, I have you.”
Your body jolts against him and there’s a popping sensation inside your pelvis. Once cold thighs flood with warmth, and then there’s the distinct sound of water hitting water. Zuko looks down in awe, and so do you.
“My water…My water broke.” You whisper shakily, that feeling intensifying by the second.
“Yes.” Zuko breathes hard, his hand quickly slipping between your thighs. The world stops spinning when his fingertips catch something soft, yet firm. Instinct drives his hand, tugging your leg to the side as he maneuvers and looks, really looks. And what he sees makes his eyes bulge, confirming what he thought he felt.
“Ohh—Zuko! Zuko! It hurts!” A scream erupts from you, and you give in to this feeling of push.
Zuko acts quickly, lowering you back into the bath. You find yourself settling into a deep squat. Meanwhile, Zuko doesn’t have time to think, to call for the palace physician or even Katara—he only has time to act. He kneels behind you, hands instinctively moving into position between your legs.
With a growl, your body bears down and you topple forward, gripping on to the edge of the basin. Zuko steadies you with one hand, keeping the other ready under the water. He watches as your body shakes and strains with effort, your finger tips white around the basin.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough but raw with emotion, his baby’s head emerging a little further. Zuko feels as you stretch, his mouth agape at the sheer power you’re exhibiting. “Our baby’s coming, y/n. You’re so strong.”
The contraction fades, leaving you utterly wrecked and your breath hitching repeatedly. Mere seconds pass before the next wave crashes over you, sucking you back into the blinding pain.
“I can’t do this.” You barely whimper before your body pushes again. You make a noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, something primal and sacred.
“But you are.” Zuko murmurs, overcome with emotion. He feels the baby’s head transcend further, and your thighs begin to shake tremendously. “Darling, you’re doing it.”
“It burns!” You yelp, trying to shift away from the blossoming fire.
“I…I know.” Zuko grimaces, his instinct screaming protect. But this isn’t something he can protect you from. “Pant for me, baby. Small pushes.”
You shake your head as you pant loudly and quickly, tears streaming down your red cheeks.
With a guttural grunt you feel a sudden release, and Zuko gasps loudly behind you. “The head…the head is out, y/n.”
Shock sputters from you in short gasps, and you reach into the water to feel the baby’s head. It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt in your entire life— soft fuzzy hair, stuck to their skull. You burst into tears, snotty, sobbing sounds ripping from your chest.
Zuko leans in to sprinkle haphazard kisses on your temple and cheek, and then he quickly settles back and readjusts how he supports the baby’s head.
“One more push, darling. Please.” Zuko pants, and immediately you’re shaking your head. You want this baby out more than anything, but the thought of continuing is absolutely terrifying.
It’s too much.
“It’s almost over. And then we’ll have our baby, okay? Breathe.” Zuko quickly and carefully slides his finger around the baby’s neck, automatically checking for the cord. Relief flashes across his face when he finds nothing there—everything is going the way it should.
A low groan rumbles from you, and Zuko is already bracing himself, readying himself to catch. His stomach lurches when your groan ramps up to a bloodcurdling scream, and your body curves from strain.
“That’s…that’s perfect…” Zuko mutters when he feels the head turn and drop further into his hands, and he begins guiding the shoulders free. “Push, push.” Zuko encourages you, and you do, helpless against the force of it.
You push with everything you have left.
In the next second, you feel a rush that's impossible to comprehend and the baby slips right into Zuko’s hands. You gasp hard for air and your body trembles violently from depletion.
“Oh.” Zuko sucks in a broken, sharp breath, mesmerized by how tiny and delicate they feel in his hands.
Zuko moves fast, purely off instinct, one hand firmly supporting and guiding the baby forward, through your shaking thighs, bringing them up against your chest. His other arm curls tightly around your middle, carefully pulling your exhausted body back against him before you can slump too far forward.
“Oh, Zuko.” The words break apart when you look down to see your baby’s scrunched, slightly blue face. Still. Not breathing. Horror blooms inside you and you panic. “Zuko?…Zuko!”
“I know, come on.” Zuko whispers roughly, his hand rubbing the baby’s back vigorously. “Let us hear you, come on.”
After a second that feels like an eternity, a wail pierces the air. Tiny, but strong. So strong. And loud.
You sob as your body sags in relief and exhaustion, and Zuko lets out a breathy laugh before his own tears burst free like a dam.
The baby slowly flushes to a healthy pink, and their bottom lip trembles. Zuko continues to rub her back, soaking in each moment like a sponge. And that’s when he notices.
“There it is. She’s okay. She’s perfect. Strong like her mother.” Zuko huffs, turning his attention down at you against his chest.
“She?” You barely whisper, smiling weakly. “She’s okay. She’s okay.” Each word comes out a little softer, a little more slurred.
He analyzes every line in your expression, every bead of sweat budding from your forehead. You look exhausted. You had just given everything to bring his child into the world, and it was his honor to witness it.
“You just…you did it, y/n.” Zuko watches as your eyes unfocus, and his chest tightens. “Hey. Stay with me.”
Zuko’s distant voice echoes in your head, and you concentrate to look at him. The pain is constant, an aching throb that stings hotter than venom.
“Tired…hurts.” You manage to mutter, glancing down at your baby squirming on your chest.
“I know, baby.” Zuko whispers, desperately comforting himself with the reminder that the best healer in the water tribe is sitting in his palace now. “You’re okay—Guard!” Zuko shouts the last word, looking over at the door of the bath room.
Hurried footsteps approach and stop just outside of the door. “Fire lord Zuko.”
“Get the physician! Bring Katara!” Zuko gives the order and returns his attention to you.
“At once, Fire Lord.”
Zuko sees your eyes flutter, and jostles you to keep you awake. “Stay awake, darling.”
You move against his chest, heavy eyes flicking down at the baby cooing against your chest. “Zuko. You…did it. Like you said.”
Relief pulses through Zuko when it registers, you’re speaking of what he said earlier. That he’d deliver the baby if he needed to. He smiles down at you, adjusting the hold he has around his entire world. “Yes, my Fire Lady. As promised.”
A slow tightening breaks your concentration, and you find yourself seizing up against him. A soft groan rumbles from you, and your eyes squeeze shut.
A contraction?
“What is it?” Zuko asks, panicked.
“The afterbirth.”
Katara appears breathless in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame and the other resting beneath the swell of her stomach. Aang lingers quietly behind her, relief relaxing his face.
“You’re okay, you did so well,” Katara reassures gently, already moving closer. Her eyes flick briefly to the baby and soften. “She’s beautiful. Just a little more, okay? Then you’re all done.”
The physician follows quickly behind, bowing once before moving to assist. Everything overlaps into one big blur around you.
Katara’s calm voice. Zuko’s hand never leaving you. The tiny warmth of your daughter, squirming against your chest. The physician’s quiet reassurance that she is healthy—her congratulations. But everything feels distant.
Distant but safe.
You focus on Zuko’s touch, and the babe that he’s now fully supporting against your bare chest as your arms fall limp either side of you.
“It was a good thing you were here,” Aang says quietly from the doorway.
Zuko barely hears him, because his attention never leaves you. Nor the tiny babygirl tucked safely against you.
“Yes,” Zuko says softly, brushing sweaty strands from your forehead.
summary: park accidentally washes your number off his hand, you make him a list of things to do to get it back. (wc: 1.9k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: fluff and humour. park is still moody but a softie for reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates princess!reader who is a menace. related to these fics. the idea is to write each thing on the list as its own little blurb/fic!
pilates princess!reader agenda
Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point.
So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake.
(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.)
Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number.
It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers.
In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord.
He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand.
Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department.
Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.
It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them.
The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.
“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.
Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”
“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed.
The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark?
Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys.
It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident.
You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest.
“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.
You press your lips together.
Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.”
It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.
He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up.
Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you.
Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you.
Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)
“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”
“Does that make you the human I tasted?”
You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”
Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.
The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.
“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”
“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon.
“You don’t want to?”
You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.”
“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to.
“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.”
Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg.
He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created.
Instead, you answer for him.
“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.”
Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour?
Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.”
There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at.
Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.)
Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics.
You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.”
You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark.
What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration?
Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off.
“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add.
Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?”
“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.”
(Risqué insult, but it paid off.)
“Do I look like I go to Pilates?”
You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?”
Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter.
Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?”
“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.
It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.
Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you.
He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.”
“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.”
adult fire lord zuko x fire lady firebender reader | mdni. | wc: 7,1k
summary: in which the gaang orchestrates a fake diplomatic summit to force the fire lord and fire lady into taking a break.
content: adult!fire lord zuko x fire lady!firebender reader, established marriage, featuring the gaang (+ suki obvi), humour, element bending (sokka back bends duh), emotional intimacy, light angst, suggestive content, post-war, fluff.
note: no smut this installment! just exhausted married idiots and the gaang deciding enough is enough. pls ignore any accidental lore inconsistencies, i had to fill some restoration era/island worldbuilding gaps with my own interpretations hehe. finally proofread. welcome to whaletail island. ♡
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The royal ship cut steadily through the waters surrounding Whaletail Island, its crimson sails shifting beneath the midday wind while sunlight scattered gold across the waves below. Ahead, the island rose gradually from the sea through layers of pale mist and dark cliffs wrapped in cedar forests and hanging bridges barely visible between drifting steam rising from somewhere higher in the mountains.
The closer the ship drew, the quieter the sea seemed to become.
Above deck, Appa rested across the reinforced platform built specially into the center of the vessel, one enormous paw twitching lazily in his sleep while Momo curled comfortably between his horns with complete confidence that no one would dare disturb him there. Nearby, the rest of the Gaang had long since abandoned any attempt at productivity.
Unfortunately, the Fire Lord and Fire Lady had not.
“They’ve been in there for hours,” Sokka complained from where he leaned dramatically against the railing near the stern of the ship, gesturing toward the private cabin below deck with a piece of candied ginger he’d stolen from the kitchens earlier. “I’m serious. At this point I miss when they used to lock themselves away for more… entertaining reasons.”
Toph tilted her head toward him. “You’re such a creep.”
“I’m not a creep,” Sokka defended. “I’m nostalgic for when they acted like newlyweds instead of exhausted diplomats.”
“That’s not helping your case,” Katara muttered, though the amusement tugging at her voice betrayed her.
Nearby, Aang rested against Appa’s side. “I get what he means, though,” he admitted. “They used to relax more. Now every time we see them they’re discussing trade routes or council meetings, which is fair, but seems tiring.”
“Mm,” Toph hummed knowingly. “And their heartbeats are awful lately.”
Katara’s expression softened as she glanced toward the closed cabin door, where muffled voices could still occasionally be heard beneath the creaking of the ship. “I think they’ve both forgotten how to stop.”
Nobody joked after that.
“Do you think they’ll get mad when they find out?” Toph asked.
“She won’t,” Katara replied confidently.
“Zuko, on the other hand…” Aang muttered.
“Good thing we’ll have his wife on our side,” Sokka said brightly.
“And if we don’t?” Aang asked.
Sokka pointed toward Appa without hesitation. “Then you grab Appa and we leave before the entire Restoration work burns down.” He straightened abruptly. “Alright. I’m going to get them.”
Before anyone could stop him, Sokka shoved himself away from the railing and disappeared down the staircase toward the lower deck.
Inside the royal cabin, warmth drifted through the polished wooden walls from the ship’s heating vents while sunlight poured through the round windows overlooking the sea. Scrolls covered nearly every available surface, spread across the low table between you and Zuko, stacked beside ink brushes, tucked carelessly beneath official maps that had slowly begun overtaking the room throughout the journey.
Across from you, Zuko let out an annoyed sigh.
“Did you sign the harbor authorization for the eastern fleet?” you asked while skimming another line of the document in your hands.
“Yesterday,” Zuko replied without looking up. “I left it on your desk.”
You hummed before taking a sip of tea, absentmindedly warming the porcelain between your palms with a flicker of firebending. Amber light glowed briefly beneath your fingertips before fading back into the warmth of the cabin.
“And did you bring everything from my desk?”
He set one scroll aside in favor of another. “Of course.”
“I think you didn’t, my lord.” You lifted your gaze toward him over the edge of the paper. “You’re becoming forgetful already...”
One dark brow lifted as he finally leaned back far enough to look at you properly instead of the paperwork surrounding both of you. Light from the cabin windows caught against the gold threading of his robes, while loose strands of dark hair had begun escaping around his face beneath his royal headpiece.
“I definitely did.”
You lowered the document slowly. “Well, I cannot find the council seal or the information packet for this summit.”
His expression narrowed thoughtfully for a second before he gestured vaguely toward the growing stacks of scrolls crowding the cabin table, the nearby shelves, and somehow even part of the floor now.
“Maybe you moved them—” His eyes lifted back toward you. “Did you just call me old?”
“I didn’t,” you answered smoothly, allowing yourself a small smile at last. “Move them, I mean. I did call you old.”
That finally pulled a quiet laugh from him, soft enough you nearly missed it beneath the distant crash of waves against the hull outside.
The cabin door burst open.
“There you are, my favorite busy friends,” Sokka announced dramatically.
Neither of you even flinched. Zuko had already reached for another document before Sokka finished speaking while you continued shifting papers around the table in search of the missing packet.
“You say that like we disappeared,” Zuko replied flatly.
“It feels like you did,” Sokka informed him while crossing the cabin, only to stop short in visible horror at the amount of paperwork surrounding both of you. “It somehow looks worse in here now.”
“Sorry, Sokka,” you said while carefully setting another scroll aside. “We’re a little busy trying to find the information packet for the summit.” Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you even send it?”
Sokka visibly froze.
“Oh. Right,” he said quickly. “I forgot.”
You stared at him flatly.
“You forgot?”
“See? Not me,” Zuko muttered. “I’m perfectly in my youth...”
Your gaze snapped toward him just as the candle beside the cabin window flared unexpectedly brighter. A drifting bonsai leaf brushed too close to the flame and blackened instantly at the edges before curling into ash.
Sokka swallowed.
“It was complicated,” he defended quickly.
You pressed two fingers briefly against your temple before exhaling through your nose. “Don’t worry,” you said with the sort of composure that only existed because you had practiced it for years now. “We’ll manage. Like always.” Your eyes lifted back toward him. “Can you at least tell us more about it?”
Sokka snatched a loose sheet of paper from the crowded table and immediately began scribbling across it at alarming speed.
“I can…” He squinted down at the page. “Rewrite it.”
“By memory?” you asked.
“Duh.” He dipped the brush back into ink without hesitation. “I’m the best, if you haven’t figured that out already.”
Zuko finally looked up again, entirely unimpressed. “I’m still waiting for the day.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, quiet but genuine enough that Zuko’s attention shifted toward you at the sound.
Sokka pointed accusingly between the two of you. “See? This is exactly why you both need this.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Need what?”
“The…” Sokka gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, the cabin, the island waiting beyond the windows. “Important political gathering trip.”
“Nothing excites me more than a royal trip,” you replied with exhausting sincerity while finally leaning back in your chair. The movement pulled tension visibly through your shoulders as you closed your eyes for one brief second before opening them again. “Truly. I can already feel myself relaxing.”
Without looking away from the document in his hand, Zuko leaned over just enough to press a quick kiss against your temple before returning his attention to whatever impossibly important report had captured it.
Across the cabin, Sokka opened his mouth to answer, only for Aang to appear suddenly in the doorway behind him with sunlight and sea wind spilling into the room around him.
“We’re here!” he announced brightly. “You should come see this.”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
Whaletail Island rose from the sea in sweeping layers of dark volcanic cliffs softened by dense cedar forests and pale ribbons of steam drifting through the mountainside. Sunlight spilled across hanging bridges suspended between narrow stone paths while clusters of wooden cabins disappeared into drifting fog higher along the cliffs.
The entire place looked impossibly peaceful.
Which immediately made you suspicious.
“You picked a very dramatic location for a summit,” Zuko observed beside you, one hand resting at the small of your back while the ship slowed toward the docks below.
Sokka visibly brightened. “Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
Far beneath the ship, harbor workers moved along the docks while pulley lifts carried supplies toward the retreat overlooking the sea. A few Air Acolytes crossed the upper terraces before disappearing between the trees.
“It’s beautiful,” Katara admitted.
“And isolated,” Toph added approvingly. “I like it already.”
You remained near the railing beside Zuko as the ship finally settled against the docks with a deep groan of wood and steel beneath the waves. Your attention shifted toward the harbor below, instinctively searching for diplomatic ships, royal insignias, or waiting representatives.
“Where are the delegates?”
Aang answered first.
“They’ll probably arrive later.”
Zuko’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Sokka jumped in right afterward. “Yeah! Diplomats love arriving late. It’s part of being diplomatic.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” you murmured.
Before either you or Zuko could press further, Katara stepped smoothly between all of you.
“Why don’t we at least settle in first?” she suggested. “We’ve been traveling for hours.”
There wasn’t much room to argue after hours at sea. Judging by the tension still drawn through Zuko’s shoulders, he knew it too.
Eventually, after entirely too much unloading, Appa complaining loudly while being guided toward the upper terraces, and Sokka somehow nearly falling directly into the harbor within the first ten minutes of arrival, the group finally reached the retreat itself.
The cabins rested high above the cliffs where sea wind moved constantly through the surrounding cedar trees. Steam drifted across the stone walkways connecting the buildings while shallow volcanic streams ran beneath narrow wooden bridges.
Directly in the center of the retreat stood the largest cabin of all. Painted near the entrance in elegant gold lettering were the words:
THE SHINY BUG.
You stopped walking.
“…why is it called that?”
Sokka looked deeply, profoundly proud of himself already.
“Isn’t it majestic?”
Zuko stared at the sign for a long moment before continuing toward the entrance without changing expression.
“I already want to leave.”
The cabin itself was beautiful.
Warm cedar walls framed an enormous central living space centered around a sunken sitting area layered with cushions and low tables already set with tea, fruit, and enough food to feed Appa twice over. Tall windows overlooked the ocean below while soft amber light flickered across the room.
For one moment, everyone seemed uncertain what to do next.
Your friends had clearly expected relief, or relaxation, maybe even gratitude. Instead, the second you and Zuko sat down, both of you reached automatically for work again out of pure instinct.
You had barely unrolled another scroll when Zuko finally spoke without looking up from his own.
“We should probably review the delegate list again once they arrive.”
“Mm.” You nodded distractedly while reaching for a brush. “And if the Northern representatives are attending, we still need to discuss the harbor proposal before tomorrow.”
Around the room, the rest of the Gaang visibly deflated.
Toph groaned loudly enough for it to echo against the ceiling beams.
“Oh, for rock’s sake. They brought the stress with them.”
Aang had just opened his mouth to respond when a loud crash suddenly sounded somewhere deeper inside the cabin.
Zuko was on his feet before the noise fully settled, fire flashing sharply to life across one hand while sparks danced instinctively at your own fingertips beside him. Across the room, Katara bent water from her cup into a suspended ribbon while Toph planted one bare foot against the floorboards, expression sharpening beneath the vibrations traveling through the cabin. Even Aang straightened, air stirring uneasily around his sleeves. Meanwhile, Sokka grabbed a decorative serving tray like it might somehow function as a weapon.
“Who’s there?” Zuko snapped.
“Come out,” you added, pulse jumping as another loud clatter sounded near the kitchen.
Sokka yelped somewhere behind you. “WHY DOES THE SHINY BUG HAVE INTRUDERS?”
A cabinet door swung shut.
“…you’re all very tense.”
Suki stepped casually out from the kitchen holding a bowl of fruit in one hand and what looked suspiciously like ice cream in the other.
Katara burst into laughter.
Sokka nearly collapsed against the nearest table in relief. “SPIRITS, SUKI.”
“What?” she asked innocently while stealing a piece of fruit from the bowl. “I got hungry.”
Despite everything, warmth spread through your chest at the sight of her. Nearby, Aang grinned while Katara crossed the room to hug her properly, and even Toph looked noticeably less annoyed than usual.
Meanwhile, Sokka looked seconds away from emotionally combusting.
“You brought ice cream?” he asked, staring at the bowl in Suki’s hand like she had descended from the spirits themselves.
Suki smirked faintly before holding out the spoon toward him. “I know what matters in a crisis.”
Sokka accepted the bite with alarming sincerity. “You understand me on a spiritual level.”
Laughing under her breath, Suki caught the front of his tunic and pulled him down just enough to press a quick kiss against his cheek before he could keep talking.
Suki finally noticed both you and Zuko still standing there fully prepared for combat and straightened at once, lowering the bowl slightly before offering a respectful bow.
“My lord. My lady.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you sighed, crossing the room toward her. “Come here!”
You pulled her into a quick embrace before she could protest while behind you, Zuko extinguished the fire still flickering across his hand.
“What are you doing here?” you asked once you pulled back, suspicion already returning.
Suki blinked once.
“Oh,” she answered casually. “Just joining your rest time!”
You slowly lowered your arms.
“Our what?”
From somewhere behind you, Toph muttered, “Uh oh.”
Sokka moved first.
In his rush forward, he nearly slipped on the edge of one of the cushions, catching himself awkwardly against the low table hard enough to rattle half the teacups while still clutching Suki’s ice cream spoon in one hand.
“No one said rest time,” he said quickly, waving the spoon vaguely through the air while panic spread visibly across his face. “Nobody said that. Weird phrase, honestly. Maybe it’s like… a Kyoshi Warrior expression. Right, Suki?”
Beside him, Suki looked genuinely fascinated by how aggressively he was unraveling.
“Uhhh…”
“Sokka,” you said.
He straightened so fast it almost looked painful, nearly dropping the spoon before hastily hiding it behind his back.
“Yes, your ladyship?” he asked nervously, shoulders pulling tighter the moment you crossed your arms.
“Give us the information sheet.”
For one brief second, Sokka looked like he was seriously reconsidering his earlier evacuation plan involving Appa. Beside him, Suki pressed her lips together hard enough to hide a laugh. With deep resignation, he reached into his satchel and carefully handed over the page he had been “rewriting” aboard the ship earlier.
Zuko took the page first while you leaned closer to read over his shoulder. The room gradually fell silent as both of your eyes moved down the document.
Most of it was complete nonsense.
Half the page read like Sokka had attempted to recreate an official summit proposal entirely from memory after sustaining a head injury. Still, buried between badly phrased diplomatic jargon and several aggressively underlined words, there were just enough believable details about Whaletail Island’s harbor restoration and coastal trade routes to explain how this disaster had managed to fool you for several hours.
Then, halfway down the page, your eyes caught the name of the summit:
Southern
Oceanic
Knowledge
Assembly
You looked very slowly toward Sokka.
“We were supposed to believe we’d been invited to an event whose initials spell… SOKA?” Zuko asked, lifting the page slightly between two fingers like perhaps distance alone would make it less ridiculous.
Toph made one strangled noise before dissolving into laughter.
“You even missed a K, genius,” you said flatly.
Across the room, Katara dragged both hands down her face.
“I mean, it worked until now, you actually believed it—” Sokka started quickly, only to falter the moment your expression hardened further.
He raised both hands in surrender. “I panicked under pressure!”
Beside you, Zuko continued staring at the page in silence. Slowly, the last traces of humor disappeared from his expression. His thumb pressed harder against the edge of the paper until it bent slightly beneath the force while his eyes traced once more across the absurdly written title.
“You made us waste our time and come here?”
“It wasn’t just me!” Sokka defended, pointing wildly around the room. “It was a group effort!”
Zuko stood abruptly.
The movement was sharp enough to send several nearby scrolls sliding across the low table while the untouched tea beside them rippled inside its cup. He dropped the paper beside it with visible restraint, though the sound still landed harder than it should have inside the sudden silence of the cabin.
That kind of restraint was never a good sign. Not with Zuko.
“Zuko—”
Without another word, he turned and strode out.The cabin shook with the force of the slammed door.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
By the time all of you stepped outside, the ocean wind had turned colder.
Farther below, attendants still moved back and forth from the harbor lifts carrying royal trunks, scroll cases, and ceremonial robes toward the upper cabins completely unaware that the summit they were preparing for did not actually exist.
Zuko had stopped near the edge of the main terrace overlooking the cliffs below, one hand braced against the railing while the sea crashed endlessly beneath him.
“This is ridiculous,” he said the moment the rest of you approached. He turned sharply, whatever restraint he’d been holding onto finally snapping. “Do you have any idea how much we left behind to come here? How many things are waiting for us back home while we stand on this island for a summit that doesn’t even exist? And all of you just stood there laughing.”
“Nobody was laughing at you,” Aang tried carefully.
“You forged diplomatic documents.”
“You barely read them!” Sokka blurted out before visibly regretting it.
Katara closed her eyes. “Sokka.”
“What? It’s true!”
Zuko stared at him in complete disbelief. “That’s supposed to help your argument?”
“No, actually,” Sokka admitted quickly, “that one got away from me.”
You crossed your arms tightly against your chest, irritation still burning hot beneath your skin as the cold mountain breeze lifted strands of hair around your face. “You could’ve just asked us to come.”
“And you would’ve said yes?” Katara asked.
The question caught harder than you expected, your first instinct had been to answer at once.
But somewhere between palace schedules, council meetings, and waking before sunrise beside Zuko only to spend entire days separated by responsibilities before collapsing into bed exhausted long after midnight, you realized you genuinely couldn’t remember the last time either of you had agreed to rest.
The ocean roared faintly beneath the cliffs while familiar faces watched you from across the terrace: Katara watching carefully, Aang trying very hard not to look guilty, Suki lingering near the steps with her arms crossed loosely, and Toph leaning comfortably against one of the wooden posts with the sort of expression that suggested she already knew exactly what everyone in the group was feeling.
“We didn’t do this because we thought it would be funny,” Katara said finally. “We did it because every time we see you lately, you both look exhausted.”
“You barely sleep,” Aang added. “And when you do, you’re still working.”
“You answer council messages during dinner,” Toph said.
“We are very busy,” Zuko said.
Katara exchanged a look with Aang before turning back toward Zuko.
“That’s… exactly the problem,” she said, lifting a brow.
Your frustration didn’t disappear all at once. It still sat there stubbornly beneath your ribs, tangled together with embarrassment and irritation and the absurdity of standing on an island because Sokka had forged a summit named after himself. Looking at them now, it became impossible not to see how carefully this entire disaster had actually been planned.
The fact that all of them had crossed half the world to orchestrate this ridiculous scheme because somewhere along the way they had started worrying about you, about both of you… Suddenly the whole thing felt less like a prank and more like a desperate attempt from people who missed their friends.
However, Zuko still looked furious.
“I have to work hard because I’m the Fire Lord,” he said, pacing away from the railing before turning back again. “I’m supposed to fix. I cannot keep disappearing every time people decide I look tired.”
“You’re not disappearing,” Aang said carefully. “You’re resting.”
Zuko laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t any humor in it. “You say that like the world politely pauses while I do.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Katara answered, her expression softening as she looked between both of you. “But somewhere along the way, it started feeling like you two forgot you’re people before titles.”
Behind him, heat rippled unevenly through the terrace braziers as he turned back toward the others.
“We’re leaving.” His gaze moved toward the attendants still unloading belongings farther below. “Stop carrying everything up and bring it back to the ship.”
A few attendants paused mid-step.
Zuko reached for your hand instinctively after years beside each other, his fingers curling firmly around yours as he turned to leave with every expectation that you would follow him without hesitation.
You didn’t move, and the resistance stopped him short.
Surprise crossed his face as he turned back toward you, your joined hands still caught between you. You stepped a little closer instead, tightening your grip around his hand instead of letting go.
“It isn’t wise to travel back now,” you said, lowering your voice now that you stood closer to him. “The sea paths are darker after sunset, and the fog near the cliffs will only worsen overnight.”
His jaw tightened.
“And although I understand why you’re angry,” you continued, thumb brushing once against the back of his hand, “they didn’t do this to mock us.”
Behind you, the group remained suspiciously silent, all of them pretending not to stare while very obviously staring.
“We should stay until tomorrow morning at least,” you finished.
Zuko looked at you for a long moment, frustration still written plainly across his expression, though no longer burning quite as sharply as before.
He looked away before loosening his grip on your hand.
“…fine,” he muttered at last.
Toph grinned immediately. “The rest of us almost died and she got him down with one sentence...”
Sokka cleared his throat.
“So. Hypothetically speaking. How opposed are we to group activities?”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
The back terrace behind the cabin overlooked the cliffs directly, quieter than the rest of the retreat below. Stacks of firewood rested beside the enormous stone firepit at the center of the terrace, and half-unpacked crates filled with blankets, decorations, and cooking supplies had been left scattered near the steps after Sokka insisted the attendants leave the rest to them.
Katara had decided this meant everyone should “make themselves useful.”
Which was how Sokka and Aang conveniently vanished while Katara ended up hanging lights along the cedar beams overhead, guiding each hook neatly into place with small currents of water. Loose strands of hair kept escaping around her face whenever the wind shifted too sharply. Nearby, Suki balanced effortlessly along the railing bordering the terrace, passing decorations down one by one with the kind of ease that made it seem physically impossible for her to ever lose balance. Toph remained sprawled across one of the benches beside the firepit, contributing absolutely nothing.
