c-grant

[c-grant]

I'm having babies with the flips and the moustache 🫡

[c-grant]

"don't let it bother you" first of all, everything bothers me

[c-grant]

Quiet Part 2

Widower!Jack Abbott x Widow Single Mom!Reader

Part 1 can be found here!

23.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: DOMESTIC JACK WITH READER'S BABY; Shy!Reader; Jack was in the army; reader's husband was in the army and died while deployed; discussions of loss of spouse; discussion of the death of Jack’s wife; suicidal ideation; briefest mention of thought of murder suicide (NOT directed at reader, in the context of Jack thinking about the guy who killed his wife, literally a single sentence); discussion of Jack’s injury; reference to death of parents (not Jack’s or Reader’s); grief; like lots of grief; guilt; so much fucking guilt for Jack and Reader; self hate for a bit for both Reader and Jack; baby is a boy but is not named; a bird; reference to past pregnancy, labor and delivery; crying; DTR conversation; thoughts about sex; angst; no use of Y/N or related

Summary: You and Jack define your relationship and work through more grief and guilt together.

AN: Twenty years later here we are with Part 2. Sorry about that 😅. Hopefully it was worth the wait. I don't know how I really feel about this (I know exactly how I feel and it's not fantastic but when is it ever). This is different from Part 1 in that there is less time jumping, but I think as they now are truly establishing their relationship and not working towards having one it makes sense. We also see considerably more emotion and grappling from Jack in this part. I considered doing a much more zoomed out kind of story with them but I like exploring emotions and such apparently so I didn't keep it as kind of quick to develop and move through their life as I originally thought I would. I don't know if that's good or bad, but it's reality lol. Again, it's kind of emotional but sweet in the beginning, and middle, but it gets funnier and fluffier (I hope) at the end. Anyway I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!♥️

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur to Jack as you pull away from him a little. “I really thought I was ready.”

You and Jack have been home for a few hours now, sitting on the couch and starting a new series together. Your son is out hard from his big birthday adventures, didn’t even stir as Jack changed him into some pajamas and put him down for the night while you trimmed the end of the rose Jack gave you and put it in a slim glass vase. 

You’d spent most of your time on the couch leaning against Jack. You like being close to him, like feeling him next to you, warm and sturdy and soft and safe and real and alive. The little voice in the back of your mind telling you this was wrong and to think of your husband was still there, and at times you did feel some confliction, but with the help of your therapist and time that voice had become nothing but a whisper most of the time and more easily dealt with if it got a little louder. 

By the time whatever platform it is asked whether you were still watching Jack had his arm around your shoulders and you were pressed firmly against his side with your head resting against his shoulder and chest, one hand in your lap and the other resting on the lower part of his thigh. You’re in that same position now only you’re both turned in towards each other a bit more and the hand that was in your lap is cupping Jack’s face, your head no longer resting on him. 

When he’d asked if you wanted to watch another episode or head to bed you’d responded by asking to kiss him. Jack had eyed you carefully as he said of course, and that he would like that, but only if you were ready. And you were so sure that you were until you lent in to do it. Hence your apology.

Jack shakes his head a little, leans into your palm where it’s still cupping the side of his face. “Why are you apologizing? It’s okay to not be ready. I’m happy you told me and didn’t push yourself to do something you weren’t ready for. That’s what I want.” 

“No, I know.” You sigh and look down, thumb brushing over Jack’s cheek absentmindedly. “I just feel bad because earlier on our way back I said I was ready for this, for there to be an us, and maybe a little more and now I’m not ready for a little more.”

“I know it’s not easy and me saying this doesn’t make it all better, but please try not to feel bad. It’s okay. And I mean it.” Jack watches you carefully to gauge your reaction and make sure he’s not overstepping as he sets his hand on top of yours and squeezes gently to get you to look at him again. You do, and it hurts him to see how frustrated and upset with yourself you look. He knows how hard this all is. How easy it is to feel like you’re being disloyal. How hard it is to be vulnerable again. He wishes he could make it better for you, take away your struggle because he doesn’t like seeing you struggling and the concomitant hurting. “I’m glad you told me and listened to yourself. I want you to truly be ready for every step of this. I’m not going anywhere just because you say you’re ready for something and then the moment comes and you’re not. You don’t owe me anything, ever.”