You found yourself caught somewhere in the middle of all of it: stacking blankets near the firepit, steadying swaying decorations whenever the wind threatened to pull them sideways again, and trying very hard not to think too much about the argument from earlier.
Above the terrace, unnoticed entirely, the upper balcony doors slid open overhead. Zuko stepped outside intending only to clear his head for a moment, until he heard your laugh below him.
“For the record,” Suki said, “most Fire Ladies probably don’t carry firewood.”
You bent to grab another log from beside the firepit, brushing sawdust from your hands against your robes afterward. “Most Fire Ladies probably don’t get kidnapped into fake summits named after Sokka.”
Suki laughed as she stepped back down onto the terrace stones. “Okay, that’s fair enough.”
Toph stretched lazily across the bench with her arms folded behind her head.
“You know, Toph,” Katara called while adjusting another hanging light overhead with a curl of water, “earthbending the wood closer would actually be helpful.”
Toph tilted her head in her direction. “I’m not intending to be helpful. I’m supervising.”
You glanced over your shoulder at her while setting another blanket beside the firepit. “Remarkable leadership strategy. Truly inspiring for the nation.”
Suki nearly doubled over laughing while Katara looked away with obvious surrender.
“There it is!” Suki said at once, pointing accusingly at you as she leaned against the railing. “That terrifying Fire Lady voice.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You absolutely have one now. And the stare too.”
Katara nodded without hesitation. “It’s true.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Suki insisted, grinning. “With Toph just now. And earlier with Sokka? You looked ready to exile him from the nation.”
Toph tilted her head thoughtfully from the bench. “Respect.”
“That wasn’t intentional,” you defended, though the laughter in your voice ruined most of the argument.
Katara shook her head fondly. “We haven’t seen that expression in years.”
“Oh, spirits,” you sighed.
“No, it’s not bad,” Suki assured, sidestepping in front of you. “Do the scary Fire Lady thing again.”
“I’m not performing for you.”
“Boring.”
You scoffed and sent a quick spark skidding toward the edge of her boot.
Suki dodged with a laugh. “Oh, so now we’re bending at each other…”
Katara pointed a warning finger between both of you while another lantern floated beside her shoulder. “No fire near anything hanging overhead.”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself right as one of the hooks overhead snapped loose with a sharp crack.
The lantern tipped sideways at once. Katara reacted first, pulling water upward from the nearby volcanic stream in a quick arc meant to catch it before it hit the floor. Toph reacted second. The stone beneath the lantern shot upward beneath her bending, knocking it safely back into the air directly toward you.
You caught it instinctively, fire blooming between your hands just enough to keep the flame inside from dying out. Heat spread across your palms as the lantern spun once before the dangling cords tangled immediately around your wrists.
Suki had to grab the railing to steady herself through another burst of laughter.
“Agni, help me...”
“If only the council could see the Fire Lady now,” Katara managed through her own laughter while unsuccessfully trying to untangle one of the cords.
Suki grinned wickedly. “I have a feeling Zuko would love this view.”
“If he hasn’t seen it before,” Toph added.
“Oh, shut up—”
Embarrassment flared through your bending before you could stop it. The cords blackened beneath a burst of heat far stronger than intended.
“You’re hot…” Suki started to say, only for her eyes to widen. “Wait—”
The edge of the lantern suddenly caught fire. A second later, part of your sleeve ignited too, flames racing upward fast enough to send immediate panic across your face.
“You’re on fire!” Katara shouted.
“I CAN SEE THAT!”
Suki lunged toward you, smacking at the flames climbing the lantern while laughing far too hard to be genuinely useful.
“STOP MOVING.”
“I’m not moving!”
Katara pulled water upward from the nearby stream in a narrow twisting current before sending it crashing toward the burning lantern to stop the flames from spreading across the beams.
Suki turned just in time to realize she was directly in the path of it. The wave crashed into both of you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
Suki let out a startled shriek while you sputtered hard enough to nearly lose hold of the lantern, water streaming down your hair and soaking through the front of your robes as the last traces of smoke curled weakly from your sleeve.
Toph had to brace one hand against the bench through another fit of laughter.
“This,” she declared between helpless cackles, “is the best vacation I’ve ever had.”
“You’re not helping!” Katara protested, though by now she was laughing almost as hard herself while water splashed uselessly across the floor.
Toph lifted her chin from where she leaned against the bench, sounding far too confident for everyone else’s comfort.
“I can help.”
You barely had time to turn toward her before she tilted her head in your direction.
“Extend your arms.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Trust me and do as I say.”
The instant your sleeves lifted, the stone beneath the terrace answered her bending with a sharp grinding crack. A narrow slab of volcanic tile shot upward between all of you in one clean movement, slicing neatly through the still-burning cords before the flames could spread farther across the beams.
Another section of stone rose beside Katara at the same time, Toph clearly trying to stop the burning lantern from crashing directly onto her.
The entire terrace tilted with it, the floor tilting sideways hard enough to throw everyone off balance.
Suki slipped first on the soaked terrace boards, grabbing your shoulders as her footing vanished beneath her. The motion yanked you sideways just as Katara lunged forward to catch both of you.
“Careful with the pregnant one!” Suki yelped as Katara nearly collided into both of you trying to stop the fall.
Your own footing disappeared a second later. For one horrifying instant, the soaked boards rushed up beneath you before the earth shifted beneath the impact. Toph’s bending rippled through the stone fast enough to soften the ground before any of you hit it. Mud surged upward in a thick uneven mound that caught all three of you in one thoroughly undignified heap instead of against the hard volcanic stone.
You landed first with a startled noise half swallowed by laughter, Suki collapsing sideways beneath you while Katara tumbled into both of you moments later hard enough to send muddy water splashing across the floor.
Mud streaked across Katara’s sleeves and cheek, loose strands of hair plastered against her face. Suki’s dark hair clung damply to her neck and shoulders while muddy water soaked through the front of her clothes. Your own sleeve remained singed at the cuff beneath fresh smears of mud across your hands and knees.
Suki rolled onto her back beside you, breathless with laughter. She pushed wet hair from her forehead.
“Technically speaking…” she managed between breaths, “the fire’s out.”
You stared upward at the swaying lanterns for one disbelieving second before the realization hit you all at once.
“I could’ve literally just put it out myself,” you gasped, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt as you covered part of your face with one muddy hand. “What even happened? You’re all insane!”
“Says the woman married to Zuko,” Toph shot back, sending all of you into a round of laughter.
Eventually, the laughter softened into smiles and breathless sighs, the kind of quiet closeness that only existed between people who had known each other long enough to survive embarrassment together.
“You have no idea how much I missed this,” you admitted after a while, turning your head enough to look at all of them sprawled across the mud beside you. “And all of you.”
Katara reached across the mud between you to squeeze your hand once.
“We missed you too.”
Warmth spread through your chest so suddenly it almost hurt. Without thinking, you leaned sideways into them, and Katara and Suki shifted closer too, arms wrapping loosely around you in a tangled mess of damp robes, muddy sleeves, and lingering laughter.
Above you, Toph made a dramatic sound of disgust from the bench.
“I might be blind,” she informed the night air, “but I can absolutely tell you’re hugging.”
Suki lifted her head. “You should join.”
“Absolutely not.”
Katara grinned. “Toph…”
“No. I already know you all look emotional. I don’t need to experience it physically too.”
You laughed. “Come here!”
Toph crossed her arms stubbornly for approximately three seconds before releasing an enormous sigh.
“I guess,” she said reluctantly, “if I accidentally fell on top of all of you because I can’t see where I’m going, that would technically be acceptable.”
Before anyone could stop her, Toph planted one bare foot against the bench and launched herself forward with no hesitation.
She landed fully across the group with enough force to nearly knock the breath from your lungs while muddy water splashed across the grass. Katara collapsed into horrified laughter beside you, Suki wheezing so hard she could barely breathe while one of Toph’s elbows dug directly into your ribs.
“TOPH!”
“What?” Toph asked innocently from somewhere in the middle of the pile. “I fell.”
“You elbowed me!”
Katara laughed so hard she nearly curled into herself again while you clung helplessly to all of them, breathless beneath the stars.
After a moment, Suki lifted her head slightly from where she’d half collapsed against Katara’s shoulder.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “this feels like a great moment to tell us the baby’s name.”
Katara blinked at her. “What part of this situation says name reveal time to you?”
“Think about it,” Suki insisted. “The baby could have a meaningful name inspired by tonight.”
“Muddy,” Toph suggested immediately.
“Mud-tara,” Suki added.
“Mudpie,” you offered weakly through another laugh.
Katara groaned into her hands while the rest of you lost control again.
“You’ll know the name when Aang and I are ready.”
You reached over to grab her hand dramatically. “As long as you don’t name the baby something spelling AANG, I think we’ll survive.”
Toph nearly rolled off the pile laughing.
By then, night had settled fully around the retreat, laughter still carrying faintly through the trees below.
High above the terrace, Zuko stood quietly against the balcony railing overlooking the grounds below. One hand rested loosely against the wood while his gaze remained fixed on you below.
The frustration from earlier still weighed heavily on him, worn raw by days of travel, paperwork, expectations, and responsibilities that never truly released either of you. Yet watching you muddy, breathless, tangled in your friends’ arms while laughter lit up your entire face, eased something in him anyway. Not even the grandest Fire Nation celebrations or the most carefully planned palace entertainments had ever drawn a smile from you quite like this one.
Zuko could no longer look at the retreat as time stolen from his duties, and finally began to understand what the others had been trying to give both of you all along.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
“What are you looking at?”
Your voice pulled Zuko from whatever thoughts had held his attention beyond the balcony doors. He turned, shoulders still carrying traces of the tension from earlier.
His gaze dropped to your dirt-stained robes.
Yours followed a second later.
“… I asked first,” you said.
You stepped farther into the room, moving behind the folding screen beside the bed, already pulling apart the ruined layers of your clothes.
“The moon,” he answered simply after a moment.
You heard the lid of one of the travel chests open at the foot of the bed.
A laugh escaped you from behind the screen while fabric rustled around you. “The moon?” you repeated in disbelief. “It’s worse than I thought. Fire Lord Zuko driven to moon-gazing by sheer irritation.” You paused. “Would you mind—oh. Thank you.”
Your nightgown appeared neatly draped over the top of the screen before you could finish asking.
“I think the moon is beautiful,” he said while crossing somewhere behind the screen, his footsteps against the wooden floorboards. “Don’t tell Sokka that, though.”
Another laugh escaped you while slipping the nightgown over your head.
“How have you found this… whole thing?” Zuko asked after a moment.
“The retreat?” you asked, stepping out in your nightgown and moving toward the vanity near the door. You dragged a brush through your freshly washed hair while he disappeared behind the screen to change in turn.
“And the betrayal.”
His tone remained serious enough that you had to bite back another laugh.
“First of all, I like this place,” you said, reaching for one of the incense sticks resting atop the vanity and lighting it with a flick of your finger before setting it carefully into the holder beside the mirror, “What they’ve done with Whaletail Island is beautiful. Honestly, I regret not coming sooner.”
You turned just as he stepped fully back into the room, dark hair still slightly damp around his face while thin ribbons of incense smoke drifted through the space between you.
“As for what you insist on calling betrayal…” Your lips curved faintly. “I think it deserves another name.” You held his gaze, standing from the vanity. “And I think this is highly necessary, Zuko.”
To your surprise, he nodded.
He crossed the room and lowered himself onto his usual side of the bed before patting the empty space beside him.
The gesture surprised you enough that you hesitated before walking over and settling beside him atop the blankets. The mattress dipped beneath your weight.
His hand settled over yours where it rested against your stomach.
“I… think so too.”
Your head turned toward him fast enough to pull the beginning of a smile from him.
“What?”
“I think they were right.”
You stared at him in complete alarm before leaning closer onto your knees and pressing the back of your hand against his forehead.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
He laughed.
Which somehow worried you more.
“Zuko, this is serious—”
You grabbed his face with both hands, squishing his cheeks together until his lips puckered awkwardly.
“I’m going to call Katara. Maybe she can heal whatever this is.”
His eyes narrowed into slits beneath your hands before he caught both your wrists and pulled you forward. The movement sent you falling halfway across him with a startled laugh, your hands trapped loosely behind his head while his own hands found your waist to steady you.
“Don’t be ridiculous, my lady,” he murmured, though the smile lingering across his face made the title sound softer than teasing.
This close, you could see he truly meant it. His thumb moved absently against your waist beneath the fabric of your nightgown.
“I think…” He exhaled, staring somewhere past you for a moment. “I’ve been so focused on keeping everything together that I stopped noticing how exhausted you are too. And maybe I’ve been unfair about this trip. But you deserve to be happy. Spirits know we both needed to step away before this became too much.”
His golden eyes lifted back to yours.
“And…” he added after a beat, “I suppose I appreciate the others trying to take care of us. Even if Sokka’s methods are questionable.”
You smiled.
“And I think,” he continued with visible reluctance at admitting any of this aloud, “that maybe I needed this too.”
You pressed your nose lightly against his. When you opened your eyes again, he was already watching you.
One of your hands eased from his grasp to rest gently against his cheek.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate hearing you say that,” you whispered. “And how much you’ll appreciate it too.” Your thumb traced the edge of his scar. “I’m exhausted, Zuko. And don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change being the Fire Lady at your side for anything. But we’re constantly under pressure. Even if it’s understandable… we’re still allowed to rest. We matter too.”
As the words left your lips, Zuko looked entirely defenseless against whatever he felt for you. He would have damned Agni himself before waiting another second to kiss you.
One hand rose to your jaw as he leaned down, capturing your lips with a kind of desperation that made your chest ache. You kissed all the time, it was nearly impossible not to when you had a husband like him, but somewhere between royal meetings, traveling schedules, and interrupted mornings, kisses like this had become rare.
It tasted different, sweeter somehow, not because the island was beautiful or the night was warm, but because for the first time in far too long, neither of you seemed to be waiting for the next obligation to pull you apart. There was no pressure lingering behind the touch, no expectation beyond simply being together, and somehow that made the kiss feel more consuming than any you had shared in months.
Your fingers slipped into his hair while his hand spread wider against your waist, pulling you closer against him as though he’d been waiting far too long to hold you properly again.
You smiled against his lips when you finally pulled back enough to breathe again.
“So…” you murmured, unable to hide your excitement, “does this mean we’ll participate in the activities Sokka planned tomorrow?”
Zuko rolled his eyes, yet the smile tugging at his mouth ruined any attempt at annoyance.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
Your expression lit up so quickly it made him laugh.
Before he could react, you kissed him again. And again. And once more after that until his laugh disappeared against your mouth while your hands pushed lightly at the collar of his night robes. His hands slid to steady you as you climbed fully atop him.
“If this is the result of Sokka’s dumb decisions,” he muttered as your lips trailed distractedly along his jaw, “I might owe him one.”
You laughed softly against his chest before lifting your head again, fingers wandering lower across warm skin beneath the loosened fabric.
“Careful,” you warned. “You’re starting to sound forgiving.”
“Maybe he—”
“THAT WAS A WARNING SHOT, SUKI!”
The shout rang through the terrace loudly enough to make both of you freeze. A heartbeat later came Suki’s unimpressed voice.
“You dropped the fish before throwing it, genius!”
Then came a loud splash from somewhere below the balcony, followed by Sokka’s yell.
“MY SANDALS!”
You buried your face against Zuko’s chest laughing while he stared at the ceiling in complete disbelief.
“I’ll just close the balcony doors,” you managed between laughs, climbing reluctantly off him.
Zuko let out a long, deeply offended grunt at the loss of contact.
“Never mind,” he declared. “Not forgiven. Enemy number one.”
Still laughing, you moved back toward your side of the bed after shutting the doors. You barely made it halfway across the mattress before he tugged you straight back against him, rolling you beneath him this time.
“No,” he said firmly, settling over you with unmistakable intent. “You come back here.”
His mouth brushed yours once more.
“Now… where were we?”
Part 2.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
note: im so happy with this oneee, cannot wait for your to read the next parts! huge shoutout to @magnificentlyrainythunder for the request that inspired me ♡ - lmk what you think, and if you want to be tagged in part 2&3! Xx
i woke up just in time (now i wake up by your side).
(‘only bought this dress so you could take it off’ — extra. can be read as a standalone.)
adult zuko x reader | contains smut | minors dni. | wc: 4,2k
summary: in which zuko escapes his own engagement banquet to remind you that after years of longing, stolen glances and pretending neither of you noticed what was happening between you, he’s finally allowed to love you openly, and intends to enjoy every second of it.
content: adult!zuko x reader, friends to lovers, newly engaged, emotional intimacy, soft humor, gaang cameo, mutual pining payoff, explicit sexual content, praise/worship, fluff, tooth-rotting tenderness.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The engagement banquet had become something far larger than either of you intended.
What had originally been meant as a formal announcement to the court somehow transformed into one of the liveliest celebrations the royal palace had seen in years. Soft music echoed beneath curved ceilings while friends, diplomats and honored guests gathered shoulder to shoulder through the royal hall, servants weaving between crowded tables with wine and steaming platters.
Aang had nearly crushed the both of you in another hug sometime after the official announcement reached the banquet hall, smiling so brightly it seemed impossible not to mirror it.
“I still can’t believe this is real,” he admitted happily.
“You watched him propose,” you pointed out.
“I know, but now there are decorations!”
Katara chuckled at his side, then seamlessly redirected her attention to you both with an affectionate look.
“I’m so happy for you two.”
You smiled knowingly. “Happy or proud of your matchmaking skills?”
“Definitely both,” she admitted. “Do you know how exhausting it was watching the two of you dance around this for years?”
“In my defense,” Zuko muttered, “I was dealing with several international crises.”
“And somehow flirting was the one thing capable of defeating the Fire Lord,” Toph remarked as she wandered over holding onto Sokka’s arm, a cup balancing in her free hand.
Only then did you notice the aggressively oversized wrapped box tucked beneath his other arm.
“To commemorate the occasion,” Sokka announced proudly.
You stared at it with caution. “Why does it look dangerous?”
“It’s not dangerous.”
The box rattled ominously.
“…Sokka.”
“It only explodes a little.”
Katara looked horrified. “Sokka!”
“What? Fire Nation people love explosions!”
“We do not gift explosive materials at engagement celebrations,” Zuko deadpanned.
Toph leaned over and gave Sokka’s giant, rattling box an appreciative pat with her elbow, nearly spilling her drink. She snorted.
“Relax, Sparky. If it explodes, at least you’ll remember the engagement party.”
“I would like to remember it without structural damage to the palace,” Zuko replied.
“See?” Toph grinned, pointing vaguely in his direction. “He’s already talking like a married man.”
And through all of it; the laughter, the congratulations, the warmth of your friends gathered; you found yourself occasionally stopping just to look around in disbelief.
For so long, happiness had felt fragile around Zuko. Hard-earned and… temporary. Arriving carefully and quietly before disappearing again beneath duty, war, or expectation from others and himself. Tonight, the permanent tension between his shoulders had eased enough to notice, every smile that crossed his face arrived easily instead of restrained the way they once had been.
And every single time you caught him looking at you from across the hall, it felt almost unreal that this was your life now.
Zuko had once mastered the art of pretending. Back then, whenever you caught him staring, he would immediately look elsewhere: toward a servant passing nearby, a council member speaking, a random point across the room. Keeping his feelings hidden if he moved quickly enough.
Now his eyes couldn’t and wouldn’t fake not looking at you. Since the moment the two of you had finally confessed what had hung unsaid between you for years, his eyes had become hopelessly honest. Once his attention found you in a crowded room, it stayed there without shame. He had grown tired of denying himself even something as simple as looking.
And you caught him constantly tonight.
You had just finished enduring a conversation about future royal ceremonies when you noticed it again.
You tilted your head. “Do I have something on my face?” you asked once he finally approached again. “I’d rather my fiancé tell me if that’s the case.”
The word ‘fiancé’ visibly affected him, color rising toward the tips of his ears.
“No,” he answered quickly. “Not at all. You look beautiful.”
The kind of honesty Zuko delivered so naturally couldn’t get tired of stealing the breath from your lungs before you could prepare for it.
Your smile curled at the corners.
“You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”
His attention dipped toward the ring on your hand before returning to your face.
“I like what I see.”
“I suspected as much when you asked me to marry you,” you murmured, stepping close enough for the embroidered fabric of your sleeves to brush together.
You let your hand rest comfortably against the nape of his neck, your thumb lightly tracing the hairline there. His hands found their place on your waist without a second thought.
“You look unfair tonight too,” you admitted.
“Unfair?” He asked, lifting his brow.
“Dangerously so.”
You casually smoothed down the edge of his collar as you spoke.
“It’s making diplomacy very difficult.”
“That explains why the ministers have looked progressively more concerned every time I speak to you.”
You laughed as another cluster of nobles drifted past nearby.
“Well,” you said, glancing briefly toward the crowded hall around you, “what kind of plan shall we make now that I can no longer rescue you from royal responsibilities? We’ll have to endure them together from now on.”
His mouth twitched.
“Should we establish a signal?” you continued thoughtfully. “A sound, perhaps? Something subtle enough to indicate one of us is moments away from political collapse.”
“Tempting,” Zuko admitted as he leaned closer.
“But now that I don’t have to endure this alone anymore,” he whispered beside your ear, “I believe we’re more than entitled to just… leave.”
You blinked. “What?”
His expression remained serious.
“I’m far from being the ideal future Fire Lady,” you said, trying not to laugh, “but even I know that would be considered rude.”
“It is my utter pleasure,” Zuko replied, his grip tightening just a fraction on your waist as he guided you backward, “to introduce you to the art of escaping royal events.”
Movement near the entrance caught your attention. Several Kyoshi Warriors approached through the crowd with ease, green armor gleaming at all times. At their front walked Suki, smiling knowingly the moment she reached you both.
“There you are,” she said, her arms opening into a quick, welcoming embrace. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Suki!” You squeezed her hand briefly before letting go.
Suki then turned toward Zuko, who already looked suspiciously unsurprised by her arrival.
“Let us escort you.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Why do I suddenly feel like everyone knows something I don’t?”
“That would ruin the surprise!” Suki replied.
“You planned something?” you asked, turning toward Zuko.
“You’ll see…”
The Kyoshi Warriors guided you through quieter palace corridors away from the crowded halls, the sounds of the celebration slowly fading behind you with every turn.
Eventually Suki stopped beside a curved doorway tucked into one of the quieter palace wings.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Where are we—”
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Suki interrupted with unmistakable satisfaction before the Kyoshi Warriors turned and disappeared back down the corridor.
You looked toward Zuko immediately. “That is never a reassuring sentence.”
He only gestured for you to keep walking.
The moment you stepped inside, you stopped.
Pillows and folded blankets had been arranged across the polished floor beside a low dining table already filled with untouched food, tea still warm enough for steam to curl lazily into the air. Several dishes were instantly familiar, small things you had once mentioned liking during travels, desserts from a harbor market in the colonies, fruit glazed in honey exactly the way you preferred it.
“…You did this?”
“It didn’t seem right,” he admitted, “for the whole night to belong to the court.”
You stepped further inside, taking in the sight of the table.
“Oh my spirits,” you laughed softly, reaching toward one of the plates. “Are these—”
“You liked them in the Earth Kingdom.”
You looked up.
“The tea shop near the lower ring,” he continued, watching you. “You spent half an hour insisting they were better than the ones in the capital.”
“Because they were!” You defended, picking up one of the treats.
“You nearly started an argument with the owner defending them…” He walked up behind you, his hand coming to rest gently on the small of your back.
“He insulted my taste.”
Zuko huffed a quiet breath against your hair. “… He said they were too sweet.”
“And they were perfect.” You took a bite to prove your point.
A helpless smile tugged at his mouth.
“I know,” he said,his thumb tracing a small circle through the fabric of your clothes. “You looked very pleased with yourself eating them.”
Your heart nearly stopped at the realization that he remembered something so small simply because it had once made you happy.
Needing to do something before the feeling overwhelmed you entirely, you moved further into the pavilion and lowered yourself onto the cushions beside the table, carefully gathering part of your robes beneath you.
The blankets shifted as you settled, and you patted the cushion next to yours. Zuko watched you before following without hesitation.
You set down the small crumb of your food, your hands hovering over the table as you noticed a completely different dish hidden near the back.
“Oh, that is unfair!”
Zuko looked over at the platter you were pointing to.
“…What?”
“You included these too?”
Arranged near the edge of the table sat a small plate of fire flakes coated lightly in dark chocolate. One of the few desserts Zuko actually liked.
“You always steal them from my plate,” he pointed out, casually leaning his weight onto one hand as he sat beside you.
“Because you pretend not to like sweets and then guard these with your life.”
“That is completely inaccurate.”
“You threatened Sokka with bodily harm last month,” You countered, propping your chin in your hand.
“He touched them with his hands,” he said, rolling his shoulders back defensively.
You stared at him, your eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“That is generally how eating works.”
Without thinking much about it, you reached toward the plate again and broke apart one of the honey-glazed pastries before holding it toward him expectantly.
Zuko looked at it, his gaze dropping to your fingers before rising back to your face.
“You’re feeding me?”
“You remembered my favorite dessert from a tea shop halfway across the Earth Kingdom. Yes, I’m feeding you.”
He leaned in to take the bite, his breath warm against your hand for the brief second it took to claim the pastry. He didn't blink, watching your expression change at the closeness.
“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” you told him, keeping your hand resting near his jaw instead of pulling away.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You absolutely do…”
His attention drifted briefly toward your mouth then back upward again, slower, long enough to make you completely forget what you were going to say next.
After finishing the last bite, he reached toward another plate near the center of the table instead.
“Try this.”
You narrowed your eyes when you noticed the dark chocolate-covered fire flakes resting in his palm.
“I tasted one for the first time five years ago and temporarily lost the ability to think.”
“That explains several conversations we’ve had since then.” Zuko said, a faint glint of mischief in his eyes.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. You accepted the sweet suspiciously, taking a careful bite.
The chocolate melted easily, sweet enough to lull you into a false sense of security. Heat bloomed across your tongue so suddenly your hand flew toward the tea beside you. Zuko was already shifting to slide the teapot closer to you, watching your reaction with nothing but a knowing smirk.
“Zuko, that is cruel!” you gasped, fan-waving your hand in front of your mouth.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know,” you muttered after another hurried sip of tea, pressing the back of your cool hand against your cheek. “I think I just made contact with my ancestors.”
He tried to muffle a sudden, sharp laugh behind his hand, failing as a wide, boyish smile took over his face.
“My uncle used to hide those from me when I was younger,” he said, the leftover warmth of his laugh smoothing out his voice as he watched you recover. “Apparently I once ate enough of them to breathe fire on accident.”
You turned toward him slowly.
“…On accident?”
“I was ten.”
“That does not answer any part of my concern.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.
“Spirits,” you muttered, unable to stop smiling. You nudged his forearm with your elbow. “You were an actual menace.”
“Still am, according to some council members,” he said, leaning into the contact.
“Mm.” Your knee slid against his beneath the blankets pooled across the cushions. “I can see it.”
Zuko shifted beside you, his hand brushing your shoulder before his arm settled along the cushions behind your back. The space between you disappeared almost without notice, leaving your shoulder pressed solidly against his chest.
Your attention wandered across the table again before returning to him.
“You know,” you confessed in a near-whisper, “for someone who spent years pretending to be emotionally unavailable, you’ve become dangerously sentimental.”
“Don’t spread that around,” he replied, his breath stirring the stray hairs near your ear.
“Too late,” You reached up absentmindedly to smooth a crease near the collar of his robes, fingers lingering there instead of pulling away. “I’m telling everyone.”
“Traitor.”
“Future wife, actually.”
Zuko’s chest stopped moving as he held his breath. The pavilion suddenly felt very small.
He glanced down at your hand still curled against the front of his robes, his fingers closing gently around your wrist, thumb moving across the ring he had placed there only days before. He turned your hand in his, pressing a kiss against the ring resting on your finger as though he still couldn’t quite believe it belonged there.
Your eyes drifted shut when he leaned forward just enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours.
“You keep saying that,” he murmured.
“Future wife?”
“Yes.”
The warmth of his voice brushed against your mouth now instead of your ear.
“Does it make you nervous?”, you inquired.
“No…”
One of his hands slid from your wrist to your waist before pulling you across the cushions and onto his lap with an ease that caught in your throat.
“It makes it very difficult to think about anything else.”
Your fingers curled more firmly into the fabric as your foreheads brushed together, every exhale shared in the quiet space.
“Zu—”
He kissed you before you could finish saying his name.
The kiss deepened before either of you could think to pull back. Your fingers twisted into the collar of his tunic, dragging him closer until there was no space left between your chests, until you could feel the rapid thud of his heart hammering through the silk.
The sound that escaped him vibrated against your lips, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your head while the other pressed flat against your lower back, molding you against him. The cushions shifted beneath your weight as he adjusted, angling his mouth over yours to lick along the seam of your lips. You opened for him without hesitation, and the heat of his tongue against yours sent a shiver straight down to your core.