“I know,” you mumble, looking away from him. “I just wanted to be ready. I want to kiss you, I really do. I want to give you that, give myself that. I just…” You sigh and pull your hand from his cheek, resting it back in your lap. You’re disappointed in yourself even though you know you shouldn’t be. You did a lot today, gave Jack and yourself a lot. You started a relationship for christ’s sake. You know he has no expectations of you but for some reason you apparently have them of yourself and holding hands and starting this with him and kind of cuddling him on the couch apparently don’t meet them. “I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s so hard.” 

Jack shakes his head slowly. “It was for me too at the beginning. I’m not sure I could articulate why either, but I understand, I promise.”

“I feel like I’ve ruined an otherwise great day.” You look up at him, eyes a little glassy. “And I want this Jack, I’m ready for this. For us to be in a relationship exclusively… for us to be a couple. I want that. A lot.” 

“Hey,” he draws the word out as he tilts his head at you, “you haven’t ruined anything. I promise. I had a great day. The best day I’ve had in a long, long fucking time. I’m really glad you invited me.” He tentatively grabs your hand from your lap and laces your fingers together. “I want that a lot too, to be in a relationship with you, exclusively. To be a couple. So let’s do it, yeah?”

You squeeze his hand, eyes rounded more than usual and brows pulled together. You can’t let go of this undefined concern you have. You’re happy, you genuinely are. Butterflies flutter away in your stomach at the thought of finally being with Jack and at the way he’s looking at you, small, excited smile and sparkling eyes. Like you just gave him some huge gift. It feels like you’ve given him barely anything. “Yeah, let’s do it.” You nod, give him a small smile and laugh a little, almost embarrassed for some reason. Jack is just so handsome and such a good man and you’re having such a vulnerable conversation and admitting your feelings for him. And even though you have before you still find yourself feeling like a teenager almost. “We’re a couple.”

Jack’s smile widens and he nods. “We’re a couple.” He leans forward just slightly before he stops himself. If you were ready he’d have leaned in and kissed you then. And if he’s honest with himself he is disappointed a little bit, but not with you, just that he can’t make you feel good like that, can’t show you how happy he is through a kiss, can’t claim you like that. Because he’s possessive already. He feels it, hard. Harder than he should this early on maybe. 

He looks at you so intensely, is clearly over the moon about this. You don’t realize you’re looking at him the same way, that he can tell how happy you are, how much you want this. 

You groan a little but keep your smile as you let your head fall against the side of his chest. “What?” he laughs softly. He lets his other hand come down and rub your back a little, hyper focused for just a second to gauge your reaction and make sure this is okay. He struggles with the line between asking and trying things because he doesn’t want to make you feel like he’s afraid to touch you, but at the same time he wants to be respectful and not make you uncomfortable.

You shrug against him. “I don’t know. I just feel like… a teenager learning her crush likes her back,” you laugh a little, words slightly mumbled against him. “And I guess I don’t understand it. Why you want me when I come with so much… baggage. And a baby.” 

Jack hums a little and you can feel the vibrations. It makes you shiver. Makes you imagine feeling them in a different context, your head resting on his chest after sex when he hums at something you say or how you run your hand over the part of his chest your head isn’t occupying as you curl into him. “Well, I think our baggage matches. Same pattern, maybe a different color since it’s not exactly the same. Or what is it the youths say these days. Different font.” 

You snort a laugh against him and pull back to look at him. “The youths? Different font?”

“What?” he laughs. “We get a lot of new grads on night shift. They teach me their lingo, keep me up to date and cool.” 

You give him a lopsided smile and tilt your head as you raise your eyebrows slightly. “Lingo?” 