“You have no idea how difficult it was pretending to listen to council members tonight,” he admitted.
You smiled against his mouth. “Let me guess. Because of me?”
“Entirely because of you.”
You answered by pulling his bottom lip between your teeth, just enough to make him gasp, and then you kissed him again before he could say anything else. The playfulness from earlier bled into something hungrier and urgent. His hands roamed with slowness at first, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the bare skin of your thigh where your dress had ridden up.
He pulled back just far enough to look at you, eyes dark and half-lidded, firelight catching the edges of his scar. “Tell me what you want.”
You laughed breathlessly when his thumb brushed higher against your thigh.
“You ask that like you don’t already know...”
The world tilted as he laid you down, his body following, caging you in with arms braced on either side of your head. The weight of him pressed you into the softness beneath.
He kissed you again as his hand wandered down your side, slipping under the hem of your dress. Your fingers slipped briefly trying to untangle a layer of his formal robes.
“Who designed these?” you muttered against his mouth in frustration.
Zuko kissed the corner of your lips. “I’ll have them arrested tomorrow.”
He kissed you again before you could answer, slower, his hand shifting the heavy layers of silk completely out of the way as he pinned you down. His knuckles traced the edge of your underwear.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured against your jaw, pressing a kiss to the hollow behind your ear. “Spirits…”
His hand tightened briefly against your thigh.
“I still can’t believe you’re mine.”
His words made you arch into him instinctively, fingers slipping into his hair.
“You’ve had me for years,” you whispered, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck. “You’re simply allowed to say it now…”
Zuko swore beneath his breath before dipping his head to suck a mark into the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down your legs in a single motion. The cool air hit your wetness and you shivered, but then his hand was sliding between your thighs, fingers parting your folds with reverent care. He didn’t rush. He explored, tracing your shape, learning the way your hips jerked when he found the sensitive nub at your center.
“Zuko,” you breathed, voice breaking.
“I know,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours.
He shifted, freeing himself from his trousers with a hurried grace born of too many nights imagining this. The tip of his cock brushed against your entrance, slick with your desire, and he paused.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did. His gold eyes burned with something fierce and tender all at once.
“I want to see you...”
He pushed in.
The stretch was slow, inch by inch until he was seated fully inside you, and the feeling of being so completely filled made your eyes flutter closed. He stayed still, letting you adjust, letting the sensation settle over both of you like a shared breath.
“Spirits—” His forehead dropped briefly against yours as though he needed a second to recover. “You feel incredible.”
You opened your eyes and wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him deeper. “Zuko… please…”
“What?” He asked, clearly willing to give you absolutely anything in the world.
“Move.”
And so he did.
The first few thrusts were gentle, a rocking rhythm that built a steady coil of heat in your belly. His mouth never left yours, messy kisses that mingled with the sounds of skin against skin. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his flesh as the pace quickened.
But he was watching you. Every shift of expression, every bitten-off moan. He saw the way your lips parted, the way your back arched, the way your eyes rolled back when he angled his hips just so.
“There?” he asked, thrusting again.
“Don’t stop.”
The sound that left him at your response was somewhere between a groan and your name. You pulled him down into another kiss, half desperate and half smiling when his rhythm turned sharper, harder, his hips slapping against yours with wet, obscene sounds that filled the quiet room.
“Do you remember,” you breathed against his mouth, “when you couldn’t even look at me for longer than five seconds?”
Zuko kissed you harder, one hand tightening at your waist.
“… I was… trying to survive.”
The memory hit you so suddenly you had to hide your grin against his mouth.
“You were terrible at it.”
“I know.”
The fire crackled nearby, but you were beyond noticing anything except the weight of him, the heat, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.
“I want to feel you coming undone around me,” he said, hand sliding between your bodies to press against your clit.
The combination of his thrusts and his fingers sent you hurtling over the edge. You cried out, clenching around him as the orgasm rippled through you, and he groaned at the sensation, burying his face in your neck as he kept moving, riding you through it.
When the aftershocks subsided, he slowed, but didn’t stop.
“No,” he murmured against your skin when you tried to catch your breath. “Not finished with you yet.”
He pulled out, leaving you feeling suddenly empty, before placing his hands on your waist to guide you around. He tugged you back until you were kneeling between his thighs, your back flush against his front. His arms wrapped around your waist, and his cock slid between your thighs from behind, nestling against your wet folds before he guided himself back inside.
This position when kneeling together, bodies stacked, every inch of contact maximized, let him reach deeper than before. His chest was a furnace against your spine. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, one hand splayed across your stomach while the other played with your clit.
“You feel me?” he whispered against your neck. The slow roll of his hips fractured your response into a broken sigh. “You feel so good like this.”
You could only moan, your hands gripping the blankets in front of you as he rocked into you, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids with each push and made you tighten around him.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that—”
He increased the pressure against your clit, matching the pace of his hips to the circles of his fingers while his mouth moved against your ear between broken breaths.
“You feel so perfect.”
Another slow thrust pulled a helpless sound from your throat.
“I’m never getting tired of this,” he admitted. His forehead pressed against your shoulder. “I could spend the rest of my life like this.”
You tightened around him involuntarily.
“… That can be arranged.”
The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, harder than the first, and you sobbed his name as you tightened around him. That was all he needed. Your name fell from his mouth unevenly as he came, spilling hot inside you with a shudder that shook his entire body.
His arms stayed locked around you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your damp skin.Slowly, he softened inside you, but he didn’t pull out. Instead, he eased you both down onto your sides, curling around your back like a second skin.
The blankets were tangled beneath you, the fire had burned low, and the world outside the room had vanished.
He kissed the back of your neck, your shoulder, the shell of your ear, his arm resting heavily over your waist. The heat of his body seeped into yours, and you felt the last traces of tension drain away, replaced by a deep, bone-tired contentment.
Neither of you seemed particularly interested in moving.
Somewhere outside the pavilion walls, distant music from the banquet still drifted through the palace.
You let out a tired sound against the cushions. “Do you think they noticed we disappeared?”
His lips brushed lazily against your shoulder. “Eventually.”
You huffed quietly, sinking further back against his chest while your fingers played absently with the edge of the blanket tangled around your waist.
“The ministers are going to go crazy tomorrow…”
“They survive worse things.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “Such as?”
“My uncle’s tea lectures.”
You turned back, hiding your smile against the forearm draped over your chest.
“We abandoned our own engagement banquet.”
Zuko tightened his hold, pulling you securely against his chest.
“We escaped our engagement banquet,” he corrected. “Very successfully. Hope you learned something.”
“Ah. My apologies.”
“Accepted.”
His fingers found your hand, tracing over the ring resting on your finger again.
“What?” he murmured sleepily after a moment, noticing your silence.
“Nothing…”
His nose brushed against your shoulder. “Liar.”
“I was just thinking…” Your fingers intertwined with his. “I think we spent years making this far more difficult than it needed to be.”
He hummed. “Probably.”
“All that suffering,” you sighed dramatically. “For what?”
“To build character, clearly,” you could hear the smile in his voice, his comment pulling another tired laugh from you.
Sometime before dawn, sleep finally dragged both of you under completely. When you woke again, pale morning light had begun spilling softly through the pavilion windows.
The quiet weight of his arm was still anchored over your waist, anchoring you to the cushions. Zuko pulled you a fraction closer in his sleep, breathing softly against your neck like he had no intention of ever letting go again.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚
note: it’s been a while since these series! :’-) i just felt like writing it so i could do some smut, the (momentary!) lack of it in the whaletail island series is hurting me lol — this one can absolutely be read as a standalone, but if you’d like more of these two being emotionally repressed idiots in love, the other parts are there waiting for you. hope you enjoyed! Xx
and if i get burned, at least we were electrified.
(‘only bought this dress so you could take it off’ — part three. Part one here. Part two here.)
adult zuko x reader | contains smut | minors dni.
summary: in which the fire nation waits for its future fire lady, your name is nowhere in the conversation, and zuko’s silence says all you need to know until you’re proven very wrong.
content: adult!zuko x reader, angst with a happy ending, explicit sexual content (the most explicit I’ve written ngl), friends to lovers, the gaang participating and teasing, action, humor, fluff, tooth-rotting love declarations.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The street curved gently along the inner ring of the city, where the noise of the harbor faded into half-open shops, low-burning incense, and voices blending into a steady hum.
You preferred this part of the Fire Nation. It was always easier to disappear in it.
“… I’m just saying,” Toph said, catching your arm as she walked beside you, “if he had something to say, he would’ve said it by now.”
“That’s not how things work here,” Katara replied, patient but firm. “There are protocols, expectations… not even he can just ignore the council.”
Toph scoffed. “He ignores them all the time.”
“Not about this. He doesn’t have a choice.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it right that he escorted her out of the palace and hasn’t said anything since.”
“Toph!” Katara scolded.
“It’s fine, Katara,” you said, placing your hand over Toph’s where it rested on your arm. “As much as I hate to admit it… she’s right.”
It had been days. Long enough for the palace to feel distant again, like something imagined rather than lived, somewhere you had stood, somewhere you had—
You stopped that thought before it could even dare to take shape.
“It is out of character for Zuko to cut off communication,” Katara insisted. “He must have a reason.”
“He better,” Toph muttered. “Otherwise he’s getting his ass kicked the next time I feel him take a step near me.”
That almost made you smile.
“If he ever does,” you said quietly.
Toph tilted her head.
“You’ve been avoiding the palace,” she said. “You could’ve gone back. You could’ve seen him already.”
“That’s not true. I’m not avoiding anything.”
“You haven’t gone back.”
You exhaled, soft and brief. “I didn’t think I needed to. And I still don’t…”
A group passed just ahead of you, their voices carrying in that effortless way through the crowded street.
“…it’s already decided, from what I heard.”
“Of course it is. They wouldn’t drag it out.”
“She must be someone important.”
“She has to be. The Fire Nation wouldn’t settle for less.”
Your steps slowed.
“I heard she’s from the Earth Kingdom.”
“They say she’s beautiful… from a noble line—”
You stopped, Toph stopped with you.
Katara turned, already watching you, then glanced back at the voices before returning her attention to your face. “You know they don’t actually know anything,” she said gently.
“They seem to know enough,” you replied.
Toph let out a quiet huff. “No, they don’t. They’re just filling in the blanks with whatever sounds right to them.”
“It makes sense,” you said again, your tone calm, perhaps too much. “He needs someone who benefits the nation. That’s the entire point.”
“And you don’t?” Katara asked.
You didn’t answer.
Because the answer wasn’t something you wanted to examine, at least not here, not now, not with strangers speaking as if your life were something distant and theoretical.
You straightened your posture.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said at last. “Whatever he decides, it’ll be the right choice for the Fire Nation.”
Toph snorted.
“Keep telling yourself that, pebbles.”
Toph’s nickname still lingered in the air when the wind shifted above you.
A broad and familiar shadow crossed the street, and a second later Aang landed swiftly between you and the others, his eyes moving quickly from face to face as if counting, making sure no one was missing.
“Good, you’re close,” he said, a little out of breath. “There’s been a break along the ridge road, just past the outer fields, the one that runs above the old quarry.”
You stilled.
“If it’s along the quarry edge, the base won’t hold for long,” you said, already turning toward the eastern slope without thinking.
Toph tilted her chin up slightly, listening through the soles of her feet.
“It’s shifting,” she confirmed. “Not fast, but it’s definitely not stable.”
Katara’s hand found your arm briefly.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that if someone panics and tries to cross, the whole thing will give in,” you replied, already moving with Katara and Toph as Aang followed. “Worse if they try to force carts over it.”
“Sokka’s there,” Aang added quickly. “He went ahead when the reports came in.”
“At least he’s there,” you said. “We need to hurry.”
Without letting go of either Toph or Katara, you gathered the fabric of your skirt slightly as the stone road gave way to packed earth, the city thinning into low houses and wind-bent trees, the air turning drier, sharper.
“And…” Aang hesitated,“…Zuko’s on his way.”
Toph scoffed.
“Perfect.”
Perfect, indeed.
♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The ridge revealed itself like a wound carved into the road.
The path curved along the quarry’s edge, and where it should have held firm, there was a jagged and uneven split, the outer half sagging just enough to tilt a loaded cart toward the drop below. The ground hadn’t broken cleanly; it had given in layers, ash and stone shifting against each other debating between holding or collapsing.
Dust hung low in the air, fine and persistent, clinging to skin, settling into fabric. A group of villagers hovered nearby, caught between urgency and fear, their voices overlapping in restless waves.
Sokka’s voice cut through it all.
“No one crosses until we figure this out! I don’t care if your cabbages are going bad, you’re not dying for them!”
“You said that ten minutes ago!” someone shouted.
“And it’s still true!”
He turned as you approached, relief flashing across his face.
“There you are! Quick summary," Sokka said, gesturing sharply with the hand that held a rope, "the road’s trying to fall into the quarry, the cart’s trying to follow it, and everyone’s trying to help, which is, shockingly, not helping.”
You followed the direction of his gesture.
The cart sat at the very edge of the fracture, its rear wheels still on relatively stable ground while the front had dipped into the uneven split, one side lower than the other. The weight of it dragged forward at a slow, dangerous angle, sacks and crates stacked high enough to shift if given the slightest encouragement. Every small movement such as someone stepping too close or even a stone giving way, made it creak.
Toph and you stepped beside him, your attention already moving across the fracture along with the angle, the depth, the way the earth had split along a weak seam rather than broken outright.
“If anyone pushes that cart like this,” you said, your voice grounded enough to cut through the noise around you, “it won’t just fall.”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Sokka muttered. “And someone still suggested we just… pull harder.”
Toph unwrapped her arm from yours and crouched near the split, pressing her fingers into the dirt, her brows knitting as she read the ground.
“It’s hollow underneath,” she said. “If I push from below, it collapses.”
“Maybe don’t push,” you said, lowering beside her. “Pack it."
Toph nodded once, already adjusting her stance. "I could compress the ash instead of forcing it upward", she said, a hand on her chin. "And let it settle into itself.”
Katara stepped closer to the fracture, crouching opposite Toph. She drew a thin stream of water from her waterskin, letting it spill over the loose surface where ash and dust threatened to slide.
“I can bind the top layer,” she said, her voice focused now. “Just enough to keep it from shifting while she compacts it.”
“Not too much,” you added quickly. “If it gets too wet, it’ll slip.”
Katara nodded, adjusting the flow immediately, spreading the water in a thin, controlled layer that darkened the ash without saturating it.
Above them, Aang hovered lower now, guiding steady currents of air to lift the dust away from the fracture, clearing visibility and easing the pressure of falling debris.
“I’ll keep the edge clear,” he said. “Nothing’s coming down on you.”
“Good,” Toph replied, already working.
Sokka nudged your shoulder.
“So, our part?”
You looked at the cart again as it tilted due to uneven weight, the strain pulling one wheel deeper into the soft ground.
“We lighten it,” you said. “Half the load off. Then we can reinforce the edge and guide it across.”
“Guide it,” Sokka repeated. “I like that. Sounds like we survive.”
A faint smile pulled at your lips.
“Secure the axle,” you added. “We guide it from both sides so it doesn’t tip.”
“On it.”
You turned to a villager you recognized, your tone steady enough to anchor the rest.
“We’re moving the supplies first,” you said. “No one crosses until we say so. It will hold, we just need a moment.”
They nodded, and that certainty spread quickly, calming the edges of the crowd.
Soon, movement replaced hesitation. Crates were passed down, hands working in rhythm, weight shifting from cart to ground. Katara kept one eye on the villagers even as she worked with the earth, stepping in when someone got too close, her voice soft but firm, typical Katara.
“Just a little further back... yes, there. You’re safe.”
You were halfway through unloading when warmth brushed the back of your neck and boots struck the ground behind you.
“We’re stabilizing before moving anything,” you corrected.
“I can see that.”
You turned.
He looked as though he had stepped straight out of the palace into the dust. His formal attire remained intact, though softened at the edges by ash and wind, dark strands of hair slipping loose where they were meant to stay in place. The gold woven into his robes caught what little light broke through the haze, dimmed but unmistakable.
And suddenly, being angry at him felt like its own kind of punishment. Because it meant distance, one you, if you had a choice, didn't want to endure.
His gaze found you then, and held just a fraction longer than necessary.
“Then you’re up to speed, Fire Lord.”
A flicker crossed his eyes.
“Good to know I didn’t miss anything.”
Toph let out a short laugh.
“Oh, you definitely missed something.”
“Toph,” Katara warned, though she didn’t stop shaping the surface, water threading through her movements.
“What do you need?” Zuko asked, already stepping forward.
“Controlled heat along the fracture,” you said. “Low and steady. Seal it after Toph compacts.”
He nodded.
“At your call.”
Toph pressed deeper, the earth tightening under her control, ash compressing into something solid. Katara followed her rhythm, smoothing the surface with precise movements of water, binding the top layer just enough to hold.
“Now,” you said.
Zuko’s fire traced the fracture, sealing the line without breaking it, the heat drying and hardening what the others shaped. Aang adjusted the air again, lifting the last of the dust away.
You and Sokka moved back into position beside the cart.
“Go slow,” you murmured.
“I am going slow.”
“Slower.”
Zuko exhaled something close to a quiet laugh.
“It’s leaning left,” you said.
“Compensating,” Sokka replied.
The rope snapped tight in your hands, the weight shifting too quickly. Before you could adjust or protest, Zuko’s hand covered yours.
“Don’t fight it,” he said, close enough now that his voice dropped just for you. “Let it settle first.”
“I know. I don't need help," you said.
His thumb shifted slightly, correcting your grip. Your breath caught.
Behind you, Toph laughed outright.
“Do I get help too, or is this exclusive?” Sokka added.
“Focus,” you said, though your voice’s edge was not found.
Zuko’s hand remained over yours a moment longer, steadying the pull of the rope as the ground beneath the cart shifted again, settling. Under Toph’s control, the loose ash compacted inward, tightening around the hollow pockets below, while a thin layer of moisture from Katara bound the surface just enough to keep it from slipping apart. The fracture no longer yawned open; it held, uneven but reinforced, the weight redistributing instead of dragging forward.
Zuko withdrew his hand.
“Alright,” you said, adjusting your grip, grounding yourself again. “Now we move.”
You and Sokka guided the cart, adjusting with each inch, while Zuko steadied the front, his movements precise and responsive as ever.
“Easy,” you said.
The cart shifted again. The wheel dragged over the uneven seam, resisted, then yielded, inch by careful inch, until the weight finally rolled past the fracture and onto solid ground. Only then did the strain release, the cart settling fully, the danger passing not in a break but in surrender to stability.
Relief spread through the ridge in a single, shared exhale.
Voices rose in a different and lighter tone, gratitude threading through them as people stepped forward again, no longer afraid of the ground beneath them. The man who had spoken to you earlier approached first, dust still clinging to his sleeves, his hands rough from work and now empty of it.
“It was helpful you knew this place. You kept us from making it worse,” he said, glancing briefly toward the cart before returning his gaze to you. “We were ready to push it over ourselves.”
You shook your head gently. “You waited. That made the difference!”
He smiled faintly, then looked past you. “All of you did.”
Others followed, quieter but no less certain. A woman clasped Katara’s hands briefly, thanking her for keeping everyone steady when panic had started to spread. Someone else nodded toward Toph with a mix of awe and familiarity, clearly having felt the ground shift under her control. A young boy hovered near Aang before blurting out a rushed thank you, eyes wide at the way the dust had simply… stopped falling around him. Even Sokka received a few claps on the shoulder, one villager gesturing toward the now-stable cart.
“Good thinking with the rope,” they said.
Sokka straightened slightly. “I do bring strategy to the table.”
“You tied knots,” Toph muttered under her breath.
“Strategic knots.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh, the sound more subdued than the moment called for, but it slipped out anyway.
At the edge of the clearing, just beyond the villagers and the scattered crates from the cart, a pair of Fire Nation guards stood apart from the worksite, their posture composed, untouched by the dust and urgency that had taken over the ridge. They had arrived with him, they were palace detail, not local patrol, you noticed- and unlike the others, they hadn’t intervened.
One of them now held a lacquered box, smaller than the supply crates, its surface polished to a quiet sheen despite the haze around it. It didn’t belong to the cart. It had been carried here.
For a moment, the guard hesitated, glancing toward Zuko as if awaiting instruction now that the immediate crisis had passed.
Zuko noticed, and stepped away from the group, crossing the short distance with that same controlled steadiness he owned.
The guard straightened immediately, offering the box forward.
“My lord—”
Zuko took it before he could finish, his grip firm but unceremonious, as though the exchange required no announcement.
He didn’t look at you, but the path he chose to walk placed him close enough that the space between you narrowed again, the weight of the moment returning in subtler ways.
Behind you, someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
“Alright,” Toph said, arms crossing as she angled her chin in your direction, “are we done fixing things, or do we need another disaster so you two can keep staring at each other?”
“I vote we’re done,” Sokka added immediately, lifting a hand like he was calling it in a council meeting. “Strong vote. Unanimous, actually.”
Toph tilted her head slightly, as if listening for something only she could catch, then smirked.
“Yeah,” she went on, louder now, “we’re definitely done here. Ground’s stable, cart’s safe, tension’s… not our problem.”
“Not even a little,” Sokka agreed. He clapped his hands once, dusting them off. “Which means we should probably go check… literally anywhere else.”
“Anywhere,” Toph echoed.
Katara let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “We’ll be just over there,” she added, gesturing vaguely in the opposite direction. Far enough to be out of earshot, but close enough to pretend they weren’t leaving on purpose.
Aang nodded quickly. “Yes. Monitoring. Very important.”
“Extremely!” Katara said, reaching for Aang's hand.
Toph had already started walking with Sokka.
“Try not to break anything else,” she threw over her shoulder, entirely too pleased with herself.
“And if you do,” Sokka added, backing away now, “we’re not fixing it.”
Katara gave you one last look in a gentler, but no less knowing way, before turning to follow them.
“So,” you said at last, turning to face Zuko, your tone steadier than you felt, “I think congratulations are in order, Fire Lord. I heard you made your choice.”
“You… did?” he asked, uncertainity slipping into his voice.
You nodded, though your gaze dropped almost immediately, your foot nudging at the edge of the grass where it met the packed earth like the ground required your full attention once again. Anything to avoid looking at him, anything to avoid the way your vision threatened to blur.
“She’s a noblewoman from the Earth Kingdom, right?” you continued. “Someone… appropriate. Someone the Fire Nation can benefit from.”
Silence answered you.
You looked up and he was staring at you, completely, utterly speechless. It made something in your chest twist.
“Of course,” you went on, the edge slipping into your voice now, “that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
Your arms crossed before you could stop yourself, the motion sharper than you intended. Your fingers dug into your sleeves, knuckles tightening.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” you pressed. “Am I wrong?”
For a moment, it almost seemed like he might answer, finally say something that would settle the tight, aching uncertainty sitting in your heart. His mouth parted, then closed again, his jaw tightening.
Instead, he laughed.
You went still, your grip loosening just slightly before tightening again, breath catching halfway in your chest.
“Why are you laughing?” you asked, the hurt breaking through now, unfiltered. “This is serious. If it’s not that, then what is it? Not like you can correct me, you’ve been avoiding me!”
The laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come when you turned away from him, the movement abrupt, but you didn’t make it far.
His hand found your arm without force, but pulling you just enough to face him again.
“I know,” he said. “And I—”
“And before an excuse leaves those—” you cut in, your voice sharper than you meant it to be, “—those exquisite lips of yours, maybe think about what you’re going to say first.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
You blinked. The words landed heavier than anything else he could have said.
“What…” The word barely formed. You swallowed, your gaze searching his face, tracing it like you might find the meaning there before you could trust your own ears. “What did you say?”
Despite everything, that familiar hint of amusement returned to his mouth.
“What did you say?” he countered. “Exquisite lips?”
You stared at him.
“Don’t,” you said quickly, heat rising to your face despite yourself. “That’s not— that doesn’t matter. Why are you sorry?” you pressed. “What do you mean?”
He held the box firmly for a moment longer, as though whatever it carried required more than just his hands to keep steady, then let it fall to his side with a quiet breath.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come,” he said, his voice lower now, stripped of anything that resembled formality. “And I understand why you didn’t return. The council has been occupying my time, as you know…”
“Did they cancel their command?” you asked, stepping closer before you could stop yourself, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. There was something fragile in the way the question left you that reached for hope despite everything. “You didn’t have to choose?”
He didn’t speak, nor he needed to. The answer settled in the quiet shift of his expression, in the way his gaze held yours without softening.
Your hand rose to your chest, pressing there, wishing you could steady the feeling before it broke entirely.
“So… then you chose someone.”
“I did,” he said.
There was no hesitation in it, no uncertainty, and that made it worse.
“But it’s not a matter of whether I chose,” he continued, something quieter threading through his speech. “It’s whether she chooses me too.”
You nodded slowly, though the movement felt distant, disconnected from the rest of you. Of course she would. Anyone would. He was the Fire Lord, so respected and powerful, and he was Zuko. Your Zuko.
You looked down at the grass beneath your feet, your thoughts tangling into something far less composed than you wanted them to be. Pride and longing pulled in opposite directions, each one demanding to be heard, to be chosen, to be acted upon before the moment slipped through your hands entirely.
You could say it.
You could end it there and put words to everything you had carried, everything you had refused to name, even if it meant losing him in the same breath.
Or you could stay silent. Walk away with dignity intact, even if it cost you more than you were willing to admit.
The decision hovered, ever so fragile, until something moved in your peripheral vision.
The box.
He lifted it between you, holding it out with a steadiness that contrasted the tension that had settled around you both.
You raised an eyebrow, more out of instinct than understanding, and took it from his hands, the weight of it grounding in a way nothing else had.
“What’s in there is yours,” he said, his gaze never leaving you. “Because you deserve it.”
A breath passed.
“And you can choose not to accept it.”
Curiosity moved through you before reason could stop it, your fingers lifting the lid of the box with a care that felt disproportionate to something so simple. The hinge gave without resistance, and what waited inside made your breath falter in a way you couldn’t quite control.
Your dress.
The one you had worn that night, the one that had carried you into that room, into him. The one you had left behind without a second thought, discarded against the stone floor of his bath in a moment that had felt too consuming to hold onto anything else.
Your fingertips brushed over the fabric, slow, almost reverent, the layered silk shifting beneath your touch like a quiet flame. The deep red caught the light even here, subdued by the dust of the ridge but no less alive, while the gold threading along the bodice traced familiar patterns beneath your fingers, subtle and precise, unmistakably Fire Nation in its design. It felt the same, but above all, it felt like that night.
“I should have returned it sooner,” Zuko said, his voice quieter now, closer than before, though you hadn’t noticed him step nearer. “But I didn’t know how to give it back without…” He exhaled softly. “Without it meaning more than it already does.”
You didn’t lift your gaze.
“I kept it,” he continued, and there was something unguarded in the admission that carried weight beyond the words themselves. “At first, because it was yours. And then… because it reminded me of everything I didn’t say when I had the chance.”
Your fingers stilled against the fabric.
“You’ve always been my friend,” he said, and the word landed gently, but it didn’t soften the impact. “My closest one. The person who stayed when I didn’t deserve it. The one who saw through every version of me I tried to hide behind.”
Something in your throat drew tight.
“I’ve made mistakes,” he went on, quieter now, his voice threading through the space between you. “More than I can count. And somehow, through all of them… you never stopped seeing me clearly. Even when I didn’t know how to see myself.”
Your grip on the edge of the box tightened.
“I thought that was enough,” he admitted. “That having you there, having you beside me in that way, was something I could hold onto without asking for more. But it isn’t. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
You lifted your gaze, your vision blurred at the edges, tears gathering in a way that felt unfamiliar and nothing like what you had braced yourself for.
He was closer than you expected.
Close enough that you could see a quiet undoing. The restraint he held so carefully began to fray at the edges, the steadiness of his mouth faltering, his breath unmeasured, his gaze no longer shielded. Whatever he had kept contained slipped free in the way his eyes lingered on yours without retreat, in the fragile openness that replaced his certainty, in the tenderness that seemed to rise despite him, bare and unprotected, with nowhere else left to go but toward you.
“I don’t want you like a best friend,” he said. “I never really did.”
He reached forward, setting the box between you on top of the grass before his hand moved to the fabric. He lifted the dress with care, the silk sliding through his fingers like it recognized the warmth of him, when a glint broke free from its folds.
It slipped loose with a hush, a soft, fleeting sound against the ground, so quiet it might have gone unnoticed, had it not caught the light.
Gold, warmed by the same tones that traced the dress. A ring with a stone set at its center that held its own quiet fire.
You drew your lower lip between your teeth without thinking, your eyes widening.
Zuko bent to retrieve it, and when he rose, he did not falter.
Not this time.
He stepped closer, the space between you giving way in slow, inevitable increments. The ring rested between his fingers, but it wasn’t what held your attention. It was the way his hand steadied when it neared you, how the slightest tremor gave way to resolve. The way his gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second, like looking away was no longer something he could bear.
He stopped only when there was nowhere left to step without touching you.