Jack shakes his head. “I never said they were replacing what I grew up with.” He smirks at you. “And back to your point, you come with a baby and I come with baggage and missing a foot with extra trauma and PTSD from that. We all have our things. I want you because you’re beautiful, on the outside yes, but on the inside too. You’re a beautiful person. Caring, selfless to a fault sometimes, giving, funny, adorable, empathetic, so empathetic I know it makes you hurt at times, strong, you have to be the strongest person I know-”

“Jack,” you cut him off, unable to stomach anymore compliments that part of you disagrees with. “Thank you.” You smile and give a breathy laugh. “I’m not sure I understand it still, but… I know how genuine you are.”

He nods slowly. “Can I admit something? It might freak you out and if it does you can tell me to shut up or to leave and never come back-”

“Yes, and I very much doubt I’ll react like that.” You give him a knowing smile. 

Jack grimaces slightly, not quite in disbelief but in a you-haven’t-heard-what-I’m-about-to-say kind of way. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “I think we were supposed to meet. I never believed in fate or anything like that but then I saw you,” he shakes his head a little and looks away from you. “I saw you and I was drawn to you. It felt like I was supposed to know you. And then when I walked into the room with you it felt like I’d known you forever. You were familiar. It felt like I knew you’d understand me even if I didn’t know why at the time. And you do. Not just because we’re both widows but,” he shrugs, “you just get me. And I still feel all of that today. I have every day since we met.” 

He forces himself to look back up at you, stomach churning at the thought of seeing your reaction. Because he gets how that sounds, how it could make him look almost obsessive or kind of insane. But you’re just smiling softly at him. And your heart and your mind and your lips ache to kiss him, but you know that emotionally you’re not there. That it would be too much all in one day. 

“I felt the same thing,” you admit. Jack’s eyebrows raise and his head pulls back a little at the shock. He’d felt it in the room that day, like you felt whatever was between the two of you too, but he’d since convinced himself that he was projecting and just wanted you to feel it so he was telling himself it felt like you recognized it too. But you apparently really had. “It kind of freaked me out with how exhausted and scared and emotional I was,” you laugh quietly. “But believe me, I felt it too. Like we were supposed to know each other and were meeting for a reason. And believe me, my therapist and I have talked about it and then some because it was hard for me at first. The idea of this first sight kind of thing.”

“Really?” he whispers. 

“Really.” You nod. You squeeze Jack’s hand and drop your eyes. You hate that you can’t kiss him, don’t understand why you don’t feel ready for that. It’s just a kiss. One that you want. You hate your brain for it, for allowing your grief to still control you. Deep down you know it’s not that easy and you know that the kiss is a big deal because it’s with Jack and it’s going to mean something. It’s going to make you feel so many things. Things you felt for your husband. You need him to know though. That you do want him physically. “I really want to kiss you right now. I just want you to know that. That I do want to kiss you. And want more with you, physically. I wish that I was ready. I wish I could give you more physically so this felt like a real relationship.”

Jack can hear the emotion in your voice. He knows you’re probably closer to tears than you want him to know and that you’re beating yourself up pretty badly inside. He hates it. “Hey,” he says softly, slipping his hand out of yours and using his index finger to tilt your head back up to look at him when you don’t resist. He moves his hand up so that it cups your cheek. “This okay?” His eyes dart around your face looking for any hesitation or sign of distress as you nod and lean into his hand a bit. “First, I think we do more physical stuff than you think. Holding hands. Kind of cuddling on the couch. That’s all physical. But second, and more importantly, the physical stuff isn’t what makes or defines our relationship, yeah? You’re putting too much pressure on yourself I think. Probably being pretty mean to yourself. I don’t need to be able to kiss you to feel like I’m in a real relationship with you. I don’t need anything physical in particular to feel like that. Do you?”

“No.” You shake your head and then shrug a little. “But, I don’t know, I just think that sometimes for men it can be different maybe.”

Jack smiles at you. “Guess I’m not every man,” he teases with a little smirk. His heart soars when it makes you laugh a little. “What I need to know that I’m in a relationship with you is to know that you want to be in one with me, that you consider us to be in one, that you know I’m here for you for anything and everything, that I want you to tell me everything, that you know there is no judgment from me, and that you know that I know the same is true for you towards me. The physical stuff will come with time as you feel more ready. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’m content and happy in this relationship just as it is now. I promise. And I meant it too. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t need to give me anything in a physical sense for me to be happy or feel secure in our relationship.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I do, I promise. And I don’t need it to be happy or secure either but I want it. And I know you want it too.”