“I spoke to the council,” Zuko said. “I agreed to their terms: to choose among the guests in the gathering, to entertain their expectations, to follow through with what they believed was best for the Fire Nation.” His gaze softened, recalling it all now from a distance that no longer held the same weight. “I thought I could endure it. That if I listened long enough, if I gave them what they wanted to hear, I could still make the decision my own in the end.”
You let out a breath that trembled despite yourself, your fingers still resting against the silk in the box. “That doesn’t sound like something you would agree to,” you murmured.
“It isn’t,” he admitted. "And I didn’t. Not entirely.” His eyes flickered with something that resembled quiet amusement, though it never strayed far from you. “My uncle had… opinions.”
That drew something from you before you could stop it: a soft, disbelieving breath that almost became a laugh. “Of course he did.”
“He insisted,” Zuko continued, and now the warmth settled more openly into his tone, “that if I was going to be forced into choosing, then I should at least have every option available to me.” He paused just long enough for the meaning to settle. “Even the ones the council didn’t think to include.”
“So, when he made you invite me...,” you said, the realization unfolding in pieces.
"It was without their knowledge. Which meant that when I agreed to their conditions…," his gaze held yours. “I already knew how I intended to challenge them.”
A small, incredulous breath left you. “You planned it.”
“I hoped,” he corrected gently.
You shook your head faintly, though the motion carried no real disagreement, only the overwhelming weight of shock settling into place. “That sounds exactly like something he suggest you to do.”
“It does,” Zuko said, and this time the hint of a smile reached his lips fully. “He was very pleased with himself.”
“I’m sure he was,” you replied, unable to stop the faint curve of your own mouth.
“I used their rules,” he said, far more intentional, “to make a choice they couldn’t argue with. And when they did, even if they were already trapped, I gave them arguments they couldn’t refuse. About loyalty. About trust. About someone who understands the balance we’re trying to build better than any noble name ever could. About you," he continued, stepping just a fraction closer. "I told them that if they were asking me to choose a future for this nation, then they would have to accept that I already knew who belonged in it.”
The ring remained in his hand.
You hadn’t stopped looking at it, not really. Even when your eyes lifted to meet his again, even when his voice held you there, you stayed aware of it.
“I spent days trying to say it the right way,” Zuko continued, his voice stripped of everything except truth. “Trying to deal with the guilt that came from tying you to something you might not even want, but also coming to terms with what I’d done and, let you decide instead.”
His thumb shifted slightly against the band.
“You chose me,” you said softly, the words barely more than breath, as if saying them too loudly might undo them.
“I did,” Zuko answered, no doubt left for you to question. “And I would do it again.”
Your chest tightened, something fragile and overwhelming unfolding all at once, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of the dress still resting in the box between you.
“But I meant it: I don’t want this to be something decided for you,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “Not by the council. Not by me. So... what do you think?"
For a moment, you didn’t answer.
Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because the answer had been there for longer than you had allowed yourself to admit, waiting beneath every glance, every almost, every moment you had forced yourself to step back instead of forward.
Your hands found his before you could overthink it, fingers wrapping around his, warm against your palms, making everything else fall away. You felt the slight tension in him ease at the contact.
“I think that…” you began, your eyes never leaving his, “I don’t want you like a best friend either.”
His hand rose to your jaw, fingers finding their place beneath your ear, along the line of your throat, settling there with a steadiness that made your pulse turn restless against his touch. His thumb brushed once, slow, like he needed to feel you there before allowing himself anything more.
And then he closed the distance. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It lingered the second it began, his mouth finding yours with a care that made something in your chest give way all at once. There was no edge to it, no restraint left to hold it back. Your fingers tightened against him before you realized it, curling into the fabric at his sleeve. The other hand found his shoulder as you leaned into him, closing what little space still remained.
He didn’t hesitate at the contact. His hand shifted like he needed to keep you there, like letting you go had stopped being an option the moment you hadn’t stepped back.
The wind moved somewhere beyond you. Voices carried faintly in the distance. The world continued, unchanged, untouched. But none of it reached you. Not when he held you close enough that you could feel the rhythm of him, steady against you. Not when the warmth of his touch felt so deeply familiar it settled into you without resistance, yet new enough that every second of it stayed sharp, impossible to ignore, something your body was still learning even as it recognized it completely.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, his breath still uneven, though his hands remained steady where they held you.
You gave him your hand.
His fingers guided the ring into place, the gold catching the light as it settled where it belonged.
“Well, that took long enough.”
Toph’s voice carried across the ridge like she had been waiting for exactly this moment.
You both turned to find the rest of the group not nearly as far away as they had pretended to be, clustered together in a way that made it very clear they had seen everything.
“I told you,” Sokka said, already striding toward you with far too much enthusiasm, “we could’ve skipped the emotional crisis and gone straight to this…”
He stopped right in front of you and then immediately pulled you into a hug.
“Oh my—wait—no—” he froze mid-embrace, pulling back just enough to look at you with exaggerated horror. “Is this… is this allowed? Should I not be doing this? Is this, like, a royal offense now?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, the sound light and uncontrollable.
“I think you’re fine.”
“Are we sure?” he asked, lowering his voice like this was suddenly a very serious concern. “Because if I just violated some kind of royal boundary, I’d like to know now before guards appear out of nowhere.”
Aang stepped forward, grinning, entirely unbothered by any of it. “I’m still hugging her.”
And he did hug you, completely sincere.
Sokka pointed immediately. “See? Now if he gets arrested, I’m blaming Toph."
"What did I do?" she asked, hugging you after Aang.
"You didn't tell me not to hug her." he said, proceeding to pat Zuko's back in a congratulatory way. “Or to bow. Because I’m not bowing. I refuse. I draw the line at bowing.”
“You’ve never bowed in your life,” Katara said, stepping forward, though her smile softened the remark as she reached for your hands, squeezing them gently. Her gaze flickered to the ring, then back to your face. “I’m really happy for you,” she added. “For both of you.”
“I’m glad you all approve,” Zuko said, the faintest hint of humor threading through his voice as he glanced at them.
Toph huffed. “We don’t approve,” she said. “We tolerate. There’s a difference.”
“She means she’s happy,” Aang translated helpfully.
“I am not.”
“You sound happy,” Katara said.
“I sound correct.”
Sokka pointed between the two of you. “For the record, I’ve been emotionally invested in this for a long time, so I feel like I deserve partial credit.”
Zuko's thumbs brushed ightly against the fabric at your sides before he finally glanced up.
“At most,” he said, “you can take credit for… not making things worse.”
Toph snorted. “That’s generous.”
You laughed. “Very generous.”
Sokka looked between all of them, betrayed. “Wow. Okay. Noted. I’m surrounded by people who don’t appreciate emotional support. Alright,” Sokka said, clapping once, recovering his composure with visible effort. “So, celebration plan. I’m thinking food, obviously. Maybe something dramatic. Fireworks? Is that too on the nose?”
“It’s the Fire Nation,” Aang said. “It’s never too on the nose.”
“Perfect,” he nodded. “Then we’re doing it.”
Zuko exhaled softly beside you.
When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, not saying anything, and not really needing to.
For once, neither of you looked away.
♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, sealing out the world, the council, your friends, and the endless weight of the Fire Nation. For a single, suspended moment, you and Zuko stood facing each other at the threshold of his chamber, the same room that now felt entirely different.
Candlelight flickered across the walls, gold dancing over silk and shadow, over the familiar space that had once held distance and now held none at all. The bed stood at the center untouched, but neither of you moved toward it yet.
Zuko’s hands found your waist, pulling you close. His fingers curled into the fabric of your robe, and he was smiling- not the tight, controlled smile he normally wore, but almost giddy. His eyes roamed your face like he was memorizing every detail.
“We’re alone,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “Finally.”
You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes and kissed him: deep, open-mouthed, hungry. He groaned into your mouth, his arms wrapping around you, crushing you against his chest. The kiss was messy, eager, all tongue and teeth and the shared taste of the celebratory tea you’d drunk earlier with his Uncle Iroh. His hands slid down your back, cupping your ass, squeezing as he pulled your hips flush against his.
You could feel him already hardening through the layers of silk. The evidence of his desire pressed against your belly, and you rocked into him deliberately, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.
“Patience,” he murmured, though his voice was strained.
“No,” you breathed, nipping at his lower lip. “You forget I’ve waited too long.”
Your fingers found the tie of his formal robe, tugging it loose. The heavy red fabric fell open, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the lean muscle, the scattered scars. You pushed the robe off his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet. He stood before you, bare except for his loose trousers, the firelight painting his skin in amber and shadow.
You let your gaze travel down his body: the hard planes of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair disappearing below his waist, the prominent bulge straining against the silk of his trousers. Your mouth watered.
“Your turn,” he said, his fingers already working at the knot of your sash. He was less patient than he pretended; the fabric slid away quickly, and he pushed your robe aside, baring you to the warm air. His breath caught. “I’ve always known it, and I’ve seen you, but… spirits, you’re beautiful.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples. They stiffened under his touch, and you arched into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, his tongue circling the sensitive peak. You gasped, your fingers threading into his hair, holding him there.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his free hand sliding down your stomach, between your legs. His fingers found you wet, slick, ready. He groaned against your skin.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with want. “Is that because we’re engaged, or because you’ve been thinking about this all day?”
“Both,” you admitted, your hips grinding against his hand. “I couldn’t stop imagining your mouth on me, like at breakfast, even when I was mad at you.”
He growled, low and possessive, and suddenly he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bed, laying you down on the silk sheets, the cool fabric a shock against your heated skin. He stood over you, his eyes dark with desire, his cock straining against his trousers.
“I want to taste you,” he said, his voice rough.
“Actually, I have an engagement night request,” you said, stopping him. “I want to taste you, Zuko.”
His eyes shone. With no further discussion, He tugged at his trousers, pushing them down his hips. His cock sprang free- long, thick, flushed a deep red at the tip, already leaking a bead of pre-cum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around his shaft, feeling the heat and the velvety softness of his skin stretched over the hardness beneath. You stroked him slowly, watching his eyes flutter shut, his breath hitch.
Then you leaned forward, taking the head into your mouth.
Zuko groaned, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal, something you’d never heard before. You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting the salt of his arousal, then took him deeper, your lips sliding down his length. His hand found the back of your head without pushing, just resting there, his fingers trembling.
“That feels– yes,” he breathed. “just like that.”
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking as you pulled back, then plunged down again, establishing a rhythm. His taste was intoxicating, and the sounds he made- the broken moans, the whispered curses- only made you more eager. You took him as deep as you could, feeling him hit the back of your throat, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at his base.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his golden eyes fixed on you. “Taking me like that…”
You looked up at him, your lips stretched around his cock, and the sight of his face all flushed, eyes half-lidded, and lips parted in pleasure made you moan around him. The vibration sent a shudder through his body. His hips bucked involuntarily, driving him deeper.
He pulled back before he came, his chest heaving. “Not yet,” he panted.
He guided you back onto the bed, your head sinking into a pillow. He rose over you, his cock nudging at your entrance. He paused, hovering, his eyes meeting yours. “I couldn’t get tired of this view…”
“Me neither.”
He pushed in. The stretch was exquisite, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp and arch. He filled you completely, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against yours, and you could feel him deep inside, pressing against that sensitive spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
“You feel incredible,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “So tight. So perfect.”
Then he began to move in long, slow strokes that dragged against your walls, each thrust a deliberate, loving caress. He set a rhythm, steady and deep, his hips rolling against yours. The angle was perfect with your legs wrapped around his waist, his weight a comforting pressure on top of you.
“Look at me,” he said, and you did. His eyes were burning, not with fire, but with emotion. “I want to see your face. I want to remember this forever.”
You reached up, cupping his scarred cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. His pace quickened, his thrusts growing harder, more desperate. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts.
He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you, and you shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you, a wave of heat and pleasure that clenched around his cock, pulling him deeper. He cried out your name as he followed, his release hot and pulsing, filling you completely. He kept thrusting through the aftershocks, slowing only when you both lay trembling and spent.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms with a quiet urgency, like even now he wasn’t willing to risk any distance between you. His face found its place in the curve of your neck, his breath warm, uneven at first, then slowly settling as it brushed against your skin. You could feel the rhythm of his heart through the space between you, so fast and insistent, it hadn’t yet caught up with the stillness that had begun to settle around you.
“I…” His voice faltered, softer than you’d ever heard it, the word catching somewhere deeper than his throat. “I love you.”
You smiled, the warmth of it softening through you before you even realized it, your fingers drifting over his chest in slow, absent patterns, tracing the rise and fall of his breath, the steadying of his heartbeat beneath your touch.
“I love you too, Zuko.”
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The candles burned lower, their light steady now instead of restless, the room no longer charged with urgency. His fingers traced absent patterns along your arm, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the shape of you in this moment, in this place that now belonged to both of you.
“Fire Lady,” he murmured after a while, the title quieter than it had ever sounded, as if he was still letting it become something real.
You huffed a small laugh against his shoulder. “That sounds… incredibly official.”
“It is,” he said. “But there’s no one I would rather call that.”
Your hand found his again, lacing your fingers together between you, his thumb brushing over the ring now resting where it belonged.
“…Sokka hugged you before I did.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Zuko shifted enough for you to catch the expression on his face, very clearly not as unaffected as he was trying to seem.
“He called you Fire Lady first,” he added. “And then he hugged you.”
You stared at him.
“You’re jealous of Sokka?”
“I’m not—” he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose. “I just think the order of events was… incorrect.”
You laughed, the sound warm and bright, echoing in the room. “You proposed to me, Zuko.”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“And you kissed me.”
“Yes.”
“And then Sokka hugged me.”
He frowned slightly, as though reconsidering the timeline. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It absolutely does!”
You shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
“Besides,” you murmured against him, “I think you’ve made your position very clear.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile from him, the tension finally giving way.
“Good,” he said.
You settled back against him, your head resting just beneath his chin, his arms wrapping around you again without hesitation nor doubt.
Outside, the palace still existed, the council, the expectations, the future waiting to be faced.
But in there, none of it felt overwhelming anymore. Because this time, it wasn’t something he had to face alone.
And neither were you.
Extra.
♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
Note: What. A. Journey. This has been. Thank you so much for the overwhelming support on these series, I really appreciate every comment and interaction. I didn’t want to make this longer but damn I love the dynamic created so much!! Bet I will write about engaged reader and you can feel free to picture the lore of these two lol.
I’m planing an extra that can be read as a standalone as a thank you for the support! So I hope you liked this and I hope you like that when it comes out. Xx
(‘only bought this dress so you could take it off’ — part two. Part one here.)
adult zuko x reader | contains smut | minors dni. | wc: 3,1k
summary: in which the morning after proves far more dangerous than the night before, and breakfast turns into something neither of you can pretend didn’t happen.
content: adult!zuko x reader, friends to lovers, explicit sexual content, suggestive themes, morning after, mutual pining payoff, breakfast scene (not innocent), fluff, political tension looming.
note: thank you so muchhh for the love on part one, made me inspired to hurry tf up with part two so hope you enjoy.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
Your body woke before your mind did.
The covers beneath you felt impossibly soft, molding to your shape, holding you in a warmth that made it far too easy to stay exactly where you were. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it, unwilling to move or think, until the quiet weight of reality began to settle in.
The night before returned all at once. The drinks, the women, the dress, the way everything had unraveled into something neither of you had planned. The kisses, Zuko’s hands on your body, yours on his. It had felt wrong to attend at first, but somewhere along the way, that feeling had disappeared entirely, leaving behind something far more consuming.
Something that had felt… so perfect.
And it lingered. Not just in memory, but in the quiet heat beneath your skin, in the faint sensitivity left behind where his hands had held you, where his lips had traced you, like something warm and permanent had been pressed into you, invisible but unmistakable.
You opened your eyes fully, only to find Zuko already looking at you.
Your breath caught, a soft gasp escaping you, and in response, he immediately shut his eyes, feigning sleep with a stillness that might have been convincing- if it had been anyone else.
A quiet laugh slipped from you.
“I saw you were awake, dummy,” you murmured, smiling.
He didn’t move. But he was terrible at pretending.
One eye cracked open, barely visible beneath a loose strand of hair that fell across his face, brushing over his scar, only to close again just as quickly.
You laughed properly this time, reaching up to brush that strand away from his face as you shifted closer. The moment you did, his arms found you, pulling you in without hesitation, and his eyes only opened again once your lips were already his.
The kiss was immediate and deep, familiar in a way it hadn’t been before.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said quietly when he pulled back, his hand cradling your face.
“You didn’t,” you replied in a soft voice. “And I appreciate it… but I think it’s time we face whatever this day has waiting for us.” You nudged his nose lightly with yours. “I assume the Fire Lord has an entire schedule prepared.”
He let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly in quiet frustration. “You assume correctly. I don’t even know what it is yet, but I already know I won’t enjoy it.”
You mirrored him, closing your eyes for a moment, wishing, perhaps, the same thing: that the world beyond that room could wait a little longer.
“Although…” he continued, his tone shifting, softer now. His hand trailed from your face down along your side, leaving warmth in its wake until it settled at your waist. “I suppose I could take the day off. If we stay here, and no one knows I’ve been awake, I think it would be entirely reasonable for me to recover after last night.”
“A whole day?” you asked, laughing lightly, though your hand had come to rest against his chest, the memory of him beneath your touch flashing far too vividly for your own good. You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I don’t think Fire Lords get to do that.”
“I’m not like other Fire Lords,” he replied, turning you gently so your back rested against him, your body fitting against his with ease. One arm slipped beneath your head while the other found its way back to you, slowly. “Besides, I’d be using my time productively. Speaking with someone of great importance to all nations…” he added, almost teasing, “like when you come here to discuss ‘strategy’, and somehow we end up talking about whatever Toph did to Sokka on that island.”
You couldn’t help the warmth that spread through your chest at seeing this side of Zuko, a side that felt like it was only yours. Like your friendship had always been, but now more certain, more confident, and far from just friendly. You were completely taken by it. Without thinking, you pressed your ass back against his already awakened cock, earning a sharp hiss from him as his hand tightened around your breast.
You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision, one hand slipping into his hair, fully leaning into the position. “I think half a day without you should be enough.”
“Half a day it is…” he agreed, leaning forward to find your mouth and kiss you.
His hand continued to move over your chest, making your body shift into his, slow and teasing. The feeling of his muscles against you was impossible to ignore. You felt his hand slide away from your chest and down behind you, guiding your body as you parted your legs slightly, the head of his cock brushing against your wet entrance under his direction. A soft moan escaped you.
“May I?” he asked, taking your free hand (the one not tangled in his hair) with the one that had been beneath your head.
“Yes, please,” you replied.
He smiled as he began to push inside you. Your grip on his hand tightened as he did.
Your breath catching as you adjusted to him, the moment stretching as he stretched you so deliciously…
Until you heard a knock.
Sharp and immediate.
You both froze, your breathing uneven and suddenly held.
“—Yes? Who is it?” Zuko called, his voice raised just enough, steady in a way that betrayed nothing.
“My lord,” an attendant’s voice came from beyond the door, formal and urgent, “the envoys from the Earth Kingdom have arrived. They are awaiting you in the audience hall.”
You let out a quiet breath as Zuko exhaled behind you, the frustration clear this time.
“Tell them to wait,” he said, retreating from your entrance. “I will be there shortly.”
“Yes, Fire Lord.”
Silence returned just as quickly as it had been broken.
His lips pressed briefly against your shoulder, his arms tightening around you for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you replied, smiling faintly. “Flameo hotman has duties, doesn’t he?”
He rolled his eyes, though the hint of a smile remained as he finally let you go, rising from the bed to reach for his robes.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” he said, already pulling fabric into place. “Stay. Take your time. Have breakfast in the Great Hall. I’ll join you when I can.”
You hesitated. “Zuko, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The council—”
“Please,” he interrupted, more quietly now, tying his robe closed. “If last night hadn’t happened, you would’ve stayed anyway.”
You considered that, watching him as he dressed, already returning to the Fire Lord the world expected.
“I suppose I would have,” you admitted, shifting beneath the covers. “I am very fond of the jasmine-spiced honey cakes you serve here.”
“Exactly,” he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as he gathered the rest of his things. “So do that. Act normal. I will too. And then… we’ll figure this out.”
Normal.
You almost laughed.
“Otherwise,” he added, glancing back at you, “I’ll have those blue drinks banned. Clearly, they are a danger to diplomatic events.”
You gasped. “Zuko, that’s low.”
He laughed softly, stepping back toward the bed just long enough to press a brief kiss to your forehead.
“I think you know what to do,” he said, walking towards the door. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
Breakfast in the Great Hall felt almost unreal after the night before.
The long tables had already been arranged with care, attendants moving between them with quiet precision, refilling cups and adjusting plates without ever drawing attention to themselves. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, softening the usual grandeur of the hall into something calmer.
You adjusted the sleeves of your attire as you sat.
It wasn’t yours. You had found it folded neatly in a storage room across from Zuko’s chambers- one of the older garments worn by palace attendants. The fabric was simple, dyed in muted shades of red and gold, the kind meant to blend into the palace rather than stand out. It hung a little loose on your frame, the sleeves longer than needed, the waist not quite fitted, but it was better than wearing last night’s dress again.
Far less noticeable, though not entirely modest.
The neckline dipped lower than you expected, exposing more of your chest than most attendants would likely be comfortable with.
You had taken your place early, perhaps too early. Partly to avoid questions, to gather yourself, and partly because you weren’t about to miss the jasmine-spiced honey cakes.
“I see you have excellent priorities.”
Iroh settled beside you as if he had always been there.
“They’re worth waking up early for,” you replied, reaching for one of the honey cakes. “You should try one! You deserve some compensation for your company yesterday.”
“Oh, I have tried them,” he said, pouring himself tea with unhurried ease. “But I must say… they seem particularly rewarding this morning.”
You paused mid-motion, narrowing your eyes at him.
“They’re always good,” you said, reaching for your tea.
“Of course,” he hummed. “Very restoring, aren’t they?”
You nearly choked on your drink.
He smiled into his cup.
“I trust you slept well,” he added, not looking at you, which made it worse.
“I did,” you answered, far too quickly.
“Good,” he said calmly. “Rest is essential after… long evenings.”
Before you could respond, a shift moved through the room.
Attendants straightened, conversations softened, you didn’t need to look up to know why.
Still, you did.
Zuko had entered the hall, already dressed in full Fire Lord attire. Deep crimson robes layered over black, gold accents catching the morning light. His hair was half tied back into his usual topknot now, the Fire Lord’s crown resting in place.
His gaze found you immediately.
You looked down at your plate.
“I believe your morning has just improved even further,” Iroh said, sipping his tea.
“Not subtle, Iroh,” you muttered.
Zuko approached, his steps measured. There was a pause when he reached the table before he took his usual seat across from you, which, normally didn’t matter as much as it did now.
“Uncle,” he greeted.
“Nephew,” Iroh replied warmly. “You are just in time. We were discussing the importance of a well-balanced morning.”
Zuko reached for food, avoiding your gaze for a moment. “Were you?”
“Yes,” Iroh continued. “Good food, good company… and proper rest.”
Zuko cleared his throat. “I had a meeting, I apologize for my delay.”
“So I heard,” Iroh said. “The Earth Kingdom envoys seemed quite eager this morning.”
“They were,” Zuko replied, pouring water into his cup. “We discussed trade routes.”
“How productive,” Iroh nodded. “And you still made time for breakfast. Very wise.”
Zuko exhaled quietly, already catching on.
“I always make time for breakfast, Uncle.”
“Of course you do,” Iroh said. “I must say… you seem particularly attentive today.”
That made Zuko look up directly at you.
You lifted your tea, pretending not to notice.
“I have responsibilities,” he said, a bit more firmly.
“Yes,” Iroh replied, setting his cup down. “And you are fulfilling them admirably.”
You swallowed your tea, feeling the warmth linger far longer than it should have.
Then, as if deciding something, Iroh stood.
“Well,” he said, smoothing his robes. “I believe I will take a walk before the day becomes too busy.”
His gaze moved from you to Zuko. A small, knowing smile settled on his face.
“Do try not to let your duties keep you from what truly matters,” he added lightly.
Zuko frowned. “Uncle—”
But Iroh had already turned away.
He paused briefly at Zuko’s side, speaking low enough that only he would hear:
“Some choices are easier than they appear… especially when there are fewer people in the room.”
And then he was gone.
The attendants remained, moving quietly, pretending not to notice anything at all.
You focused on your plate. Zuko did the same.
Neither of you quite sure where to begin.
You took another bite, letting the sweetness ground you.
“What are you wearing?” Zuko asked at last, his tone carrying a hint of restrained amusement.
You frowned. “It’s a traditional palace attendant’s robe,” you replied, keeping your voice neutral. “Very proper, by the way.”
He smiled into his cup.
“Maybe,” he said, glancing up at you. “But not very practical. You’ve got—”
He stopped as heat crept into his face.
“What?” you asked, following his gaze.
You looked down.
Crumbs—no, small sticky pieces of the jasmine-spiced cakes had fallen from your plate, clinging to your skin where the neckline of your robe dipped. A bit of glaze had followed, leaving a faint trail that made the whole situation worse.
You tried brushing them off, but they stuck.
“That’s—” you muttered, attempting again, only managing to smear it slightly. “Great.”
Zuko shifted in his seat, clearly trying to help from a distance. “You need to—no, not like that, just—”
“You’re not helpful,” you said under your breath, still struggling with it.
You glanced at the attendants, they’re were pretending very hard not to see.
His gaze lifted, steady and unyielding as it swept across the room, landing on the nearest attendant. “That will be all for now. Clear the hall.”
One of them hesitated, glancing briefly at the others, uncertain.
Zuko stood.
“I won’t repeat myself,” he added, his voice calm, but carrying the kind of authority that didn’t need to rise to be obeyed. “You are dismissed. All of you.”
The response was immediate this time.
“Yes, Fire Lord.”
Footsteps followed in quick succession. One by one, they bowed and made their way out, the doors of the Great Hall closing behind them with a low, final sound that seemed louder than it should have been.
Zuko didn’t look at you right away. He exhaled once, steadying himself, before stepping around the table.
“You’re making a mess,” he said, quieter now, though the edge of authority hadn’t fully left him.
You huffed softly, glancing down again. “I noticed.”
He stopped in front of you, close enough now that the space between you felt… irrelevant.
“Here,” he murmured.
You rose from your seat as he reached for a nearby cloth, his hand brushing yours for a brief moment as he took it. The cloth moved along your collarbone, then lower, pausing for a fraction of a second as he realized exactly where his hand had gone.
“Is it that bad?” you asked, lifting your chin to give him space.
He paused for a moment. “It’s very bad. Very distracting,” he admitted. “It’s all gone now… but your neck is covered in glaze.”
You let out a frustrated sound. “I need a shower.”
“Or…” he said, setting the cloth aside on the table, clearing a space with a quiet intention that made your breath catch before you even understood why.
You did a second later. He took hold of you and lifted you with ease, placing you on top of the table. A small squeal escaped you as your hands instinctively found his shoulders, steadying yourself while he stepped in between your legs.
“What are you doing?” you asked, a laugh slipping through your words, though your heartbeat had already begun to pick up.
His hands moved to the opening of your clothes, fingers slipping into the fabric as he adjusted it just enough. “I’m merely helping you,” he replied. “I’m a great host.”
His lips followed.
Warm, unhurried, brushing first, then lingering as he tasted the remnants left on your skin, the sweetness of the glaze drawing him further, his mouth tracing a slow path from the center of your chest upward.
Your breath caught, your hands moving to his face, holding him there as his lips continued their path, pressing, dragging, until they reached your neck.
“Zuko…” you breathed.
“I find it awfully rude that we were interrupted this morning,” he said, his voice low as he pulled back just enough to rid himself of some of his layers. “I believe we deserve to continue where we left off.” His gaze returned to you. “It’s very reasonable for me to have breakfast with you privately.”
“I believe so too,” you replied, your hands moving to help him, catching his lips briefly in the process, a soft nip that lingered just enough. “You had your meeting, and I’m sure it was exhausting… so naturally, I would stay here with you to discuss it.”
His hand came up to the back of your neck, holding you close, his thumb resting just below your ear.
“Naturally.” And he kissed you like his life depended on it.
Without wasting time, he pushed your attire aside. Your hands came up to his face, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss before drifting down his body, finding his cock already hard. You stroked him, slow at first, and he pulled back just slightly, his lips returning to your neck while one of his hands found its way to your clit, drawing a sharp reaction from you, your head falling back and giving him more access to your skin.
“You taste so good,” he murmured.
“It’s the cakes,” you replied, a hint of humor still in your voice.
He immediately stopped and pulled away.
His cock slipped from your hand, leaving you suspended in the sudden absence, your breath uneven as you tried to understand what he was about to do.
“That’s true,” he said, his tone shifting. “How would I know, if I haven’t tasted you?”
Your breath caught as he lowered himself, kneeling in front of you, your legs parting wider at the guiding pressure of his hands.
“Zuko—” you started, not entirely sure if you meant to stop him.
“I meant it when I said I always make time for breakfast,” he replied, before leaning in.
Your body reacted instantly, your hips lifting toward him as his mouth found you, his tongue moving with a certainty that made it impossible to stay still. The sensation built quickly, deeper, more consuming with every movement, your breath breaking as you tried to contain it.
One of his arms came across your abdomen, holding you in place as he continued, while his other hand moved beneath you, adjusting your position, angling you exactly where he wanted you.
You brought a hand to your mouth, stifling the sounds threatening to escape as he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, his focus entirely on you.
Not when your breath broke, not when your body trembled beneath his hold, not even when your hand failed to quiet the sounds slipping past your lips.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
Not the hall. Not the doors. Not the people who might come looking.
Not even the fact that his next meeting was with the council. Or that, once they were done, you might not be something he was allowed to choose at all.
Part 3.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
again I cannot thank you enough for your support! I love long and Taylor coded titles can you tell? Might not be fair to ask lol but still- who’s up for part 3? Xx
adult zuko x reader | contains smut | minors dni. | wc: 5,5k
Summary: in which a very inconvenient royal gathering, one persuasive Katara, and a suspicious blue drink lead you to realize you and the fire lord are definitely not just friends anymore.
Content: adult!zuko x reader, smut, friends to lovers, alcohol use, mutual pining, humor, tension, a bath scene, lowkey ‘dress’ by taylor swift inspo but i got carried away.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
You hadn’t expected to be invited.
The Fire Lord had begun (reluctantly, and under considerable pressure) his search for a Fire Lady. Or, as the council so bluntly put it, the future bearer of his heirs. Despite his many objections, delays, and carefully constructed excuses, the royal council had finally insisted on a solution: a formal gathering. A carefully curated event where daughters of noble families and valued allies of the Fire Nation would be presented, each given the opportunity to earn his favor.
You knew better than anyone that it was, in every possible way, not Zuko’s style.
Your visits to the palace had become frequent enough that the guards barely questioned your presence anymore, and among your friends, you were the only one who never seemed eager to leave. You had seen him in moments the council never would: tired, frustrated, quietly resistant to everything they were trying to force onto him.
Which was exactly why the invitation in your hands felt so… wrong.
Katara had been beside you when it arrived, and her reaction had been immediate. A delighted gasp, followed by barely contained excitement over what she insisted on calling your long-standing crush on Zuko.
A perfectly reasonable- and, you would argue, entirely manageable- crush. Because more than anything, he was your friend.
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” you said quickly, already trying to dismiss it. “My family isn’t noble. We live on the outskirts of the capital. I shouldn’t even be on this list.”
“Or,” Katara countered, eyes lighting up, “he did it on purpose. Maybe he realized he likes you, and this is his way of making it official!”
You huffed softly. “If that were true, he could have just asked me to come. Not… include me with everyone else.”
There was a flicker of something in your voice closer to disappointment than you cared to admit, and Katara didn’t miss it.
She crossed the room in an instant, already digging through your wardrobe before pulling out a garment you hadn’t touched since Ba Sing Se. “Either way, you’re wearing this,” she declared, holding it up with a grin. “You looked beautiful when you tried it on. He’s going to lose his mind! Honestly, I wish I could be there to see it.”
You hesitated, your arms crossing as your gaze settled on the dress you had been saving for an occasion that had never come.
“I’m not wearing that,” you said after a moment. “In fact, I’m not going at all.”
Katara raised an eyebrow.
“I’m just a good friend,” you added.
She studied you for a second, then softened slightly. “He knows I’ll be traveling with Toph to visit Aang,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe he just… wants someone he trusts there.”
You raised your eyebrows.
She stepped closer, gently pressing the dress into your hands. “A good friend wouldn’t let him face that alone, would she?”
You exhaled slowly.
She was persuasive. Annoying, but persuasive.
And, unfortunately, right. Not just about the quality of friend you were.
About the dress, too.
The fabric was a deep, smoldering red, layered with sheer silk that shifted like flame when it moved. Gold threading traced delicate patterns along the bodice (subtle, but unmistakably Fire Nation in design) while the neckline dipped just enough to feel daring without crossing into impropriety. The sleeves were light, almost weightless, leaving your arms free, and the skirt fell in soft, flowing panels that caught the light with every step.
You didn’t belong to the court, but you certainly didn’t fade into it either.
Heads turned as you stepped further into the room, the hum of conversation continuing around you, and standing there, surrounded by a sea of people, you realized… maybe Zuko wasn’t the only one who was going to faint.
He stood across the room, mid-conversation with an attendant, a glass held loosely in his hand.
And spirits, he had never looked like that before.
Zuko was dressed in full Fire Lord regalia, layers of deep crimson and black falling sharply along his frame, embroidered with gold that caught the light like flickering fire. The high collar framed his face, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw, while the structure of the robes did nothing to hide the strength beneath them- broad shoulders, a straight posture that spoke of both discipline and quiet power. His hair was pulled back neatly, though a few strands had come loose, softening him in a way that made him look less like a ruler and more like him.
Like the boy you knew before he’d redeemed himself, and now the man you couldn’t stop thinking about.
His gaze found you in an instant.
Without thinking, you lifted your hand in a small wave, instinctive and almost private (except it wasn’t). You noticed the women gathered nearby begin to murmur among themselves, one of them smiling as if that look had been meant for her.
If only she knew.
You tried to weave your way through the crowd, intent on reaching him, when the hem of your dress was suddenly tugged back by someone stepping on it.
“Excuse me, I need to speak with the Fire- oh.” The woman turned, recognition lighting her face. “It’s you. Aren’t you… a friend of his?”
“I…” Your eyes flickered past her, catching sight of Zuko already being drawn into yet another conversation, this time with a different woman. “…am. Yes.”
“I thought this event was reserved for nobility,” she continued, her gaze traveling over you with thinly veiled judgment. “Shouldn’t you be off fighting alongside the Avatar or something, instead of trying to fit into places like this?”
Before you could answer, a hand- one you would recognize anywhere- rested lightly on your shoulder.
“Lady Renmei,” Zuko said smoothly, stepping into place beside you. “I wasn’t aware your invitation had been approved.”
She immediately bowed. “It was, Fire Lord, and it is an honor to—”
“In fact,” he cut in gently, though his tone left no room for argument, “I believe it has just been revoked.”
He smiled politely in response to her shocked expression.
“This gathering is not intended for those who lack basic courtesy. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing as an attendant swiftly escorted her away.
The moment she disappeared from view, you turned back to him, your amusement impossible to conceal. You lifted your hand, and he met it with a quick, faintly smug tap. Small enough to go unnoticed by anyone else.
“So this is why the Fire Lord can’t find a Fire Lady,” you murmured. “You charm them straight out the door.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “If that were true, I might actually be grateful for all of this. I could dismiss them quicker.”
He shifted beside you, his gaze moving briefly over the crowd. “This whole process is exhausting.”
“Have you, though?” you asked, glancing up at him. “Found someone?”
He rolled his eyes- completely undisguised, and very much not befitting a Fire Lord. “Not even close. I never intended to. But they insisted, and I was obligated to at least try, remember?”
“They’re going to be disappointed,” you said lightly. “Good luck with that.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied, quieter now.
You didn’t quite understand what he meant. He had stepped closer without you noticing, the warmth of him unmistakable now, radiating through the space between you.
“I’m glad you came,” he added. “I thought you might leave with Katara and Toph.”
So Katara had been right.
Again.
You took the untouched glass he offered, still warm from his hand. The brief contact sent a quiet spark through you, one you tried very hard to ignore.
“I just thought you might need some support,” you said. “And I am a good friend, aren’t I?”
Zuko stilled.
For a moment, he didn’t respond, as if weighing your words more carefully than they deserved. “I—“
“Fire Lord Zuko,” a nobleman interrupted, stepping forward. “Allow me to present my daughter….”
“Of course,” Zuko replied, the politeness returning instantly, though you could hear the effort behind it.
Before he turned away, he glanced back at you briefly. You dipped into a small, proper bow.
“Duty calls, Fire Lord.”
He nodded before turning away, though you could have sworn there had been something else in his eyes, almost like disappointment.
You drifted toward a quieter side of the hall, where a long table had been arranged with Fire Nation desserts- glazed fruits, delicate pastries, and warm, spiced sweets you had grown far too fond of over the years. Beside them, trays of drinks shimmered under the light.
You paused there, looking over them, unsure.
“You do not seem very happy.”
Uncle Iroh’s voice was unmistakable, even in a room this full as it carried warmth all its own.
You turned instantly, a smile breaking through as you stepped forward to embrace him. He laughed softly, returning it.
“What troubles you, my dear?” he asked, studying you with that same knowing gentleness. “Are you not enjoying the gathering?”
You let out a quiet huff, your shoulders dropping just slightly. “I would… if I could spend it the way I want. With who I want,” you admitted.
His smile deepened, thoughtful rather than amused.
You had known him long enough to trust that look,, ever since those quiet afternoons in his tea shop in Ba Sing Se, where advice had come as easily as the tea itself.
“Don’t you have a tea for this?” you added.
“Oh, my dear,” he said, folding his hands behind his back, “tea can calm the heart, but it cannot decide for it. When your path feels uncertain, it is often because you are standing at the edge of a choice you already know you must make.”
You stilled slightly at that. After a moment, he picked up a glass from the table, filled with a soft, blue liquid and offering it to you.
“But in your case,” he added with a small, knowing smile, “tea may not be enough.”
You took the glass, and the evening seemed to blur pleasantly after that.
Time slipped through your fingers. You danced with Uncle Iroh, spoke with him longer than you meant to, and drank just a little more than you probably should have. The music softened, the laughter grew warmer, and for once, your thoughts stopped circling back to him.
At least… not as often.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Iroh, I shall return with more!” you promised, already stepping away. He laughed, clearly delighted by your company.
You were scanning the room for another tray of that same blue drink when your footing faltered, and before you could fall, a pair of strong hands caught you.
“Whoops!” you laughed, looking up. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your Fire Lordness—spirits! How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.” Your hands slid to his arms without hesitation. “You look amazing, did you know that?”
Heat rushed to his face almost instantly.
Zuko steadied you carefully, his grip firm but controlled, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what you might do next. He glanced toward a nearby attendant. “Clear the area, tell everyone to leave,” he said quietly. “I’ll handle this.”
“Yes, Fire Lord,” the attendant replied, already moving. “Good luck with your friend.”
“Handle what?” you asked, slipping your arm through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Who’s your friend? Have you already chosen someone?”
“You are my friend,” he said, a little more quickly than intended, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over. “And what, exactly, did my uncle give you?”
You followed his gaze across the room, spotting Iroh near the drinks, happily waving in your direction.
“A great piece of advice, of course,” you said, as if that explained everything. “You should try it- you look like you need it. Oh! There it is!”
You reached for another tray, grabbing it entirely from a passing attendant before Zuko could stop you.
“You’ve had more of those?” he asked, incredulous now, guiding you gently, but firmly, away from the crowd.
“Yes,” you said brightly. “It’s better than tea.”
“That’s… not reassuring.”
He led you through the edge of the hall, away from the music and the watching eyes, into a quieter corridor lined with warm lantern light. Guards straightened at his approach, but he dismissed them with a brief gesture before opening a set of doors and guiding you inside.
You stepped in—
and stilled.
You weren’t in the gathering anymore. You were in Zuko’s chambers.
The space was quieter, warmer than the rest of the palace, lit by low, steady firelight that flickered softly along the walls. Rich fabrics in deep reds and golds framed the room, but there was something more personal beneath it- less ceremonial and more lived-in. A low table rested near the center, scattered with scrolls and maps, some half-unrolled as if he had left them mid-thought. His armor stood carefully arranged near one wall, not displayed, but ready. And just beyond it, his bed… simple in structure, but softened by layered blankets and dark silk.
You turned slowly, taking it all in, your gaze lingering just a moment too long on the details that felt so familiar, so Zuko.
The quiet click of the door pulled you back. You turned, still holding the tray, and found him watching you. There was something uncertain in his expression, almost disbelieving but warmer than anything he had allowed himself to show in the hall.
“So this is where you rest…” you said, stepping further into the room, your fingers brushing lightly along the edge of a table as you passed. “Very appropriate.”
A small smile found its way onto his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristically shy gesture that didn’t quite belong to the Fire Lord.
“I wasn’t sure where else to take you so I could—” he paused, searching for the right words, “—make sure you were alright. Forgive me if this is… improper.”
“Does your chamber have a bath?” you asked suddenly, interrupting him as you turned back, your tone light but earnest. “I really need one. May I?”
He blinked, caught off guard, then nodded, still a little speechless as he gestured toward a door tucked into the corner of the room.
You smiled, placing the tray into his hands before lifting one of the glasses and finishing it in a single motion. “Don’t get rid of these,” you added, already moving. “I love them. You should try one- here!”
You pressed another glass into his hand, ignoring the way he eyed it with suspicion.
“Oh, come on, don’t be boring, flameo hotman,” you teased, stepping backward toward the door. “I expect that glass to be empty when I come out.”
The bathing chamber was warm the moment you entered, the air thick with rising steam and the faint scent of heated stone. Fire Nation design carried through here as well- dark red tiles, polished to a soft sheen, lined the floor and walls, while narrow vents along the edges released controlled heat, keeping the space comfortably hot.
At the center sat a large sunken bath, carved from smooth stone, wide enough to fit several people at once. Thin streams of heated water flowed continuously into it from sculpted spouts, the surface rippling gently under the glow of low lanternlight.
The warmth settled into your skin almost instantly. You exhaled, already beginning to undo your dress, fingers working quickly at the fastenings hidden along the side. The fabric clung stubbornly, resisting your efforts far more than it had any right to.
You tried again.
And again.
A quiet huff escaped you.
‘Please don’t do it. Please don’t do it’, a voice in your mind insisted.
You hesitated for only a second.
“Zuko!” you called, the sound echoing softly against the stone. “Could you—” you paused, then committed, “—come help me, please?”
You weren’t entirely sure he had heard you, so you considered calling again. You weren’t drunk, you knew that, but you were certainly something. Enough to say things you normally wouldn’t, and to let thoughts slip past the careful filter you always kept in place around him.
“What can I help you with?”
His voice came from the doorway.
You turned slightly.
Firebenders… if only the heat affected him the way it affected you. You would have given anything to see those layers gone from him, just once.
“My dress,” you said, turning your body so he could see the fastening along your side. “I need you to undo it. The blue drink isn’t exactly helping.”
A faint pout tugged at your lips.
Color rose to his cheeks almost instantly.
“I—yes—of course,” Zuko stammered, clearing his throat as he stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.
He approached carefully like each step required more thought than it should have. His hands hovered for a brief moment before finally settling at the fastening of your dress.
Warmth creeped through your body. Not from the room, from him.
His fingers worked slowly, deliberately, undoing each tie with care, though the occasional brush of his knuckles against your skin sent a quiet shiver down your spine. He was focused- too focused on the task, as if looking anywhere else would be a mistake.
Once the dress loosened enough to slip from your shoulders, he stepped back immediately, turning away from you altogether.
“What are you—?” you began, then stopped, understanding settling in. “Oh. Thank you for your help. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
The words lingered in the air longer than you intended. He didn’t move.
“I think I should,” he said after a moment, still facing away. “You’re not exactly steady, and I’d rather not have you slipping into my bath unattended.”
You smiled to yourself, the fabric already on the floor, and stepped into the water.
The heat wrapped around you instantly, sinking into your skin, easing tension you hadn’t realized you carried- but it wasn’t the same. Not like his touch.
Not like the warmth of his hands, careful and grounding, lingering far longer in your mind than it had on your skin.
You exhaled softly, settling into it.
“You can turn around now.”
He did, slowly, as if giving himself time to prepare, and when his gaze finally found you in the water, it faltered for just a fraction of a second. His eyes widened, not enough to be obvious, but enough for you to notice.
You held back a smile.
“I might already know your answer,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “but could you bring me the tray with the drinks?”
He crossed his arms, something amused flickering across his face. “It’s gone.”
“What?” you asked, sharper than you meant to be. “Why?”
“I…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I drank the rest.”
You blinked.
“You… did?” A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Well. That’s unexpected.”
“I apologize,” he added quickly, though there was a faint hint of ease in his voice now, his hands moving behind his back. “But now that you’ve discovered them, I’ll make sure they’re prepared whenever you visit.”
“They are very good,” he admitted, almost as an afterthought.
“I know,” you said, your laughter softening. “But they help you relax. I’m sure you noticed. Maybe you should—”
You stopped yourself, your hand quickly covering your mouth.
He let out a quiet laugh.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, sinking just a little deeper into the water, as if it might hide you. You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself before peeking at him again. “We’re friends, right?”
He nodded, a small, knowing smile resting on his lips.
“Would it be strange,” you continued, your voice softer now, “if you joined me? It might help. The water is… very nice. And you deserve to rest.”
“We’re friends,” he said after a beat. “We’ve been in the sea together before. I suppose this isn’t much different.”
Before you could fully process his answer, his hands lifted to the fastenings of his robes- only for him to pause.
“I turned around…” he reminded you.
You did so immediately, your back to him, suddenly far more aware than you had been moments ago. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, willing yourself not to turn, not to think too much about the quiet movements behind you such as the soft shift of fabric, the faint sound of layers being set aside.
You didn’t move. Not until you heard the water behind you, a soft ripple followed by a light tap against your shoulder.
When you finally turned, your breath caught.
His silhouette had changed. The weight of his formal attire was gone, leaving only the quiet strength of him beneath the water, the surface breaking just at his chest. His hair, no longer bound, fell freely around his face and shoulders, dark strands softened by the steam.
This time, you felt your cheeks warm.
“Well…” you said, letting out a small laugh, “I suppose the bath works better than the drinks.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’m still not convinced those drinks should be allowed in the palace.”
“They should,” you countered, shifting slightly in the water, the movement sending gentle ripples toward him. “They make people honest.”
“That explains a lot,” Zuko replied, glancing at you with quiet amusement.
You smiled, relaxing a little more. “And they’re calming! You needed it. You looked like you were being sentenced, not hosting a gathering.”
“That’s not far from the truth,” he admitted, settling back against the warm stone ledge of the bath. “I think I spoke to at least ten people about alliances I don’t want and futures I’m not planning.”
“And the ladies?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Any of them win you over?”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Not even close.”
“Wow,” you said lightly. “They’re going to be devastated.”
“I think they’ll recover,” he replied dryly. Then, after a beat, his tone softened just slightly. “You weren’t supposed to be part of that, you know.”
You stilled a little. “Then why am I?”
He hesitated.
“My uncle insisted,” he said. “He said I should invite people I actually trust.” His gaze flickered back to you. “People I would rather see there.”
The words hit your chest in an exquisite way.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he added.
You looked down at the water briefly, your fingers trailing through it. “I almost didn’t.”
That caught his attention.
“Why?”
You shrugged slightly, though it wasn’t as effortless as you wanted it to be. “Because I didn’t want to be… part of a list.”
“You’re not,” he said, a little too quickly.
You looked up at him again, studying him more carefully now. “Then what am I, Zuko? Just a friend?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The water between you stilled.
“Someone I wanted here,” he said finally. “A very important guest.”
You huffed softly, trying to pull the moment back into something lighter. “Well, next time you could just say that. Save me the competition.”
“There wouldn’t be any,” he replied, almost absentmindedly.
You blinked.
“…Zuko.”
He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late, his gaze shifting, a hint of color rising to his face again.
“I didn’t mean—” he started.
“You did,” you interrupted.
You shifted in the water.
“For someone who didn’t want this whole thing,” you murmured, “you’re not doing a very good job of hiding your preferences.”
His eyes met yours again.
“I wasn’t trying to,” he said.
The words struck you more directly than you expected, like a lightning, leaving no room to laugh them off.
“Zuko, I—”
“Don’t do that again,” he said suddenly.
You stilled, confusion flickering across your face as you found yourself drifting closer without quite realizing it.
“Do… what?” you asked, a note of uncertainty slipping into your voice. For a brief second, doubt crept in… had you misread everything? Had you gone too far?
“Say my name like that,” he interrupted your thoughts, his voice lower now. He stepped closer as well, closing what little distance remained between you. “And before you ask, I mean when you say it like that. Breathless…”
He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly, as if he had already said more than he meant to.
“It makes me want to—”
He cut himself off.
Your gaze didn’t leave his.
“It makes you want to what?” you asked, softly. “What, Zuko?”
The space between you disappeared in a single movement, his restraint finally giving way as he kissed you firmly. It wasn’t hesitant, but it wasn’t careless either; there was intention in it, in the way he held you and the way he didn’t pull away.
Your hands found his hair almost immediately, still damp, fingers threading through it. The contact seemed to undo something in him, his composure slipping as his hands moved to your sides, finally allowing himself to touch you, to feel the closeness he had been so careful to avoid.
You were already close, but it wasn’t enough.
His grip tightened as he drew you closer, guiding you with him as he lowered himself against the edge of the bath, bringing you with him until you were settled over him, the water shifting around you both.
“Zuko…” you breathed, breaking the kiss.
“Exactly like that,” he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against yours. “You’re not very good at following requests, are you?”
A soft laugh escaped you, light but unsteady, as you leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, just at the edge of his scar. He stilled for a moment, caught off guard by the gentleness of it before your hand came up to his face in a quiet reminder that it was only you. He relaxed.
“I am,” you said quietly. “Even more now, I promise. The blue drink made me more… agreeable.”
“Then,” he replied, his voice lower now, steady but no longer distant, “may I request something of you?”
You simply nodded.
“Would you let me touch you?” he asked.
Given the way you were seated over him, the question felt almost rhetorical.
“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”
A small smile curved on his lips as his hand moved between you. “You sound delightful,” he murmured. “That’s a word I’ve never heard from your mouth before…”
You didn’t get the chance to respond.
A sharp gasp escaped you as his fingers found your clit, circling with intention, drawing an immediate reaction from you. Your body sank further onto him, your hands rising instinctively to cradle his face as he leaned back against the edge of the bath.
“Isn’t this trick effective?” he asked, his voice edged with curiosity as his movements grew more precise. His other hand steadied your waist, keeping you from shifting too far. “I don’t hear you talking anymore…”
A breathy laugh slipped from you as you leaned into the crook of his neck. “You are… you—” you tried, your words breaking as his rhythm adjusted, firmer now, exactly where you needed him.
Until he stopped.
You barely had time to react before his lips brushed your shoulder, grounding you again, and then he rose from the water, lifting you with him effortlessly.
“You move your waist too much,” he said, almost thoughtful, as he carried you out of the bath without pause. “I think we should move somewhere more… stable.”
“I’m being carried, so I trust you,” you replied with a small laugh. “Though I’m starting to think this was your plan all along.”
The lightness in your tone didn’t last long.
He set you down gently on the bed, and for the first time, you really looked at him.
Water still traced down his skin, every line of his body defined beneath the dim light- the strength in his shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the way his abdomen tightened with every small movement. There was something almost unfair about it.
“I could really get used to this,” he said, moving over you.
He had barely settled into place when you shifted, pushing him onto his back instead. Now he lay against the mattress, and you were above him, your body still damp, the last drops of water slipping between you.
“Me too,” you answered.
Your hands moved over him starting at his chest, sliding lower, until they reached him. Already hard. You stroked him once, then again, slow enough to feel the effect it had on him as his breath caught.
“You were right,” you murmured. “This trick is… very effective.”
His hands found your waist, gripping just firmly enough.
It was all the invitation you needed.
You leaned down, pressing your lips to his again as your hand continued its slow rhythm, your body shifting closer until you aligned yourself over him. You paused just for a second, before easing down, taking him in gradually.
Both of you let out a low moan at the same time.
You adjusted, your hands moving briefly to push your hair back before settling into a rhythm- slow at first, but with an urgency beneath it that refused to be ignored. The lingering warmth from the drink was nothing compared to the feeling of him inside you, the steady pulse of him making your body respond around him.
The pace didn’t stay slow for long.
The soft sounds of movement filled the room as your rhythm quickened, the contact between you becoming more insistent, less controlled.
“You feel… so good,” he said, his voice strained now, his hands tightening as he shifted, lifting you slightly just to change the angle, his movements growing harder and faster.
“Don’t stop, Zuko… please,” you breathed. “I’m close.”
“How could I even dare?” he answered, his voice strained with his own effort.
The heat of him only seemed to intensify, his skin burning warmer beneath your hands, his grip tightening as he moved with you; matching your pace, guiding it, until it was impossible to tell who was leading anymore.
“You’re so… beautiful,” he murmured against your ear, his voice breaking slightly as his rhythm continued, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between his words. “You always have been…”
His voice, his words, the feeling of him still buried inside you- it all came together at once, sending you over the edge. Your body trembled, your legs tightening as your release hit you.
He held you through it, steadying you, grounding you, before easing you down onto the bed beside him- never leaving you, never breaking the connection between you.
His movements grew uneven, less controlled, until he followed you, his breath catching as he finally stilled.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Only your chests did in attempt to catch your breath.
His hand remained at your side, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin, as if grounding himself in the fact that you were still there.
You shifted slightly, just enough to look at him.
He was already looking at you.
You leaned in first.
His hand came up to your face almost instinctively, holding you there with gentleness.
When you pulled back, it wasn’t far.
“We’re… very bad at being just friends,” you murmured, touched with the faintest hint of a laugh.
A breath of a smile crossed his lips.
“I think we’ve been bad at that for a while.”
You huffed lightly, letting your forehead rest against his for a moment. “Katara is never going to let me hear the end of this.”
That earned you a quiet laugh from him.
“She already didn’t,” Zuko admitted.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“She may have said something,” he replied, almost too casually. “About you not just being there for… support.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, though a smile betrayed you. “I knew she was involved somehow. She was very insisting about that dress.”
“I’m glad she was,” he said. “You looked flawless.”
Your fingers drifted lazily over his chest, tracing patterns without much thought. “I don’t regret listening to her. Nor do I do the dress, the drinks, the very questionable decisions—”
“The drinks were definitely a factor,” he added.
You laughed softly. “They were excellent, by the way.”
“I noticed. And I’m glad you don’t regret it.”
You shifted closer again, your head finding a more comfortable place against him, your voice lowering as the weight of the night finally began to settle in.
His arm moved around you without hesitation.
Your eyes began to grow heavier, your body finally giving in to the exhaustion you had been ignoring all evening.
“Don’t let them pick someone else,” you murmured, already half-asleep, your words softened by sleep.
A quiet breath of a laugh left him.
“I’d like to see them try,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin as the night finally stilled around you.
Part 2.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
Note: i spent so much time on this. it wasn’t supposed to be this long but I hope you enjoyed! Xx
adult zuko x reader nsfw | smut | minors dni. | wc: 3,2k
summary: in which sokka’s arrival gives the fire lady an excuse to escape her royal duties and spend some time with her fire lord (you know what that means).
content: adult!zuko, firelady!reader, smut [fingering, p in v], steam (iykyk), (excessive) use of titles like lord/lady, mentions of sokka, use of y/n.
note: english isn’t my first language + i’m only on season 2 but consumed by the edits, i tried to keep the lore accurate with some help !! not proofread we die like men. and this is my first time posting yay.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
Your duties as the newly named Fire Lady were overwhelming, to say the least.
You had to visit colonies on the Earth Kingdom coast upon reconstruction sites in the outer provinces, sitting through endless councils with nobles who still spoke as if the war had never ended. Some days were spent in the Royal Court of Caldera City; others, traveling to naval ports and academies, reminding the people what the Fire Nation was meant to become now.
Yet, you knew your Fire Lord was just as busy as you, if not more.
Zuko had to negotiate with foreign leaders, meet with Avatar Aang regarding the future of the colonies, and face his own people- those who questioned his rule, those who resented his peace. Every decision he made seemed to balance on the edge of a nation still learning how not to burn the world around it.
That’s why, when the letter addressed to you from your friend Sokka arrived, you didn’t hesitate to interrupt the meeting the Fire Lord was holding in that moment with his council of generals and high-ranking ministers.
You rushed into the meeting without a second thought. The guards stationed outside barely had time to react before quickly pulling the doors open for you.
The excitement buzzing through you made you oblivious to the disruption, until you caught sight of your husband that is.
Zuko sat at the head of the chamber, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and mild alarm.
“My apologies-” you began, only to be cut off by a clearing of his throat.
A reminder of where you stood, and who you were now.
“You mustn’t apologize, Fire Lady,” one of the generals interjected, bowing his head.
You nodded in acknowledgment, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from offering another apology anyway.
“I bring an important message for the Fire Lord,” you said, steadier after the correction. “I… got carried away with the excitement of it. I wished to share it with him immediately.”
For a fleeting second, Zuko’s lips curved, just enough to betray the smile he was holding back.
“As I was saying,” he continued smoothly, rising to his feet, “and as my wife has so helpfully demonstrated, this meeting is concluded. You are dismissed. Thank you for your service.”
You moved with regained poise through the stream of people filing out of the chamber, acknowledging their bows with small nods until you finally reached his side.
Before he could speak, you held up the letter and placed it into his hands.