Jack squeezes your face softly and lets out a breath as he looks away from you for a second. You know he’s conflicted. He knows you know. It’s hard to formulate an answer because the last thing he wants is for you to feel pressure or like he’s just going to be in this relationship waiting around for the day you can kiss and makeout and have sex and then he’ll become really invested. But he also can’t lie to you and say he doesn’t want you. 

He returns his eyes to yours and hopes his reflect how genuine and honest he’s being. “Of course I want it. Of course I want you. Look at you.” Jack’s eyes trail over all of your body he can see in this position and the way he looks at you feels unholy in a way, needy and lusting and reverent. So incredibly reverent. You already know when you do get there Jack is going to worship you. He already looks like he’s ready to get on his knees just for the opportunity to gaze upon you, clothed or unclothed. “I’m not going to lie to you and say I don’t. But I need you to know I’m not going to be in this relationship just sitting around waiting for the day we can do more and have sex and then I’ll become truly invested. I’m all in now. I’m invested in this, in us and our relationship now. Okay?”

“Yes, but, Jack,” you shake your head at him a little, look desperate for him to hear and believe you, “please don’t think I doubted that for a second. Your commitment and investment. That’s not what I meant or how I meant to make it seem because I wouldn’t be ready and I wouldn’t be doing this with you if I felt like that for a second, I promise.”

“Hey, I didn’t think you did,” he soothes, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I just needed to say it for myself and so that you heard it explicitly from me.”

“Okay. Good.” You nod. “Good. I’m sorry, I know I’m making this a big deal and way more complicated and long of a conversation than it needed to be.”

“Please don’t apologize. You’re not doing any of that. We’re just having a conversation and communicating so we both know where we are. That’s healthy. And you voicing your worries and anxieties and your thoughts, that’s important. That’s what I want. I want to hear all of that kind of stuff.” He smiles at you, just a hint of a smirking edge. “I want to be there for my girlfriend, yeah?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding at girlfriend. You knew that’s what you are, what you defined during this conversation but hearing it is different. It makes your heart race. “Yeah.” There’s barely any substance to the word with how breathed out it is and your reaction to the word makes Jack chuckle to himself a bit. You really are adorable. 

He knows this next question is going to fluster you further, but it’s an important one for him so that he doesn’t cross a line. “If you know, and it’s okay if you need a bit to think about it, how are you feeling about pet names? Being called one.” 

“Oh.” You blink at him. “I um…” You look down at your lap, suddenly even shyer than usual somehow with Jack’s intense gaze flustering you further. You don’t know what you were expecting him to ask but you guess it wasn’t that. It makes your brain a little fuzzier as you try to figure it out. You can’t believe Jack wants to call you a pet name. It’s sweet. And the way he asked and didn’t just do it is even sweeter. Toothache sweet. “Yes, yeah.” You nod at him and clear your throat, looking back into his eyes. “I’m okay with them. I can’t believe you want to call me one,” you laugh softly but incredulously, “but, um yeah. Yeah, I would like that. And you? Would you, or how, how do you feel? About them. Pet names.”

Jack beams at you, nodding a little. “I have to tell you that you’re so adorable when you’re flustered like this. When you get a little shyer on me.” His voice is lower than it normally is and Jack forces himself to keep looking into your eyes and not to glance down at your lips. He lets his words linger for a few seconds before clearing his throat and answering your question. “I would like that too. If you’re ready to use one with me, and it’s okay if you’re not.” You shake your head at him to indicate he doesn’t need to worry about that. That you are ready. 

“You have to tell me the one, though.” You cock your head at him, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. Jack swallows hard, his heart rate picking up. It’s always hard, bringing this side of things up. And he knows it’s liable to send you into a bit of a spiral, to shove your loss and your grief in your face, and on today of all days. He hates it. But not knowing might lead him to inadvertently hurt you worse one day. “The one I’m not allowed to call you because it belongs to you and your husband.” 