Zuko’s eyes moved quickly across the page, his brows knitting as he tried to understand what could have possibly warranted interrupting a council meeting.
“Sokka is coming?” he asked, glancing up at you, not quite following yet.
You nodded, unable to contain your smile. “He is. He says he’ll arrive tomorrow morning.” You paused, noticing the confusion still lingering in his expression. “Do you know what that means, my lord?”
“I…” he hesitated. “That we need to prepare a guest room? Warn the staff? Possibly hide anything he could break?”
A laugh escaped you. You took the letter back from his hands and set it on the desk, then reached for him instead, your fingers threading into his, grounding him, pulling him just a little closer.
“We do need to prepare, yes,” you said. “But I can have my attendants handle that...”
You squeezed his hands lightly, meeting his eyes.
“…It means we get a break, Zuko. Just the two of us.”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
The doors to your chambers closed behind you with a click, sealing away the weight of the palace, the council, the expectations. The preparations for Sokka’s arrival rested on no one but your attendants, who understood, more than anyone, how much the Fire Lady needed this time for herself.
For the first time that day, there was silence.
Zuko lingered near the entrance for a moment, watching as you moved further into the room.
You didn’t rush him.
You chastely reached up, fingers moving to the pins woven carefully into your hair, beginning to undo them one by one. The tension of the day seemed to unravel with each small motion, the intricate style loosening, strands falling free.
You barely noticed when he moved closer.
Only when his hand hovered just behind yours did you pause.
“May I?” he asked.
You turned your head, just enough to meet his eyes, and smiled.
“Of course, my Lord.”
Carefully, far more carefully than anyone would expect of the Fire Lord, his fingers replaced yours. He worked unhurriedly, as if each pin required thought. You thought maybe he was afraid of pulling too hard or undoing something the wrong way.
One by one, he freed the remaining pins, setting them aside with surprising precision. As your hair fell fully loose, he let his hand linger for just a second longer than necessary, as though grounding himself in the simple act.
“I’m not very good at this,” he admitted under his breath.
A smile touched your lips. “You’re doing just fine.”
His shoulders eased at that, just a fraction.
Encouraged, his hands shifted, brushing lightly against the heavier fabric at your shoulders, where the more formal layers of your attire still rested.
“These too?” he asked, closer than before.
You caught his reflection in the mirror before you. The way his gaze lingered- trying, perhaps, to remain respectful, but not quite succeeding- as it dipped lower.
If only he knew how sizzling your skin had already become beneath the layers at the thought of him, of his hands, and the way they would feel wrapped around your naked body...
You exhaled, steadying yourself.
“These robes are made with the finest fabrics in the Fire Nation,” you said. “I’m not quite used to them yet… so I would appreciate your help. With the proper care, of course. Would you mind, Zu?”
His brow lifted, the restraint of the Fire Lord flickered.
“How could I refuse my Lady?” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Allow me.”
His hands moved carefully to your shoulders, fingers brushing over the heavier layers of fabric, something clearly occupying his mind.
After a beat, he began what could easily be considered the most important royal task of the day. Each clasp, each fastening at the back and front of you undone with wilful care, his knuckles grazing your skin in fleeting touches that felt anything but accidental. The weight of the robes eased little by little, slipping from your shoulders under his guidance.
His focus should have been on the fabric.
Needless to say, it wasn’t the case.
“You’ve been working harder than anyone in the palace. I’ve been watching you this whole week,” he said, almost to himself, as his fingers adjusted the last of the fastenings. “You carry your title like you’ve held it your whole life.”
There was something in his voice, something close to admiration, but more personal.
“I couldn’t even tell you were new to any of it.”
The final layer loosened, and cool air met your chest as the fabric pooled at your arms, which you held close to yourself, momentarily stilled by his words.
“But then you walked into that meeting,” he continued, his voice lowering, with his breath just at the edge of your neck, as his hands moved from your bare shoulders down along your arms, and not stopping there, “without thinking about anything except sharing your excitement with me…”
He paused.
“And I remembered,” he murmured, “exactly how I felt the first time I saw you.”
His fingers were soft against the curve of your breasts, resting there at first, unmoving and testing the moment, holding himself back despite the clear desire to continue.
“How I knew…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
You knew what he meant. How he had never imagined having a Fire Lady, had never even wanted one, not until you. Until your eyes, holding a kind of power most could only dream of. A gaze that had disarmed the powerful Fire Lord Zuko in a single glance.
The same gaze that met his through the mirror, wordlessly pleading for him to take you in his hands.
And oh, he did.
His touch deepened, his movements slow at first, almost cautious, before growing more certain as his thumbs found your hardened nipples, drawing a low groan from him.
Your eyes fell shut as your body reacted instantly, pressing back against him. One of your hands moved to his hair, fingers threading through it, tugging lightly.
“Zuko…”
His hands moved in rhythm, shaping and caressing you with a need that could no longer be ignored, while his mouth found your neck-kissing, tasting, lingering- never once abandoning the steady motion of his hands.
“You… understand now…?” you asked as best as you could, your eyes closed, your focus lost entirely in his touch. “…why I… was so excited?”
He let out a low laugh, pulling back from your skin barely an inch.
“I fear I don’t, my lady,” he said, his right hand slowing before slipping beneath your clothing, under your long skirt, now easily undone but still clinging to your body. “I’ll need more… proof.”
His other hand tugged at your nipple at the same moment the one beneath your skirt found your sensitive spot, spreading your wetness before circling your clit with practiced precision.
A moan fell from your lips as his hand moved in steady, controlled circles, pressing exactly where you needed and he had already learned you needed him most.
“You’re so wet, my lady…” The hand tangled in his hair tightened its grip as he slid a finger inside you, easing in without resistance. “Was this only from my touch?” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “Be honest.”
His finger began to move, slow at first, then deeper.
You exhaled shakily before answering, giving yourself over to the growing sensation. “No, my lord.”
“What was it, then?” he asked, adding another finger, stretching you further.
“The… mere thought of you,” you managed, your head falling back as his other hand resumed its firm, rhythmic attention on your breast, while his fingers moved inside you with a pace that made your breath catch. “Of us… having time alone…”
“Only time, my lady?” His fingers quickened inside you.
“Of you… fucking me, my lord,” you gasped, your body tightening around his fingers.
Your release hit you hard, and he felt it, yet he didn’t move, keeping his fingers exactly where they were and holding you firmly against him as you rode through it.
Your eyes opened just in time to meet your reflection in the mirror.
You, undone in his hands. Your breath uneven, your body still trembling as you felt the emptiness the moment his fingers slipped out of you, only for them to be brought to his lips, where he cleaned them without breaking his gaze. Your breath would’ve been cut short at the sight, if only it wasn’t struggling already.
The hand that had been holding your breast slid down, guiding your arms free so your clothes could finally fall to your feet.
You found Zuko’s eyes- now burning, fixed on you with a sharpened intensity, a newfound purpose- as his arms wrapped around your figure, pulling you back against him and drawing a gasp from your lips.
It wasn’t until his lips pressed against your shoulder that he spoke.
“Your wish is my command, my lady.”
The finely crafted robes Zuko wore joined yours on the floor moments later. Unlike the care he had taken with you, you had no patience left for his- your hands pushing them off his body, urging him to be rid of them as you kissed him, as he guided you back toward the bed.
You fell onto the soft mattress, and his body followed over yours almost instantly.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, until your breath faltered beneath him.
One of his hands moved between you, wrapping around himself-once, twice- before he guided himself forward, so close to your entrance-
“Wait!” you said suddenly, stopping him.
He raised an eyebrow, caught off guard, but didn’t hesitate to pull back, giving you space.
You smiled , reaching up to remove his Fire Lord crown, followed by the tie that held his hair in place. You set them aside, letting his hair fall freely around you both, dark strands cascading and shielding you beneath him.
“That’s better.”
His expression touched with amusement.
“May I continue, my lady?” he asked, positioning himself again, aligned with you.
“You may, my lord.”
He entered you, his hands moving to your sides as he pushed himself deeper. This wasn’t the first time he had taken you like this, but you never quite grew used to his size and the way each inch forced the air from your lungs.
Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly, while your legs wrapped around him once you had fully taken him in.
You didn’t realize your eyes had fallen shut until he pressed a kiss to your cheek, then slowly pulled back before easing into you again, giving you time to adjust.
He began to trail kisses from your cheek down to your neck and back again, unhurried and attentive. One of his hands moved to the back of your neck, steadying you, while the other slid down to your thigh; lifting your leg, his touch drifting over your skin, firm but controlled; never breaking the slow rhythm he had set.
The shift in angle drew a louder moan from you, your hand lifting instinctively to his face, your fingers brushing along the edges of his scar with a tenderness that contrasted everything else.
He leaned into your touch without hesitation.
“I’m ready, Zuko…” you whispered, your voice breathless, before pulling him into a brief kiss. “You can go faster. Please…”
His forehead rested against yours, his breath everything but steady.
He nodded.
Then his pace began to build, hitting deeper and faster each time. Your eyes rolled back as he found-again and again- that place inside you that made you lose all sense of yourself.
He was so hard inside you, his skin burning against yours. You noticed the way his eyes stayed fixed on you, sometimes slipping closed from the pleasure you, and only you, gave him as you clenched around him.
His hands pressed your waist into the mattress as his rhythm shifted, slowing for a brief moment, before he began to thrust into you harder making you both moan loudly at the same time.
The hand on his cheek slid back into his hair, tugging lightly as he moved. Sweat began to gather on both your bodies- yours mirroring his as the heat of him seemed to radiate, almost like his firebending lived beneath his skin in moments like this.
“I’m so close, y/n,” he breathed.
“Me too,” you replied, just as breathless. “Keep… going, Zu-“
“Come for me, my lady,” he urged, not stopping, one hand moving down between you to your clit, circling with intention and pushing you closer. “Let go around me… Please.”
You didn’t need anything more.
Your body gave in, your legs trembling as your release hit you again.
“God, Zuko, yes- just like… that!” you gasped, clenching tightly around him.
That was all it took for him to follow, his movements stuttering before he pressed firmly into you, holding you there as he finished, not stopping until his final thrust, his hands gripping your sides.
He collapsed over you, both of you trying to catch your breath.
After a moment, he kissed you again- deep and unhurried. Your arms slipped around him, hands resting behind his neck, holding him close as you hummed against his lips.
Eventually, he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you rested against his chest, and the room fell quiet.
Your breathing slowed as you lay there, his fingers moving absently through your hair.
“I love you, Zuko,” you said.
“I love you too, y/n,” he replied.
“And I’m happy we got this break… I really needed it. I think you did too.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted with a sigh. “The council, the colonies, everything still feels like it’s balancing on a blade… but we’ll make it. I know.”
Your chest swelled at his steadiness and resilience. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his chest. Before you could react, he guided you, lifting you so you were seated over him, his hands steady at your hips.
“… If we only have one night to rest,” he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet yours, “then I intend to make full use of it.”
A smile spread across your lips, grabbing his cock already hard again.
“I love that idea, my lord,” you replied, guiding himself to your entrance once more.
And you made use of it indeed, until the night had nothing left to give.
* ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
The next morning, you were awakened by nothing but a knock at the door.
You moved, bumping into your naked husband’s figure resting beside you. Fully awake now, you stilled, wondering if the sound had only been a dream or a trick of your mind after the exhausting days behind you.
You let yourself sink back into the warmth of Zuko, who, even in his sleep, instinctively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. You settled against him, his steady breathing brushing against your ear, just like the night before…
Another knock.
Spirits, you thought, a little dazed. Am I losing my mind?
As you were saying, the night before.. letting your attendants take care of your duties had been one of the best decisions you’d made in a long time…
Your duties.
“Sokka!” you suddenly shouted, sitting upright in bed.
Zuko stirred beside you, letting out a low groan as he shifted, still half-asleep.
“We agreed his name wasn’t to be said in this bed after the bonfire when-” he stopped abruptly, blinking. “Sokka!”
He sat up immediately, the realization hitting him just as hard.
Another knock echoed through the room.
“We’re coming!” you called out, already scrambling to find your nightgown, while Zuko did the same, grabbing the nearest piece of clothing he could find to restore at least some level of Fire Lord dignity.
Before either of you could reach the door, a voice came from the other side.
“I know! I heard you both,” Sokka called, far too amused for this early in the morning. “I got in last night, by the way. And just so you know- not very smart to put your guests right next to your room. Fire Lords…” he added, smugly, “definitely living up to the ‘hot’ reputation.”
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
ive been nothing but inspired by the zuko content on this app so i hope i got to give back some of the enjoyment with this- i hope you liked it lmk if you did and all :-)xx
hi, i just want to say i love the way you write hotch so much!! <3 was wondering if i could make a request for a hotch x fem!daughter!reader where she’s Jack’s older sister & he had her with Haley before her death; but after Haley’s death, he ignores his daughter/focuses all his attention on Jack but after recalling the call girl case (‘pleasure is my business’ episode) he realizes that his daughter—like the call girl—just wanted his attention and tries to make amends with her
you’re on your own kid
ᯓ ✈︎ aaron hotchner x daughter!reader
ᯓ ✈︎ summary: request above!
ᯓ ✈︎ word count: 2.2k
ᯓ ✈︎ content warning's: graphic depictions of violence, blood, murder, death of a parent, heavy heavy angst, hopeful ending, reader is going through it. daddy issues, hotch is neglectful to an extent, reader is self-sacrificing, hurt!reader & hurt!hotch, jack is an angel, jessica is an angel, haley is an angel (figuratively & literally), not proofread
ᯓ ✈︎ author's note: hi lovely<3 thank you for this request!! i honestly loved writing this, dad!hotch is very special to me. thank you for reading my hotch fics ily!!! i hope you like this <33
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Haley’s death is nothing short of traumatic. You remember being in the room when it happens, standing face to face with your mother as a deranged serial killer threatens her life.
You remember Foyet hitting you over the head with the gun, subduing you and making you watch as he held the gun to your mother’s head whilst forcing her to say her last goodbyes.
Your mom kept mouthing the word ‘sorry’ to you, as if she held some part of the blame for what the ‘reaper’ did. You remember recoiling in shock when the gun went off, you remember crawling to your mom’s body, her blood soaking through your shirt as you held her and cried—watching the life drain from her eyes.
You remember your dad arriving, giving you a quick once over before tackling and killing Foyet. You remember whimpering and rocking your mom back and forth, trying to tune out the gruesome sounds of your dad’s anger.
You remember someone picking you up, pulling you away from your mom’s limp body and into arms, holding you as you kept shaking and choking on your own sobs. You remember the sound of your dad’s knees hitting the floor after killing Foyet, his guttural sobs and screams as he held your mom.
The funeral is hazy. You think Aunt Jessica might have helped you get ready, you’re not really sure. You’re not sure of much from that time, you’ve blocked most of it out. You remember holding Jack’s hand and walking up to your dad during the burial.
You remember your dad talking to Jack in hushed whispers as you watched your mother’s casket lower into the ground. You remember him placing his hand on your shoulder before you flinch away.
You remember the tremble in his hand as he pulled away, how he whispered to you softly that Aunt Jessica would bring you back home when you were ready.
You remember wanting him to hold you, even if it hurt. You remember pleading with yourself to just reach out one more time, to ask him to carry you like he used to when you were younger. You want him to call you by your childhood nickname again, to pretend like nothing has changed.
Instead, you watch him walk away with Jack in his arms as tears trail down your cheeks. When you lose sight of him, you crumble—falling to the floor as your body heaves with sobs and agonized wails.
You want your mom back.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Hotch starts going back to work a couple months after Haley’s death. No overnight cases yet but he’s out late at the office nearly every day.
He makes it back home in time for dinner with you and Jack most days, but he’s not really there. He makes small talk, asks Jack about school, about soccer and his new friends, but his hearts not in it.
You can tell, you’ve always been good at that. So, you give him just enough for him not to notice you slipping away. You feel like you’ve been off axis since you left that cemetery.
He doesn’t notice, ironically enough. Or maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t care. You don’t know which is worse.
“And you? How’s school—you still uh, you still doing decathlon?” He asks over dinner one night. Jack’s busy playing with his spaghetti noodles, twirling them round and round and round on his plate.
“Hey—you listening?” Hotch asks. Your head snaps up in surprise. He hasn’t spoken to you directly in a while, usually it’s just some passing questions.
‘You and your sister have fun today? Yeah? What’d you do?’
This is different, his brows are furrowed in that tell-tale nature of his that you know he’s concerned. You don’t want him to be concerned about you; he’s got enough on his plate with Jack.
“I uh—I dropped out—”
“Daddy? Can we have candle time with mommy tonight?” Jack blurts out, not looking away from his pasta. He’s still twirling it, having gotten quite a sum of it wrapped around his plastic fork.
Candle time?
You’ve never had candle time. Is that just a Jack and Dad exclusive thing? What does it have to do with mom? You want to ask, but you feel like you’re overstepping. For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like part of the family.
You want your mom back.
“Yeah buddy,” Hotch murmurs, looking hesitantly between the two of you like he’s waiting for you to ask. You don’t. You’re self-aware enough to know when you’re not welcome.
Later that night, you hear Jack and your dad talking in soft murmurs through the walls. Jack’s high pitched giggles and excited babbling is enough to bring a small smile to your face.
You hear your mom’s name being mentioned once or twice, always by your dad. Always in that tone that used to make you think ‘If someone ever says my name like that, then I know they love me’.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
It all comes to head as you’re packing up to stay with Aunt Jessica whilst your dad gets Jack ready. He’s got a case in Michigan and hasn’t wanted to leave you two alone in the house since…well since your mom.
You can hear them talking down the hall about your dad negotiating which toys Jack is allowed to bring while you turn your room upside down looking for your spare charger.
You think you might have left it at Jessica’s since the last time you went and you curse silently, praying it’s still there.
Hotch walks into your room while you’re mid search, brow raised as he watches you almost crawl under your bed.
“Looking for something?” he asks, his tone is amused but awkward. It’s always that way when he talks to you, like he’s trying to bridge a gap that keep growing bigger the more he tries.
“Yeah,” you murmur distractedly, pulling yourself up off the floor and dusting your sweatpants. “Was just looking for my charger, I think I left it at home—”
You both freeze.
Your hands are stuck inside your own backpack where you’d been stuffing your original charger down. Your dad is silent; you can’t even hear his breathing over the rushing sound in your ears.
You’ve messed up. Oh, you’ve messed up so bad. You’re both aware of the elephant in the room—the growing distance between you two, that you’ve both started acting like polite roommates rather than father and daughter.
But you’ve never called Jessica’s house ‘home’ before. This was always home. Even before Haley, this house, these memories were always home for you. You’re not sure when that stopped being true.
“Right,” Your dad clears his throat, his voice sounds wet and wobbly but you’re too scared to turn around. You’re too scared to find him watching you in disappointment, or instead that cold apathy he seems to have polished to perfection.
“I’ll meet you in the car?”
“Sure,” you whisper softly, your voice barely even stretching across the vast ocean that’s become the two sides of your room.
There’s silence. Neither of your moves, identically waiting for the other to make a move. Hotch does first, he pulls away from the door, and his footsteps echo down the stairs.
It feels like the final nail in a coffin.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You’re half asleep in one of Jessica’s guest rooms when you hear the door unlock quietly downstairs and voices start to talk.
You’re on edge, you don’t mean to be. You know Aunt Jessica would never put you in danger, but your heart starts to race.
You tiptoe out of your room, sticking to the sides of the floorboards that you know don’t creak as you traipse your way down the stairs.
It’s then that you catch sight of the two of them. Jessica is boiling the kettle as she tugs out two mugs from the cupboards whilst your dad sits slumped over one of the highchairs near the counter.
His tie is loose around his neck, something you haven’t seen him do in a long time and his suit jacket is thrown carelessly over the back of the couch. He looks like he’s unravelling.
Your soft shuffling alerts them to your presence and you watch your dad swing around in an instant, eyes wild and frantic. Jessica gives you a soft smile which you return.
“Hey honey, you want some tea? Your dad just got in, and I was gonna make us a cup.” She murmurs softly. Her house isn’t very big and noise travels fast and all of you know just how light of a sleeper Jack is.
You’re nodding softly when you see your dad stand up from his seat in your peripherals. You think he must be trying to brush past you to get to the bathroom, so you move out of his way.
Neither of you have said anything to the other. You haven’t spared your dad more than a glance, too afraid of what you might see in his eyes. You know all too well how the look in someone’s eyes can haunt people.
That’s probably why you let out a small noise of surprise when you’re wrapped in someone’s arms without a moment’s notice.
Your dad’s cologne wafts through your nose, and you fight the urge to bury your nose deeper into his chest. You’re stilted and awkward. Your arms hang by your sides, you’re not sure what to do with them.
It’s been a long time since your dad has hugged you, matter of fact you can’t actually remember the last time he hugged you.
It’s nice though, you suppose. To be held. You just think that it probably would have been nice to have this when you really needed it, back in that cold, dreary cemetery just hoping your dad turned back around just one time.
“I’m so sorry,” He mutters into your hair, his arms tightening around you. You exhale noisily, like your dad is squeezing the air out of you. You don’t complain though, it’s a nice change to the cold distance between the two of you.
“I uh—it’s okay?” you say confusedly, voice still slightly muffled by his shirt fabric. Your hand reaches up limply to pat his back consolingly albeit awkwardly.
Hotch sniffles wetly, tears pricking his eyes at your tone. His heart weighs heavy in his chest. Megan Kane had been a wakeup call, so had you. He’d thought the distance was part of your grieving, that you’d needed space.
It was easier to focus on Jack. Jack, who said everything like he meant it, no filter, no apologies. You were more complicated, distant, silent and so, so sad. He couldn’t reach out to you, every trying chance felt like a failure on his part.
But he knew better, he should have tried harder. He was your dad; he was meant to be there. To hold you through the pain, ask if you were okay and cuddle you to sleep. Because you were his little girl.
You just needed someone and he let you down.
Now you’re both this. Oceans apart in the same house, miles away even when you’re in his arms. Another thing for him to add to his sad list of things he hates about himself.
He promised himself he’d be better than his dad, turns out he can be just as mean when he wants to be. Not consciously, but neglectful all the same.
“You’re a good kid you know that?” He forces himself to choke out past his sniffles. He’s bad with his emotions, but he promised himself he’d be better. Start being better. You and Jack both deserved that.
“Dad?” Your voice is hesitant. He knows you’re confused, that you probably think this is some one-off fluke that he wont talk about tomorrow. But he will.
“I love you honey,” He mutters wetly, sobbing slightly. “I love you so much. I need you to know that alright? I’m—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I know—I know you’re hurting right now—I see you okay? I need you to know that I see you, that—that I love you and I’m gonna do better by you okay? You’re my little girl; there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” He’s sniffling wetly into your hair.
Your eyes grow wet on their own accord, salt streaming down your cheeks in solidarity as you bundle closer to him. You don’t have words for him right now. It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear for so long, but you’re scared it’s been too far broken.
“I needed you…and you weren’t there,” you murmur brokenly. “It—it felt like I didn’t just lose mom that day, it felt like I lost you too,” you sob, form shaking in his hold as he tries to keep you together.
You’re slipping, you feel off axis again. Right like that moment in the cemetery, you’re off kilter.
“I’m sorry baby, I’m so sorry—you’re never gonna lose me okay? I’m right here. I’m right here, I’m so sorry honey.”
You’re both crying as he rocks you side to side. In some kind of twisted way it reminds of you the times when Hotch used to let you stand on his shoes when you were little as you both waltzed around the living room.
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader
summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.
warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.
Blood is just blood.
Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.
The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.
Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.
Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —
Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.
“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.
“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”
“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.
“Got it, Sarge!”
The engine roars.
The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.
They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.
And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.
“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”
“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”
“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.
Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.
Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.
Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.
“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.
“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.
“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.
Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.
The monitor goes off.
“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.
A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.
“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”
“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.
“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.
It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”
“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”
Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”
“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”
“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”
Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.
Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.
Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.
“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.
This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.
“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”
“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”
“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.
“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.
“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”
“Mine would be to sit and wait.”
“That’s just lazy, man.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”
They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”
“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”
“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”
“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”
The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.
And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.
“Do you ever take breaks?”
“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”
Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.
The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.
“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”
“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”
“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”
“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”
“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”
Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.
Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.
His heartbeat stutters.
But you don’t say a thing.
You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.
Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”
“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”
“Is it the beard?”
“Among other things,” you chuckle.
Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.
But you’re a natural at multitasking.
You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.
“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.
Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.
Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.
You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”
Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”
“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”
“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.
Like he is following a pull.
You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.
But for the second time, you don’t.
And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.
He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.
His tension slowly eases —
Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.
“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”
Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.
Robby first looks at you.
He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.
“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”
“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”
“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.
And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.
Levington doesn’t.
“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”
“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”
For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.
And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.
“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.
The sats drop down to 91.
“I got it,” you say in the same second.
Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.
“I’m in. Balloon up.”
The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.
“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”
But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:
“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”
That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.
The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.
Hiro’s voice booming.
“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”
Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.
Hiro gets hit.
His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.
There are two dead bodies left behind.
The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.
Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.
“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”
He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.
“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”
You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.
“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”
Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”
“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.
He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.
And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.
But why?
“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.
“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.
“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”
“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.
Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.
“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”
Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.
“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”
“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.
“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:
“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”
You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.
It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.
Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.
And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.
“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”
There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.
“Do they really?”
His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.
“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”
The room goes silent.
Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.
Correction: you aren’t fighting it.
“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”
“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”
The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.
You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.
“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”
His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.
His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.
“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”
“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”
“Shooting at people is.”
“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”
“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.
“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.
“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”
Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.
“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”
You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.
“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”
Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.
“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”
There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.
“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”
“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”
“You ever heard about self-defence?”
“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”
“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”
“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”
An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.
“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”
There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.
“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”
“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.
Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.
“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”
The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.
“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”
“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”
It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”
“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.
“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”
“They don’t —”
But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.
He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.
For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.
“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”
It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:
“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”
Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.
“Are you a therapist now too?”
“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”
“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.
You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.
Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.
“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”
Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.
Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)
He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)
Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”
Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.
“What’s the plan?”
“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.
“How soon can they take him?”
“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”
“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.
And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”
It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.
He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.
The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.
“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.
“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”
Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.
“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”
Jack can’t argue with that.
He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.
Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:
“She did get under your skin, huh?”
Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.
“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”
“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”
“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”
“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.
Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.
This time, the pain in his back lingers.
And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.
Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.
He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.
Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.
“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.
Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”
He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”
She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.
“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”
“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”
Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.
“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”
“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”
Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.
“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”
“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.
You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:
“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”
Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.
He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.
Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.
And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.
To find that you’re already looking at him.
Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:
“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”
Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.
“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.
“He’s doing alright up there?”
“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.
Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.
You don’t.
Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.
Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.
Jack goes rigid all over.
You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.
That’s not what happens.
Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.
You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.
Hoping you’ll stay for longer.
Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.
You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —
and then you’re done.
Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.
“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”
His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.
Still, he asks:
“Three what?”
“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”
You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.
His guilt stays.
He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.
It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?
Should he keep doing it?
Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”
Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”
“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”
It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”
“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”
Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:
“She’s my half-sister.”
He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.
“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.
That is one way to put it.
Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.
He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”
“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”
There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.
“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.
She flips him off on her way to the elevator.
His phone vibrates.
Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.
Levington:
You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.
The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?
Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.
So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.
Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.
He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.
It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.
The hardest will be trying to talk to you.
If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.
Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.
Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.
And somehow, he craves both.
✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?
the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).
✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune;
⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
Hiiii pilates anon!!!! Jack being sooo obsessed with reader about to head to pilates in her cute and sexy pilates outfit and Jack can’t keep his hands to himself :)))
pilates princess
jack x shy reader! | authors note: you like jack x shy! reader? find more in my masterlist <3
ANON TY FOR RE-SENDING UR REQUEST I FELT SO BAD WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED IT WHILE I WAS ON THE TRAIN
—
jack was almost finished with his charts. a long day at work soiling into his evening because he decided to catch up on some much needed charting while robby was out on his wild sabbatical.
he types away while hangers are sliding from where she stood in the closet. his one leg was stretched out across the bed while his amputated one was elevated— resting on one of the pillows she decorated their bed with.
"babe?" he questioned.
“yeah?” her voice was much quieter than his.
he checked the time on his laptop screen, “pilates today?" he asked absentmindedly.
"mhm." her voice traveled out sweetly. "so, um.. i'll be gone for about an hour." she called as she slid her alo socks on.
"mkay” he hummed as be clicked through another patient chart.
he glanced up as she walked out of closet, her hips swaying as she tied up her hair— making her way into the en-suite bathroom.
jack pressed his lips together. fingers stopped moving. he watched her walk back out and move past him like she wasn’t strutting around in her pretty little getup.
she stood in the bedroom doorway adjusting the hem of her white zip-up. her beige leggings hugged her shorter legs perfectly while her matching sports bra peeked out.
she was hyper-focused on clipping in her earrings— the new ones he had given her on her birthday last week.
she oblivious of course, to the fact that her boyfriend had closed his laptop and move to sit at the edge of the bed.
"what?" she finally said as she caught him from the corner of her eye.
he didn’t respond.
she moved to look over at him completely and he was still staring.
"w—what?" she demanded.
he blinked at her, with that signature sideways smirk making her blush deeply.
"s—stop. are you..serious?"she said timidly, looking down at herself self consciously.
"what?" he wanted to know.
"jack" she wined as he shoved the closed laptop off of his lap and stood from the bed.
"w— what are you doing?" she laughed as she slowly strode towards her, his chest puffing out making her cover her lips with her freshly manicured fingers.
he moved dangerously slow.. like he was trying hypnotize her. he bit his lip as his eyes racked down her figure, watching her grin widely and move backwards.
"jack."
"hm?"
"w—why are you looking at me like that?" she said as he placed his hands on her hips, squeezing them causing her to yelp.
"dunno." he shrugged.
"wa— yes, you do!” she laughed.
"noo” he dragged as he pulled her into his chest, his hands immediately finding their place to rest on the backs of her thighs.
"i actually don't… don’t know what to do with myself. you’re in this pretty little thing."
she laughed softly, shaking her head as he pawed at her hips.
she struggled to get out of his teasing grip. "c’mon! it’s a workout fit. i wear this all the time.”
"i know." he smiled, letting his head fall so his lips could cling onto the soft of her chest.
he trailed wet kisses around the necklace that was sprawled across her collarbone.
"so.. so why are you acting like— ah..” she gasped as he nibbled, “..like you've never seen leggings before?"
"cuz baby.. f’me these are my least favorite."
she immediately frowned. her heard dropped so far down that she gulped loudly as she placed her hands against his cheek, motioning him to look up at her.
"really?“
"i mean, they make me miss you before you've even leave." he said wiggling his brows.
she couldn't help but scoff. “oh wow, that was smooth."
"it wasn't supposed to be." he winked hands moving from her waist and up to grip her neck softly.
"jack..."
"what?" he hummed, letting the pads of his thumbs press down lightly making her eyes close. he gripped his jaw as he watched her prefect lashes flutter closed.
"i—i have to leave." she whispered.
"I know." he bent slowly, placing his lips against hers causing her to shiver in his arms as she wrapped her arms around him.
his hands falling to the small of her back while she giggled into lips.
"baby, please." she pleaded. "i have class."
"fuck class." he tutted, smacking her bum playfully.
"eep!” she yelped a “m-my instructor is going to yell at me."
"i'll apologize." he said causing her to snort.
"oh, so you'll apologize?"
"mhm." he nodded.
"you don't even know her." she fought.
“baby, i’ll figure it out." he smirked as she tried taking a step toward the door.
but was quick to follow her. his arms still wrapped around her.
"get off!" she yelped.
"i'm not on you.” he said like it was obvious, his eyebrows shooting up in mock offense.
"jack! you know what i mean!"
"i really don't, honey.”
"jack!" she yelled now.
he sighed resting his chin into her shoulders as he smiled against her hair. "i missed you today." he croaked.
"babe you've been home for forty minutes. we literally showered together when you got home." she rolled her eyes, though the smile on her face only grew. “you’re being so clingy."
"it’s fine. you like when i’m clingy." he huffed out, wrapping his arms tighter around her just to annoy her as she tried peeling one of his hands away.
“oh.. my gosh!!” she yelped out in frustration. "i need to go!"
"yeah.. i know." he sighed.
"so let me!" she galled her fists into his shirt as he moved them back towards the bed making her give him that look.
"in a minute." he smiled as the back of her legs hit the mattress.
"i swear to god" she turned in his arms just enough for him to loosen his grip. "if i miss my class because of you, i’m not gonna talk to you for the rest of the night. "
"my girl is feisty today."
she poked his chest. hard.
"they charge me if i’m a no-show."
jack's eyebrows lifted. "they do?"
"yes."
he sighed dramatically. "fine." but instead of letting her go— he leaned down and stole one quick kiss. then another. and one more for good measure.
she giggled into him before pressing a hand against his chest as he finally loosened his grip.
“bye.”
she took exactly two steps toward the bedroom door but before she could escape— his large calloused hand caught onto her arm.
she looked back her eyes in slits as she scowled at him.
jack gave her the most unapologetically sappy smile she'd ever seen.
“one more hug?”
she signed but walked right back into his arms. "you're lucky you're cute."
"oh yeah?" he hummed as she hugged him tightly for another few seconds before patting his back.
“go finish your homework." she teased, as he pulled away, pointing toward the bed.
he nodded obediently.
"and i’ll go strengthen my core." she smiled making him scoff.
she made it all the way to the bedroom door as he scoffed, “i could have done that for you.” he said making her gawk at him.
“oh my god you’re such a child!” she groaned as she made her way down the stairs. “love you!” she called as she reached for the front door.
jack peered up from reopening his laptop. "love you more."
he started out into the hallway for a minute after he typed in his code to get back onto his laptop. he read the same sentence three times before he finally, sighed and took off his glasses.
“to help her strengthen her core,” he scoffed “i’m right fuckin’ here.” he muttered to himself.
Summary: After everything with Trent, Jack asks you one question he is terrified to get wrong: was last night really about him, or was it just because he was there when everything went bad? The answer changes everything. So Jack does what Jack does best—he slows down, makes it clear, and shows you exactly what it feels like when a man means it. Dinner first. Then the kiss.
Warnings: stalking/harassment aftermath, references to previous threatening behavior, protective Jack, age gap, emotional vulnerability, first date tension, kissing, suggestive ending, Jack Abbot being devastatingly competent.
Author’s Note: This one is for everyone who wanted Jack to do this properly. The man said dinner first and unfortunately for everyone’s blood pressure, he meant it.
Xoxo, Del
| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
You woke to quiet.
Not the sharp kind. Not the waiting kind.
Just quiet.
For a second, you stayed still beneath the blanket in Jack’s guest room, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around you.
No knocking. No voices. No coffee cup outside a door.
No Trent.
Your phone sat on the nightstand beside you, still plugged into the charger that had somehow become yours without anyone saying so. The screen was dark. You reached for it anyway. No missed calls. No new texts. Nothing from the police. Nothing from Lena. Nothing from anyone.
Your breath left you slowly. It should have felt like relief. It did. Mostly. But relief was strange when it had nowhere to go. It sat in your chest beside everything else. The exhaustion. The memory of Trent’s voice in the ambulance bay. Jack’s hand closing around his wrist. Jack in the consult room, crouched in front of you, voice low and furious. “He reached for you. And I was so fucking angry.”
Your throat tightened.
Then, because apparently your brain had no interest in mercy, the kitchen came back next. Jack’s hand near your face. His fingers brushing your cheek. The soft, impossible distance between you. Fuck. The word had been quiet when he said it. Ragged. Like pulling away had hurt.
Your eyes closed. You could still feel the almost-kiss like something warm beneath your skin. Not quite pain. Not quite want. Something worse because it was both.
Across the hall, Jack’s door was still halfway open. You had checked before you fell asleep. You checked again now, turning your head toward the hallway. Still open. Halfway. Not more. Not less.
Exactly Jack.
Your face warmed before you could stop it. You rolled onto your back again and pressed both hands over your eyes. This was ridiculous. A man had tried to grab you at work less than twenty-four hours ago, security had escorted him out through the ambulance bay, and somehow, the thing making your stomach flip was Jack Abbot stopping himself from kissing you in his kitchen.
You stayed like that for another minute. Maybe two.
Then the smell of coffee reached you.
Of course.
You dropped your hands from your face and stared toward the hallway. Jack was awake. Which meant you had to leave the guest room eventually. Which meant you had to see him. Which meant you had to find out if he was going to pretend nothing had almost happened.
Your stomach twisted.
You threw the blanket back before you could talk yourself into hiding there until your next shift.
The house felt different in the early afternoon. Softer than it had last night. Less haunted by the almost-kiss and more quietly aware of it. Your bag sat near the dresser. Your scrubs were folded in the drawer. Your face wash was still in the bathroom. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. All the little signs of a temporary arrangement that had stopped looking temporary days ago. You changed into the soft clothes you had packed, brushed your teeth, washed your face, and spent entirely too long looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You looked tired. You looked like you had slept badly. You looked like someone who had almost been kissed by Jack Abbot and then had to spend the night pretending that did not matter.
You pointed at your reflection. “Get it together.”
The reflection did not look convinced.
By the time you stepped into the hallway, the coffee smell was stronger. So was the sound of movement from the kitchen. A cabinet opening. A mug being set down. The low hum of Jack moving through his own house like he had every right to be composed. You followed the sound.
Jack was at the counter with his back half-turned to you, one hand braced near the coffee maker, the other holding a mug. He was dressed in sweats and a soft shirt, his prosthetic already on, his hair slightly damp, as if he had showered. He looked normal.
Mostly.
You stopped at the edge of the kitchen. Jack noticed you immediately. His shoulders shifted once before he turned around. “Morning.”
You leaned one hip against the doorway. “Morning.”
His eyes moved over your face. Careful. Not too careful. Just enough that you knew he remembered exactly where you had both left things. Then he looked back at the coffee. “You sleep?”
You stepped farther into the kitchen. “A little.”
Jack glanced over, one brow lifting faintly. “A little?”
You gave him a look. “Enough.”
His mouth barely moved. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting before coffee,” you said.
That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. Jack turned back to the counter, picked up the mug he had made for you, and held it out. You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his.
Barely.
Not enough to mean anything. Enough that both of you noticed. Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand around the mug. Then to your mouth. Only for a second. A quick, helpless flicker of attention that he corrected almost immediately.
But you saw it. Your pulse climbed. Jack looked back at your eyes like nothing had happened, like he had not just stared at your mouth in the middle of his kitchen while handing you coffee he had made exactly the way you liked it.
You wrapped both hands around the mug. “So.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “So.”
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Worse. Aware. You took a breath, then asked, voice soft, “Are we going to talk about last night?”
Jack’s hand stilled near his own mug. For one second, nothing moved. Then his mouth barely curved. “Oh, absolutely we are.”
Your breath caught.
Jack reached for his coffee. “I just need caffeine first.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Unsteady. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug, and something in his eyes warmed at the sound. Then he took a slow sip. You crossed your arms. “Was that dramatic pause medically necessary?”
Jack lowered the mug. “For me? Yes.”
You stepped into the kitchen. “That bad?”
His gaze held yours. “I didn’t sleep much.”
Your amusement softened. “Because of Trent?”
Jack set the mug down. Quietly. Deliberately.
“No,” Jack said.
Your pulse kicked. Jack’s expression stayed steady, but his voice changed. Lower. Closer to honest.
“Because of you,” Jack said.
The words landed gently. Somehow, that made them worse. Your fingers curled against your arm. Jack looked down for half a second. “That came out wrong.”
You swallowed. “Did it?”
He was quiet. Then he looked back at you. “No,” Jack said.
The kitchen went still around you. Coffee maker. Morning light. Two mugs. The island between you. Everything ordinary and charged at once. Jack dragged one hand over the back of his neck, then dropped it like he regretted the movement. “I need to ask you something.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m going to do it badly.”
Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at your mouth. “Okay.”
Jack gave you a look. The smile stayed. His expression softened by a fraction before the nerves came back. He looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “Last night.”
Your stomach flipped. You did not look away. “Yeah?”
He breathed out through his nose. “Was that because of the night we had?”
His voice stayed low. “Because I let you stay here?”
“No,” you said again.
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Because I was there when everything went bad?”
You looked at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. Not because it was funny. Because he looked so serious. So careful. So Jack. Like he could stop a man from touching you without blinking, but could not ask whether you wanted him without looking like he was walking into a live wire.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on yours. “I’ve had a crush on you since my first day at PTMC.”
For one full second, Jack Abbot had absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. No dry answer. No correction. No quiet little cut of sarcasm to save himself. Just silence. His hand still rested on the counter beside your mug. His eyes stayed on your face. You almost smiled. Almost. Then nerves caught up, and you looked down at the island between you.
Jack’s voice came rougher. “Since your first day.”
You glanced back up. “Yes.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “You could have said something.”
You gave him a look. “My first day, you walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot.” Jack blinked. You lifted your eyebrows. “You were intimidating.”
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then he looked away like he needed a second. “It was a graze,” Jack said.
You pointed at him. “That is not the reassuring part of the story.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “It barely caught me.”
“You walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “Grazed.” You stared at him. He sighed through his nose. “Fine.”
You crossed your arms. “Fine?”
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face, softer now. “I can see how that might have made an impression.”
You huffed a small laugh. “An impression.”
His mouth curved, barely there. “Apparently.”
The smile slowly faded from your face. Not because the moment turned bad. Because it turned honest. You looked down at the counter, suddenly more nervous now that the words were out.
You exhaled slowly, “So no. Last night wasn’t because I was scared. Or because you let me stay here.”
Jack went still again.
You looked back up at him. “It’s been you for a while.”
His expression changed. Just slightly. Enough to make your chest tighten. Jack went quiet. Not the careful kind. The caught kind. You shifted under his stare. “What?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m trying to decide if telling you mine makes this better or worse.”
Your heart kicked. “Yours?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Timing.”
You forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Then he looked down, then back at you. “It wasn’t your first day.”
You tried not to let disappointment show.
Jack noticed anyway. His expression softened by a fraction. “Don’t get me wrong. I noticed you.”
You blinked. “You did?”
Jack gave you a look. “Obviously.”
Your face warmed.
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a man. With eyes.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Jack’s eyes warmed at the sound, but he kept going before you could make him regret being honest.
“But that wasn’t the problem,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “What was?”
His expression went still. “The night after the Simmons trauma.”
You searched your memory. “The kid with the crush injury?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Your chest softened. “That was a bad one.”
“It was,” Jack said.
The room quieted around the memory. Then his eyes came back to yours. “I was tired,” Jack said. “More than I wanted anyone to notice.”
You stared at him. He looked mildly annoyed by the admission, which made it feel even more honest. Jack continued, “You noticed anyway.”
You looked down. “I brought you coffee.”
“You brought me coffee,” Jack said. “And half a turkey sandwich.”
You winced. “It was a questionable sandwich.”
“It was terrible,” Jack said.
A small laugh escaped you. His expression softened. “You set both down beside me and told me to eat something before Lena started threatening me with an IV bag,” Jack said.
You pressed your lips together. “That does sound like me.”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “Then you walked away before I could thank you.”
You glanced up. “Did you want to thank me?”
Jack held your gaze. “I thought about it for three days.”
Your breath caught. He looked at you like he could still see it. The coffee. The bad sandwich. The fluorescent light. You noticed what he had not said.
Jack’s voice dropped. “That was when I knew.”
You swallowed. “Because of coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “It wasn’t the coffee.”
The words landed low in your chest. You stared at him. Jack stepped closer, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You didn’t. You asked, “Then what was it?”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “You.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack stepped around the island. Slowly. Carefully. Nervously, you realized. Jack Abbot, who could walk into a trauma bay without blinking, looked nervous standing in his own kitchen with you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your pulse climbed. His hand lifted. For one breath, you thought he was going to kiss you. For one breath, you thought he had finally stopped fighting it.
Then Jack went still. His hand hovered between you. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and focused and suddenly, devastatingly sure.
Jack said, “Alright.”
You blinked. “Alright?”
His mouth barely moved. “We’re going to do this right.”
Your pulse was still somewhere in your throat. “Do what right?”
Jack lowered his hand, not away exactly, but enough that the space between you felt deliberate. “This.”
You stared at him. “Jack.”
“I’m taking you out,” Jack said.
Your brain stalled. “Taking me out?”
His eyes did not leave yours. “On a date.”
The words landed with ridiculous force. A date. Not coffee at his kitchen counter because you were already there. Not sleeping down the hall because there was a reason no one wanted to name too closely. Not safety dressed up as convenience.
A date.
You swallowed. “You’re asking me on a date after almost kissing me?”
Jack’s expression did not change. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His mouth barely curved. “I’m aware I’m doing it out of order.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Are you?”
Jack stepped back half a pace, like distance was the only reason he was still capable of forming sentences. “I am.”
You crossed your arms because it was either that or reach for him. “Okay, so let me get this straight.”
You ignored him. “I have spent almost a week sleeping at your house.”
Jack opened his mouth. You lifted a finger. “I sang Sabrina Carpenter in your truck.”
His mouth closed. You lifted another finger. “I made you pancakes.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You lifted a third finger. “I fell asleep on your couch with your arm around me.”
His eyes darkened by a fraction. You lifted a fourth finger. “You watched Love Island with me.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Under protest.”
“You wanted resolution,” you said.
Jack looked away for half a second. You pointed at him. “Exactly.”
His eyes came back to yours, warmer now. You dropped your hand. “And after all of that, you won’t kiss me until after you’ve taken me on a date?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said, “Yes.”
You blinked. “Yes?”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His expression was steady now. Still nervous underneath it, maybe. But steady. Certain. Infuriatingly sure of himself.
Jack said, “That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Your face warmed. Your pulse was absolutely not normal anymore. “You realize that’s ridiculous.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “No.”
Your brow arched, “No?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “I’m taking you to dinner first.”
Your pulse jumped. His voice dropped. “Then I’m going to kiss you properly.”
You forgot what air was supposed to do. Your fingers curled against your arms. He held your gaze. You stared at him for a second. “Properly.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”
You swallowed. “And what does properly involve?”
His mouth barely curved. Not a smile. Worse. Something steadier. Something sure.
“You say yes,” Jack said. “I take you out. I open the door for you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“I pull out your chair,” he continued. “I sit across from you. I pay the bill.”
You crossed your arms tighter, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hands. “You pay the bill?”
Jack gave you a look. “Yes.”
Your brow furrowed, “I can pay for my own dinner.”
“I know you can,” Jack replied. You blinked. Jack’s voice stayed calm. “That’s not the point.”
Your face warmed. He stepped closer again, slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. Jack said, “The point is I asked. So I’m paying.”
Your throat went a little dry. He held your gaze.
“I walk you to your door after,” Jack said. “I don’t assume I’m coming in. I don’t make you explain what you do or don’t want. I wait.”
Your heart beat hard against your ribs. He looked at you like he wanted every word to land exactly where he put it.
“No dating app bullshit,” Jack said. “No half-effort. No making you wonder what I meant.”
The kitchen went quiet. You managed, “So you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught. His voice dropped, rougher now. “I’m showing you what it feels like when a man means it.”
For a second, you had no words at all. None. Then you breathed, “Jesus, Jack.”
His eyes warmed. Just enough. “Dinner,” Jack said.
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
His mouth curved faintly. “This is the part where you say yes.”
You stared at him for half a second. Then you laughed, unsteady and breathless. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Not much. Jack never gave much away unless he meant to. But satisfaction moved through his face like warmth. “Good,” he said.
The word should not have done anything to you. It did. You pointed at him, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
Jack reached for his coffee like he had not just rearranged your entire nervous system in his kitchen. “Like what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Like you knew I was going to say yes.”
His eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the mug. His mouth barely moved. “I hoped.”
You shook your head. “That is not what your face said.”
Jack took a sip of coffee. Slow. Unbothered. Terrible. Then he lowered the mug. “Seven.”
Your stomach flipped again. “Seven?”
Jack set the mug down. “I’ll make a reservation.”
You blinked. “You already know where?”
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
You muttered, “Of course you do.”
His brow lifted. “Problem?”
You answered too fast. “No.”
His eyes warmed. You looked away before he could see too much, which was pointless because Jack saw everything. You added, “No problem.”
Jack nodded again. “Seven works?”
You tried to sound normal. “Seven works.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Good.”
There it was again. Good. Like a hand at the back of your neck. Like a door opening. Like a promise. You pulled in a breath. “Okay.”
Jack watched you. “Okay?”
You looked toward the hallway. Your bag was still in the guest room. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. Your face wash was in the bathroom. Your clothes were folded into the drawer like they had a right to be there. Every little piece of you that had landed in Jack’s house over the last several days suddenly felt very loud.
You looked back at him. “I want to go back to my apartment.”
Jack went still. Not visibly. Not to anyone who didn’t know how to read him. But you knew. His fingers tightened once around his mug. Then they relaxed.
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Okay.”
You gave him a look. “That was very convincing.”
Jack set the mug down. “I said okay.”
You crossed your arms. “You said okay like you hated it.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t have to like it to respect it.”
Your chest softened. You hated that a little. You loved it more. Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “If you’re sure.”
You nodded. “I am.”
His eyes searched your face. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Your voice softened. “I know.”
Jack waited. You glanced down at your hands, then back at him. “But I want to get ready in my own apartment.”
His expression stayed quiet. Listening. You exhaled. “I want to pick out my own clothes and overthink everything and pretend I’m not nervous like a normal person going on a normal date.”
Jack’s expression changed at the word nervous. A little softer. A little pleased. You huffed. “Don’t look like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “Like what?”
You pointed at him. “Like me being nervous is doing something for you.”
Jack held your gaze. “It is.”
Your breath caught. He did not even have the decency to look sorry about it. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s smile deepened by half an inch. “You’ve mentioned.”
You fought your own smile. “I’m serious. I want it to feel normal.”
His amusement softened into something steadier. You continued, “I want to leave here. I want to go home. I want to get ready.”
Jack stayed quiet. You held his gaze. “And then I want you to pick me up because you asked me on a date, not because I was already sleeping down the hall.”
Jack nodded. Once. Firm. Respectful. “Okay.”
This time, he meant it differently. You exhaled. Jack’s voice gentled. “I’ll drive you home.”
You said, “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You gave him a look.
Jack gave it right back. “I’m still driving you home.”
You opened your mouth. Jack lifted one hand slightly. “And before you argue, I’m not saying that because I think you can’t take care of yourself.”
Your mouth closed. He held your gaze. “I’m saying it because I want to know you got inside safely, and because after what happened yesterday, I’m not going to pretend I’d be fine dropping you off and driving away.”
Your chest tightened. You hated how reasonable he was when he was being impossible. You sighed, “You can drive me.”
Jack nodded. “Good.”
You pointed at him again. “But you leave after.”
His brows lifted. “I know.”
You held his gaze. “I mean it.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I heard you.”
You nodded your head once, “I’m doing this properly too.”
That made him pause. His eyes moved over your face, slower now. Not assessing. Listening.
You swallowed. “You said you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s voice softened. “I am.”
You lifted your chin. “Then I get to show up for it.”
Something in his expression softened so much it made your chest ache. Jack’s voice came quieter. “Yeah.”
The kitchen went still again. Then his mouth barely moved.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You do.”
Your pulse climbed. For a second, neither of you looked away. Then Jack reached for his coffee and cleared his throat like a man saving himself from saying too much before noon.
“Seven,” he said.
You smiled. “Seven.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll pick you up at your door.”
You tilted your head. “At my door?”
His eyes warmed. “That is generally where picking someone up happens.”
You laughed. Jack looked pleased with himself. Smug, maybe. Hot, definitely. You hated him a little for it. You liked him a lot more. You rolled your eyes, “Fine. My door. Seven.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll be there.”
Your stomach flipped. You believed him. That was the problem.
You believed every single word.
The drive to your apartment was quieter than the drive to Jack’s had been the night before. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your bag sat by your feet, your hands rested in your lap, and Jack kept one hand on the wheel with the kind of focus that made you suspect he was concentrating very hard on not saying at least six things.
You looked over at him. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the road. “I’m trying not to talk you out of something I already agreed to respect.”
Your chest softened. You looked out the windshield, watching the familiar streets pass by in the afternoon light. “I’m sure.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You glanced at him. “You hate it.”
His jaw shifted once. “I don’t hate that you want to go home.”
You waited.
Jack turned onto your street. “I hate why it feels complicated.”
That landed softly. You looked down at your hands. “I do too.”
Jack pulled up outside your building, put the truck in park, and cut the engine. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he looked at you. “Do you want me to check inside?”
You swallowed. Part of you wanted to say no just to prove you could. Part of you wanted to say no because you hated that the question had to exist. But Jack did not rush you. He did not reach for your bag. He did not open his door. He just waited.
You breathed in through your nose. “Yes.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
He got out first, came around to your side, and opened your door before you could reach for the handle. You looked at him. Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m practicing.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. “For tonight?”
His eyes warmed. “For tonight.”
The laugh stayed with you as you grabbed your bag and stepped out. It helped. A little. Jack walked beside you into the building, close enough to be there, not close enough to crowd. At your door, he waited while you unlocked it. The click of the lock sounded too loud. You pushed the door open, then stopped.
Jack’s voice was quiet behind you. “Stay here.” You looked back at him. He lifted one hand slightly. “Only if you want me to check.”
You nodded. “I do.”
Jack stepped in first. Not like he owned the place. Not like Trent, who had decided knowing where you lived meant he had a right to be there. Jack moved like someone who understood the difference. He checked the living room first, then the kitchen. He looked at the windows, the lock on the balcony door, the hallway, the bathroom, and your bedroom. He did it without making a show of it. Without touching anything he didn’t need to touch. Without making your apartment feel like evidence.
You stood just inside the doorway and watched him move through your space with careful restraint. When he came back down the hall, his expression was calm. “You’re clear.”
You exhaled. You had not realized you were holding your breath until then. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Of course.”
He stopped a few feet from you. The door was still open behind you. The hallway waited. The whole afternoon seemed to hold itself still.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay.”
Jack’s eyes searched your face. “Okay?”
You lifted your chin. “You have to go now.”
His mouth barely curved. “I know.”
“I mean it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said again.
The fact that he did know made something in your chest ache. He did not argue. He did not linger by pretending he needed to check another lock. He did not make you comfort him for leaving. He just stepped toward the doorway. Then he paused.
Jack looked back at you. “Call me if anything feels off.”
Your voice softened. “I will.”
“I mean anything,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “Jack.”
His expression did not change. “A noise. A text. A weird feeling. Anything.”
You nodded. “I will.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll come back.”
Your chest tightened. There was no hesitation in his voice. No performance. Just fact. You swallowed. “I know.”
His eyes softened. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. For a second, you wanted him to. Then Jack glanced down the hall, exhaled through his nose, and stepped fully into the doorway.
Jack looked back at you. “Lock this behind me.”
You leaned against the edge of the open door. “I was going to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You studied his face. “You’re very calm for someone who hates leaving.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t hate leaving.”
You lifted your brows. Jack looked at you for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose. “I hate wanting to stay.”
Your fingers tightened on the door. Jack held your gaze, steady and quiet and too honest for the narrow space between you. Then he stepped back. Because you told him to. Because he meant it. Because this was him showing you how this went.
You swallowed. “Jack?”
He paused in the hallway. “Yeah?”
You let your eyes drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him. “For the record, I’m going to want you to kiss me after dinner.”
Jack froze. Completely.
For one perfect second, he had nothing. No dry answer. No careful correction. No controlled, competent, infuriatingly composed response.
Nothing.
You smiled. Small. Sweet. Terrible.
“Seven,” you said.
Then you closed the door in his face.
For one second, you stood there with your hand still on the knob, heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Then, from the hallway, Jack exhaled. A low, disbelieving sound. Almost a laugh. Almost a curse. You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling too hard.
Jack’s voice came through the door, rough and amused. “Lock it.”
You laughed under your breath and turned the deadbolt. The lock slid into place. Jack stayed there for another second. You could feel him on the other side of the door. Then his footsteps moved away down the hall. Slow. Measured. Like a man doing exactly what he promised. Like a man who had just had his own rules used against him. Like a man who would be back at seven.
Then the apartment went quiet. Really quiet. For the first time in days, the silence did not feel like a warning. It felt like yours. You checked the lock once. Then the windows. Then the hallway, even though Jack had already checked it, because this was your apartment and you needed your hands to believe what your head was trying to tell you.
Everything was where it should be. Your blanket was still on your bed. Your book was still facedown on your nightstand, abandoned mid-chapter. Your water glass sat beside it. Your apartment was still yours.
The thought settled something in you.
So you changed into something soft, set an alarm, and climbed into your own bed for the first time in days. You expected to lie there awake. You expected every sound in the hallway to pull you back to the surface. You expected your mind to circle the rose on your windshield, the coffee outside your door, Trent’s hand reaching for your arm in the ambulance bay.
But your body was tired. Your bed was familiar. Your door was locked. And Jack had left when you told him to. Sleep found you easier than you thought it would.
When you woke, the light had shifted across the room, warm and low, and for a second you stayed still beneath the covers, letting yourself feel it. Home. Your own sheets. Your own walls. Your own quiet. Then your alarm went off. Seven. Jack. Dinner. Your stomach flipped so hard you sat up too fast.
“Oh my God,” you whispered to the empty room.
Then you remembered Jack standing in your doorway. ‘I hate wanting to stay.’
Then you remembered his voice in the kitchen. ‘I’m taking you to dinner first. Then I’m going to kiss you properly.’
Your face warmed. Slowly, deliberately, you got out of bed. This was not throwing yourself together before a shift. This was not scrubs, badge reels, and coffee in a travel mug. This was not survival. This was getting ready. For Jack. And if Jack Abbot wanted to be noble and gentlemanly and devastatingly patient, then fine. Fine. You could be patient too.
You showered. You took your time. You moved through your apartment with more intention than you wanted to admit. The soft black sweater came first. It slipped just enough off one shoulder to feel dangerous without looking like you had tried too hard. Then the jeans. Then the black ankle boots were waiting by the door. Then gold earrings, because apparently you had decided to be cruel.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. It was not too much. It was not casual. It was exactly the kind of outfit a woman wore when a man had decided he was going to be noble about kissing her, and she had decided to make that as difficult for him as possible.
A smile pulled at your mouth. Small. Terrible. Absolutely unhelpful. You made one final adjustment, then checked the time. 6:57.
Your pulse jumped. Three minutes. You stared at the clock like glaring at it would make you calmer. It did not. At 6:59, you gave up pretending you were not listening for him.
At exactly seven, there was a knock at your door. Not a text. Not headlights through the window. A knock.
Because Jack Abbot, apparently, meant every word.
You let yourself take one breath. Then another. Then you walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Jack stood in the hallway. And for one perfect second, neither of you said anything. He was dressed for dinner. Dark jacket. Clean shirt. Good jeans. Watch at his wrist. Simple. Grown. Devastating in a way that made you briefly resent every man who had ever owned a graphic tee. But that was not what made your breath catch.
In one hand, Jack held a small bouquet.
Not roses. Nothing red.
Daisies, baby’s breath, and soft pastel blooms wrapped in plain paper.
Your eyes moved from the flowers to his face. Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I almost didn’t bring them.”
Your hand stayed on the door. “Because of the rose?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest softened. He held the bouquet out, but not too far. Not forcing it into your hands. Just offering. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I didn’t want him to ruin that for you.”
For a second, you could not quite speak. Then you reached for the bouquet. The paper crinkled softly beneath your fingers. Small white petals. Pale yellow centers. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath. Nothing sharp. Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
Just flowers.
Given at your door by a man who had asked first. You looked down at them, then back up at him. “Thank you.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You’re welcome.”
You glanced over your shoulder into the apartment. “Come in for a second?”
Jack went still. Only slightly. Only enough for you to notice.
You lifted the bouquet. “I want to put these in water.”
His eyes held yours for one beat too long. Then Jack nodded. “Okay.”
You stepped back to let him in. He crossed the threshold carefully, like he remembered exactly what it meant to be invited this time. Not to check the windows. Not to make sure you were safe.
Just because you had asked him to come in.
You moved into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Jack stayed near the edge of the room, hands at his sides, watching you like he was trying very hard to behave in a space where you had just let him back in. You found a glass vase, filled it at the sink, and set the flowers inside.
They looked soft there. Sweet.
You adjusted one of the daisies with your fingertip. “There.”
Jack’s voice came from behind you. “Looks good.”
You turned. He was not looking at the flowers anymore. He was looking at you. This time, really looking. The sweater. The jeans. The black ankle boots. The gold earrings. The fact that you had gotten ready with purpose. His jaw shifted once.
You leaned back against the counter and tried very hard not to smile. “You’re staring.”
Jack’s eyes came back to yours. “I know.”
Your stomach flipped. He cleared his throat. It did not help. His voice came lower than usual. “You are beautiful.”
The words landed softly. No performance. No app-boy exaggeration. No hungry, careless line meant to see what it could get him.
Just Jack.
Standing in your kitchen at seven because you invited him in, with flowers on your counter and restraint written all over his face.
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. For a second, neither of you moved. The space between you felt smaller than it had a moment ago. Warmer. Louder. You could have stepped forward. He could have too.
You both knew it.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Then he looked away, just enough to pull himself back. Your pulse kicked. He breathed out through his nose, almost like he was annoyed with himself. You tilted your head. “Still doing this properly?”
Jack looked back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Trying.”
The single word did terrible things to your nervous system. You smiled, slow and entirely unhelpful. “Is it hard?”
Jack held your gaze. His voice came rougher. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled against the edge of the counter. His eyes darkened by a fraction, but he did not move closer. He stayed exactly where he was. Because dinner came first. Because he had said it would. Because apparently Jack Abbot’s self-control was both the hottest and most infuriating thing you had ever seen.
You pushed off the counter before you could do something stupid. “Then we should probably go.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Probably.”
You stepped toward him, bouquet behind you on the counter, door behind him, dinner waiting somewhere outside this apartment. Jack offered his hand. Not demanding. Not assuming.
Just there.
You looked at his hand. Then at him. Then you took it. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady. You pulled the apartment door shut behind you and locked it.
Jack waited.
When you turned back, his thumb moved once over your knuckles. Barely there. Enough.
“Ready?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him. The flowers were in water. Your door was locked. Dinner came first. After dinner, he was going to kiss you properly.
You smiled. “I’m ready.”
Jack’s eyes held yours for one charged second. Then he opened the door to the stairwell for you. Because of course he did.
At his truck, Jack opened the passenger door for you. You paused and looked at him over the roofline. “Still practicing?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No.”
You lifted your brows. His eyes stayed on yours. “This part counts.”
Your stomach flipped. You climbed in before your face could give you away. Jack closed the door gently, came around to the driver’s side, and got in beside you. The cab felt different tonight. Same truck. Same seats. Same faint smell of coffee and whatever clean soap Jack used.
But different.
Jack started the engine, then glanced at you. You settled back against the seat and watched him pull away from the curb. “So where are you taking me?”
His eyes stayed on the road. “Dinner.”
You turned your head slowly. “That was very informative.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I thought so.”
You sighed, “Jack.”
“Italian place,” he said. “Quiet. Good food. You’ll like it.”
You looked at his profile in the passing streetlights. “You sound very sure.”
Jack glanced over. “I am.”
Your stomach did something embarrassing. You looked forward again. For half a minute, neither of you spoke. Then your hand drifted toward the radio.
Jack noticed immediately. His voice came calm and dry. “For the sake of my self-control, do not put on Sabrina Carpenter.”
Your hand froze. Then you looked at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You heard me.”
You settled back in your seat, fighting a smile. “I sang.”
Jack nodded once. “You did.”
He glanced at you for half a second, then said, completely deadpan, “Something about coming right on you.”
Your mouth fell open.
Jack looked back at the road. “I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon.”
Heat rushed up your neck. “Jack.”
He looked over. “What?”
You stared at his profile. “You cannot just say that like you’re reading discharge instructions.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed, helplessly, and Jack’s eyes softened before he could hide it. Then his gaze dropped briefly to the line of your sweater, the bare angle of your shoulder, the place where black knit slipped just enough to make his self-control look increasingly theoretical. He looked back at the road. Quickly.
Very quickly.
You smiled to yourself. “So no Sabrina.”
“Not tonight,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Because dinner comes first?”
His fingers tightened once on the steering wheel. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“Because dinner comes first,” he agreed.
The words settled between you. Warm. Promising. Absolutely not helping either of you behave.
You leaned back in the seat and let him drive.
The restaurant was tucked on a quiet corner a few neighborhoods over, the kind of place you would have walked past twice before realizing it was there. No neon sign. No crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. Just warm light in the windows, dark wood around the door, and the low, inviting hum of conversation inside. Jack pulled into a spot along the curb and put the truck in park.
You looked out the windshield. “This is very nice.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “That was the idea.”
You glanced at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack turned off the engine and looked over at you. “Yes.”
The answer came too easily. Too honestly. Your stomach flipped. You reached for your seatbelt, mostly because you needed to do something with your hands. Jack was out of the truck before you could open your door.
Of course he was.
By the time you reached for the handle, he was already there, opening it from the outside.
You looked up at him. “You’re serious about every single part of this.”
Jack held the door and offered his hand. “I told you I was.”
You took his hand. His palm was warm against yours, his grip steady as you stepped down from the truck. He did not let go immediately. Neither did you. For one breath, you stood there on the sidewalk, close enough to see the slight shift in his jaw when his eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then he looked back at your eyes. Dinner first. You could practically hear him thinking it. You smiled.
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “What?”
You squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Nothing.”
His mouth barely curved. “That was not nothing.”
You started toward the restaurant door. “You’re very suspicious.”
Jack stepped ahead of you just enough to open the door. “I have reason to be.”
You paused beside him. “Do you?”
His eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low. Warm. Promising. Then Jack opened the door and let you go inside first. The restaurant smelled like garlic, warm bread, tomato sauce, and something rich enough to make your stomach remember you had not eaten anything real since Jack’s kitchen. Low lights glowed over small tables. Framed black-and-white photos lined the walls. Somewhere farther back, someone laughed quietly over the soft clink of silverware.
It was not flashy.
It was not trying too hard.
It was exactly the kind of place Jack would choose because the food was good, the tables were not six inches apart, and no one had to shout to be heard.
The hostess looked up from her stand with a smile. “Two?”
Jack stepped beside you. “Reservation for Abbot.”
Your heart did something ridiculous at the sound of it. Reservation.
The hostess checked the list, then smiled. “Right this way.”
Jack’s hand came to the small of your back. Light. Brief. Barely there. Still enough to make your entire body notice. He guided you through the restaurant without crowding you, his touch disappearing before you could decide whether you wanted to lean into it. That was the worst part. He kept doing things properly.
He kept making it hotter.
The hostess led you to a small booth near the back, tucked against the wall beneath a warm pendant light. Quiet. Private without feeling hidden. Jack waited until you slid in before taking the seat across from you. You watched him settle in, jacket falling open, sleeves neat at his wrists, watch catching the light when he reached for the menu.
He looked infuriatingly comfortable here.
Not relaxed, exactly. Jack was too aware of you for relaxed. But composed. Capable. Date Jack, apparently, did not fumble. Date Jack had reservations. Date Jack opened doors. Date Jack looked at you across warm light like he was absolutely aware he was making a point.
You picked up your menu. “You’ve been here before.”
Jack glanced over the top of his menu. “A few times.”
You looked at him over yours. “With dates?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You regretted the question immediately. Not because you did not want to know. Because you did.
Jack studied you for one second too long. “Not like this.”
Your fingers tightened around the menu. You looked down. “That was a very good answer.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “It was true.”
That was worse.
The server came by with water and a basket of bread, saving you from whatever your face was doing. Jack ordered calmly, politely, with the kind of easy competence that made you realize he probably knew how to be kind to service staff even when he was exhausted. When the server left, Jack reached for the bread basket and offered it to you first. You stared at him.
His brow lifted. “What?”
You took a piece of bread. “Nothing.”
Jack set the basket down. “You keep saying that.”
You pointed the bread at him. “You keep doing things.”
His mouth barely curved. “That is generally how dates work.”
You shook your head. “No. This is different.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “Different how?”
You looked around the restaurant, then back at him. “You have a reservation. You opened every door. You offered me bread first.”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “I’m a monster.”
You laughed before you could stop it. His eyes warmed. That warmth always did something to you. It made him look less untouchable. Less attending. Less controlled. More like the man who had slept on his own couch so you would not feel alone. The man who made coffee the way you liked it. The man who almost kissed you and stopped because he wanted the wanting to mean something clean.
You tore off a piece of bread and looked down at it. “I’m not used to it.”
Jack went quiet. When you looked up, his expression had shifted. Not sad. Not pitying. Just attentive in that way that made it impossible to hide behind jokes for long.
His voice softened. “Used to what?”
You tried to shrug. “This.” Jack waited. You huffed a small breath. “Effort.”
His jaw shifted once. You looked down at the bread again, suddenly wishing you had said something easier. “That sounded depressing.”
Jack’s answer came quietly. “It sounded honest.”
Your eyes lifted to his. He held your gaze across the table. “There’s a difference.”
Your chest tightened. For a second, the restaurant blurred around the edges. Warm lights. Low voices. Jack’s hands resting near his water glass. His attention fixed on you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
You swallowed. “You’re very good at this.”
His mouth barely moved. “Dinner?”
You gave him a look. “Making it impossible to stay normal.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then back up. “Good.”
Your pulse kicked. You sat back. “You’re getting smug.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re smug about it.”
Jack took a sip, then lowered the glass. “Yes.”
You stared at him. He looked back like he had no intention of apologizing. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You keep saying that too.”
You leaned slightly forward. “Because it keeps being true.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You okay?”
The question was soft. So soft it almost undid you. You blinked. “Yeah.”
Jack studied your face. “Really?”
You looked around the restaurant again. At the warm light on the table. At the bread basket between you. At the door he had opened. At the man across from you who had asked, waited, listened, left, returned, and brought flowers that were not red because he remembered exactly what had hurt.
You looked back at him. “Really.”
His expression eased. Just a little. You smiled. “I’m nervous.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
You narrowed yours. “You like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “I do.”
You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, forearms resting near the edge of the table. “Because this is the kind of nervous you should have had.”
Your throat tightened. He held your gaze. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Not scared. Not bracing. Not wondering if I’ll listen.”
You breathed in slowly.
He continued, “Just nervous because you want it to go well.”
The words settled somewhere deep. You looked down before he could see too much. Too late, probably. Always too late with Jack.
You reached for your water and took a sip. “You are way too good at saying devastating things over bread.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’ll try to pace myself.”
You set your glass down. “You won’t.”
“No,” Jack said. “Probably not.”
The server returned to take your order, and Jack looked to you first. You ordered, and he listened like even your pasta choice mattered. Then he ordered his own, added an appetizer for the table, and handed the menus back.
When the server left again, you looked at him. “You ordered an appetizer.”
Jack picked up his water. His eyes flicked to yours. “You like bruschetta.”
You blinked. He took a drink. You stared at him. “How do you know that?”
Jack set his glass down. “You stole half of Lena’s in the break room two weeks ago.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Jack looked pleased. Not obviously. But enough.
You pointed at him. “That is unsettling.”
His mouth barely curved. “It was observational.”
You shook your head. “That’s worse.”
His eyes warmed. “You liked it.”
You leaned back. “The bruschetta?”
Jack held your gaze. “That I noticed.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the table.
Jack’s voice softened, just a little. “I notice you.”
Your fingers curled around your napkin. That was the thing about Jack. He did not need to say very much. He just had to say it like that. Like it was simple. Like it had been true for longer than you knew.
You lifted your eyes back to his. “I’m starting to understand why dinner had to come first.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You’re making a very strong case for yourself.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Good.”
There it was again. Low. Certain. Dangerous.
You leaned forward just enough to lower your voice. “Careful, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Across the little table, between the candle and the bread and all the manners he had armed himself with, Jack looked at you like dinner was the only thing standing between him and the rest of the night.
His voice came quiet. Rougher. “I am being careful.”
Your breath caught.
Jack held your gaze. Then he added, “That’s the problem.”
The appetizer arrived then, and you had never been more personally offended by bruschetta in your life. Jack leaned back as the server set the plate between you, the corner of his mouth barely moving like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
You waited until the server walked away before looking at him. “Saved by tomatoes.”
Jack reached for one of the pieces. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”
You picked up your own piece. “No?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “No.”
The word landed too low for something said over toasted bread. You looked down at your plate because looking at him directly felt like a mistake. “You’re very comfortable making dinner dangerous.”
Jack took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “You started it.”
You looked back up. “Me?”
His brow lifted. “The door.”
Your face warmed. Of course he was going to bring that up. You set the bruschetta down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jack’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “You closed a door in my face after telling me you were going to want me to kiss you.”
You pressed your lips together.
His mouth barely curved. “That was not subtle.”
You picked up your water. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
Jack’s eyes darkened by a fraction. For one second, the table felt too small again. Then he looked down at the plate between you and reached for another piece like he was choosing survival. You smiled into your glass. Dinner, apparently, was going to require discipline from both of you.
The conversation softened after that. Not cooled. Never cooled. But softened. You asked him how he found the restaurant, and Jack told you Robby had recommended it years ago after declaring Jack’s takeout habits “a cry for help.” You laughed so hard Jack’s eyes warmed over his water glass, and he admitted, under pressure, that Robby had not been entirely wrong.
Jack asked about the book on your nightstand, the one he had noticed facedown earlier when he checked your apartment. You accused him of snooping.
Jack shook his head. “I was checking windows.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And judging my bookmark habits?”
His mouth barely moved. “A little.”
You pointed a piece of bread at him. “I knew it.”
Jack leaned back. “You abandoned it facedown. The spine didn’t deserve that.”
You stared at him. “I’m sorry, are you defending the structural integrity of my paperback?”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “Someone has to.”
You laughed again, easier this time. Normal. That was the dangerous part. Not the flirting. Not the way his eyes occasionally dropped to your mouth and came back like he was punishing himself.
The normalcy.
The fact that dinner with Jack felt less like performing for someone and more like stepping into something that had already made room for you.
The entrees came out hot and fragrant, and Jack moved your water glass slightly to make more room before the server set your plate down. Small. Automatic. Infuriating. You looked at him after the server left. “You know, the worst part is that I don’t think you’re even trying.”
Jack glanced up from his plate. “Trying to do what?”
You gestured at him with your fork. “All of this.”
His brow lifted faintly. “Be decent?”
“Be devastating,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Jack went still. Only for a second. But you caught it. His eyes lifted to yours, focused and quiet.
Your face warmed.
His voice came lower. “For what it’s worth, I’m trying very hard.”
Your fork paused. You looked back up. Jack held your gaze across the table. “Just not at being decent.”
Your stomach flipped. The restaurant kept moving around you. Forks against plates. Low conversation. Someone laughing two tables over. But none of it seemed to reach the little booth beneath the warm light.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
His jaw shifted once. “I know.”
You breathed out slowly. “Do you?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, voice quiet enough that it belonged only to you. “Yes.”
Your fingers tightened around your fork. He held your gaze. “Dinner first.”
You hated him. You absolutely did. You smiled despite yourself. “You’re saying that to yourself more than me.”
Jack looked down at his plate for half a second. Then back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Yes.”
A laugh broke out of you, soft and helpless. Jack’s expression warmed, and for a few minutes, the pressure eased again. You ate. You talked. You found out Jack was opinionated about restaurant lighting, hated QR code menus with the passion of a man personally betrayed by technology, and had once gotten into an argument with Robby over whether a salad counted as dinner.
You said, “It depends on the salad.”
Jack looked personally disappointed. “No.”
You laughed. “What do you mean, no?”
Jack set his fork down. “A salad can be part of dinner. It is not dinner.”
You leaned back in the booth. “That is such a fifty-year-old man opinion.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “Careful.”
You smiled. “What? You are.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You tilted your head. “Does it bother you when I say it?”
His hand stilled around the glass. Not long. Just enough. Then he looked at you. “No.”
You studied him. “No?”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “No.”
Something in your chest softened at the quiet honesty in it. You set your fork down. “Good.”
His eyes warmed. You smiled a little. “I like that you’re older.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You leaned forward, just enough to lower your voice. “I like that you know what you’re doing.”
The air changed. Instantly. Jack’s eyes went still. The kind of still that told you every word had landed. You watched his hand tighten once around his water glass before he released it.
Then he looked at you across the table, voice low and controlled. “You need to be careful with that one.”
Your pulse jumped. You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Because I’m trying to get you through dinner.”
Your breath caught. There it was. Not the gentlemanly version. Not the polished date version. The man underneath all that restraint, showing through for half a second.
You sat back slowly. Not retreating. Just giving yourself room to breathe. Jack watched you do it, eyes dark and attentive and still somehow patient. You reached for your wine glass, then seemed to remember you had ordered water, which was honestly rude of reality.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly. “You okay?”
You glared at him. “No.”
His eyes warmed. “Good.”
You pointed at him. “That one sounded smug.”
Jack picked up his fork again. “I know.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling. And when he smiled back, small and real and almost private, you felt the whole shape of the night shift under your ribs. Dinner first. Then the door.
Then the kiss.
And maybe, if you were both very lucky and Jack stopped being so infuriatingly noble, more than that.
By the time the plates were cleared, you had learned three things. Jack hated QR code menus. Jack believed salad was a supporting character, not a meal. And Jack Abbot, when he was trying very hard to behave, was almost impossible to survive.
The server came by with the dessert menu tucked against her apron. “Can I interest you two in dessert?”
Jack looked at you first. The server smiled politely, waiting. You glanced at the menu in her hand, then back at Jack. “Are we dessert people?”
Jack’s brow lifted faintly. “We?”
Your face warmed. The word had slipped out before you could stop it. His mouth barely curved, but he did not make you suffer for it. He looked at the server. “What’s good?”
The server’s face brightened. “The tiramisu is probably our most popular. The lemon cake is great too.”
Jack looked back at you. “Tiramisu?”
You tried to sound casual. “I could be convinced.”
His eyes warmed. “That means yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re getting very comfortable interpreting me.”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “You’re not subtle when you want something.”
You stared at him. The server laughed under her breath. Traitor.
Jack ordered the tiramisu with two forks, then handed the dessert menu back like he had not just exposed you in public.
When the server walked away, you leaned across the table slightly. “That was rude.”
Jack leaned back in the booth. “That was efficient.”
“You called me out in front of a witness,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “She already knew.”
You sat back. “Unbelievable.”
Jack reached for his water. “You still want the tiramisu.”
You looked away. Jack’s expression went deeply smug.
You pointed at him without looking back. “Do not say it.”
His voice came low and amused. “Good.”
Your head snapped back toward him. “Jack.”
His eyes warmed over the rim of his glass. He was enjoying himself. That should not have made you want him more. It did.
The tiramisu arrived a few minutes later, soft and dusted with cocoa, two forks laid neatly beside the plate. Jack slid one fork toward you before taking his own.
You took a bite. Then your eyes closed. The sound you made was small. Soft. Completely involuntary.
Across the table, Jack went still.
You opened your eyes. He was watching you. Not the dessert. You. His gaze had dropped to your mouth, fixed there for one charged second before he dragged it back to your eyes.
You swallowed slowly. “What?”
His eyes stayed on yours, darker now. “You made a sound.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the plate. “It’s good.”
Jack did not look at the plate. “I gathered.”
The low, dry edge in his voice did something dangerous to your spine. You picked up another bite, mostly because if you looked at him too long, you were going to forget you were in public. The mascarpone was soft on your tongue, sweet and rich, and you tried very hard to have a normal reaction to dessert.
You failed.
Jack watched the fork leave your mouth. Careful. Quiet. Not moving. But watching. You felt the weight of his restraint from across the table. Then a little mascarpone caught on your finger when you adjusted the edge of the dessert with your fork.
You glanced down. You could have used your napkin. You should have used your napkin. Instead, you lifted your finger to your mouth and licked it clean.
Jack’s hand tightened once around his water glass. Just once. But you saw it.
His voice came lower. “That’s not fair.”
Your pulse jumped. You set your hand back in your lap and tried to look innocent. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours across the table. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
His jaw worked once. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, like he knew he should not and was doing it anyway.
“You know what,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped. For a second, neither of you moved. The restaurant carried on around you. Low voices. Silverware. A server laughing near the bar. The little candle on the table flickered between you like it had no idea what kind of damage was being done over dessert. Jack leaned back slightly, like distance was the only thing keeping him civil.
His voice came rougher. “Dinner first.”
You looked at the space where the empty dinner plates sat before the server had cleared them. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner is done,” you said.
Jack went very still. The words landed between you. Not loud. Not dramatic. Worse. True. His eyes held yours for one long second. Then his mouth barely curved.
“Dessert counts,” Jack said.
You huffed a laugh, but your pulse was not funny anymore. “That is very convenient for you.”
Jack picked up his fork. You watched his hand. The way his fingers curled around the handle. The way his wrist shifted. The way he took a bite like he was doing something normal, like there was anything normal about sitting across from him while he delayed kissing you on a technicality.
He looked at you as he pulled the fork from his mouth. Slowly enough to ruin you. Not exaggerated. Not obscene.
Just Jack.
Controlled. Aware. Completely unfair. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His eyes warmed.
Jack set the fork down with deliberate care. “See?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “See what?”
His mouth barely moved. “Not so easy from that side of the table.”
Your fingers tightened around your napkin. You looked down, because apparently dessert had become a public safety hazard.
Jack’s voice softened, but it did not get safer. “Sweetheart.”
Your eyes lifted. He held your gaze.
“Dessert,” Jack said.
You stared at him. Then you took one more careful bite, just to be cruel. Jack watched you do it. Then he exhaled through his nose and reached for the check the second the server passed close enough to flag down.
You watched him do it. “That was fast.”
Jack slid his card into the folder without looking at the total. “Necessary.”
Your pulse was still doing something deeply unhelpful. “Necessary?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “If we stay here much longer, I’m going to forget why dinner had to come first.”
Your breath caught.
Jack looked back down at the check like he had not just pulled all the air out of the booth. The server returned, took the folder, and left again. Jack waited. Composed on the outside.
Not composed at all underneath.
You could see it now. The little restraint lines. The way his fingers rested too still near his water glass. The way his gaze kept touching your mouth and pulling away. He really was trying.
That was the problem.
The server came back with his card and the receipt. Jack signed, added the tip, and closed the folder. You watched him. “You didn’t even let me pretend to argue.”
Jack stood and held out his hand. “No.”
You looked up at him. “No?”
His mouth barely curved. “I told you I was paying.”
You took his hand and slid out of the booth. “You’re very committed to the bit.”
Jack helped you to your feet. “It’s not a bit.”
The words were quiet. Simple. They hit harder because of it. You stood close to him for one second too long. Close enough to smell his soap. Close enough to see the little flicker in his eyes when you did not immediately step back.
Then Jack reached for your bag, giving his hands something ordinary to do. You let him. Because he was doing this properly. Because you wanted him to. Because every gentlemanly thing he did made you think about what would happen when he finally stopped being one.
Jack guided you toward the front with one hand at the small of your back.
Light. Brief. Controlled.
The restaurant door opened into cool evening air, and you stepped out ahead of him, breath catching slightly at the change.
Jack followed, the warmth of him close behind you. For a second, both of you stood on the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s low light.
Jack looked down at you. “Cold?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His eyes held yours. “You sure?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”
Jack did not move. Neither did you. The street was quiet around you. A car passed at the corner. Somewhere behind the restaurant door, silverware clinked against plates.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
This time, he let it stay there a second longer.
Your pulse jumped. Then he looked back at your eyes.
His voice came low. “Truck.”
A small laugh escaped you. “That sounded like an order.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It was a survival tactic.”
You turned toward the curb before your knees could do something embarrassing.
Jack walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, not close enough to touch. The restraint of it made your skin feel too warm for the evening air.
The truck waited at the curb beneath the low spill of restaurant light.
Your boots sounded against the sidewalk. Jack’s steps stayed steady beside yours. Every foot between the restaurant door and the passenger side felt longer than it should have.
Dinner was over. Dessert was over. The check was paid. He had opened every door. He had remembered what you liked and waited and watched and behaved until the word barely had any meaning left. He had done exactly what he said he was going to do.
Properly.
You reached the passenger side of the truck, but before Jack could move around you and open the door, you turned.
He stopped immediately.
You leaned back against the passenger door and looked up at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “What?”
Your pulse kicked at the sound of his voice. Low. Careful. Too controlled. You let your gaze drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner’s over, Jack,” you said.
For one second, he went completely still. Not confused. Not hesitant. Still like every disciplined thing in him had just been given permission to stand down. Then he moved.
Jack surged forward and kissed you.
No careful almost. No polite first-date brush of his mouth. No hovering hand, no tortured pause, no quiet fuck before he pulled away. He kissed you like he had been waiting all day to do it and every second of restraint had cost him something.
Your breath caught against his mouth.
Jack’s hand came to your jaw, firm and warm, angling your face up as his other hand found your hip. He pressed you back into the truck door, not hard enough to hurt, just enough that you felt the solid line of him in front of you and the cold metal at your back.
You made a small sound into his mouth.
Jack’s fingers tightened at your hip.
The kiss changed.
Deepened. Went hotter. Hungrier. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of control that felt more dangerous than losing it would have. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly when to slow down. Exactly how to make you chase him for more.
So you did.
Your hand fisted in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and Jack went with you on a rough breath. The sound he made was quiet. Almost nothing. It still ruined you.
His thumb brushed along your jaw, steadying you while his mouth did the opposite. Warm, firm, devastatingly sure. He kissed like he had meant every word at dinner. Like this was not a question anymore. Like he had asked, waited, paid attention, walked you out, and now he was finally letting you feel what all that restraint had been holding back.
Your knees went unreliable.
Jack felt it.
His hand at your hip slid more securely around you, anchoring you against the truck and him at the same time.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. Not enough to move away. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the quiet drag of his breathing. Feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. Feel his thumb still resting at your jaw like he had forgotten how to let go.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours again. Barely. A warning. A promise.
You tightened your fingers in the front of his jacket and kissed him once more. Slow. Deep. Enough to feel the way his control frayed when you pulled him back in.
Jack made a rough sound against your mouth, and his hand flexed at your hip.
You broke the kiss first.
Jack followed you half an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened slowly, dark and fixed on yours. You swallowed, breathless.
Then you said, “Take me home, Jack.”
Jack went still.
For one second, the street disappeared.
The restaurant. The truck. The cold air. All of it.
His hand stayed at your hip. His thumb stayed near your jaw. You watched the words land. Watched him understand exactly what you meant. Watched the last of his gentlemanly restraint fight for its life. Then Jack reached behind you to open the passenger door.