“Oh,” you say again, breathe it out this time as your eyes find the folded American flag in its box on display. You didn’t even think about that. And you are so so glad that Jack did because you know if he accidentally called you that one it would have sent you spiraling so hard. Just the question has your mind spinning a little because now it’s like a montage in your head, it’s all you can hear. Your husband calling you Angel. Jack knows what’s happening, what’s playing out in your mind. He recognizes the specific glaze to your eyes. And it’s happening for him too a bit. A montage of his wife calling him Darling. Always Darling. Almost never Jack. 

Jack’s hand pulling away from your face to take your hand again and squeezing it is what brings you back. You bring your eyes back to his. “Angel,” you whisper. 

He nods. “Darling,” he whispers back. You know what he means. That’s his one. 

You feel the tears stinging your eyes but you huff a laugh instead of cry. Jack’s eyebrows raise slightly. “I’m just realizing how fucked up that is. I never thought about it before. Angel. He called me Angel and then he went off and fucking died and became one if you believe in that shit.” You click your tongue behind your teeth as the tears start to fall. Because he died. Because he called you Angel. Because it’s your son’s first birthday and he isn’t here. Because you’re with Jack and you’re happy and it suddenly feels so wrong even though you know it’s what he would want. “Fucking Angel,” you whisper as you devolve into quiet tears. 

You’re not even fully conscious of doing it because it’s just so natural and feels so right. You crawl fully into Jack’s lap and curl into him, one arm wrapping around his neck and your other hand fisting at his shirt as you bury your face in his neck and slowly devolve into quiet and muffled sobs. 

The move shocks Jack into complete stillness for a moment. It’s by far the closest the two of you have ever been, the most physically intimate. And he’s so aware that you’re this close and sobbing into him over your dead husband. He feels responsible for your sobs too. He brought it up, forced you to think about it. He just didn’t want to call you the wrong thing. 

His mind spins as he tries to decide what to do. Is it taking advantage of you and your completely vulnerable state somehow if he reciprocates your touch right now? Do you want his touch? Would it be comforting? Will you think it means something negative if he doesn’t touch you? You wouldn’t have climbed into his lap and be clinging to him if you weren’t okay with him touching you and weren’t seeking out comfort from him, right? 

Jack wraps his arms around you slowly, paying close attention to see if you stiffen even slightly or show some other sign of discomfort. He lets one hand rest on your back and the other over your hair on the back of your head to hold you close. When you cling to him tighter in response he tightens his grip around you in turn, hoping the pressure will help ground you. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.” 

You hate this. Hate being like this and asking Jack to deal with it and intruding on his space and ruining everything with your tears. But Jack is comfort. He’s your boyfriend now and he understands the reason you’re sobbing, the pain behind it. The grief. You trust him with this side of yourself, want his comforting touch and the grounding he offers even as your heart breaks for your husband and what you lost. You didn’t mean for this to happen and you know Jack feels responsible but it’s not his fault. He didn’t make it happen, didn’t make you feel like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out against his neck in between hiccupped sobs. You immediately feel him shaking his head, hold you a little closer. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He keeps his voice low, starts rubbing your back. “It’s okay. Let yourself feel it. I’ve got you.” Jack rocks you gently. “Let it all out. I understand. And you’re okay, you’re allowed to feel these feelings with me, okay?”

The way he knows exactly what to say makes you sob harder for a moment as you take every whispered reassurance to heart. “It’s so unfair Jack,” you sniffle against him before letting out a more audible sob, “for both of us, it’s so unfair. I hate it, I hate it so much. And, and I wish I could make it a little better for you like you, like you do for me. I’m so-sorry.”

Jack barely has time to process the stinging in his eyes before tears of his own are sliding down his face. For all of it. For you. For your loss. For his wife. For his loss. For how right you are, how un-fucking-fair the world is. For how you think you don’t make it a little better for him. 

“It is,” he whispers, “it’s so fucking unfair.” Jack takes in his own shuddery breath. “And you do, you do make it a little better. I promise.” He sniffles, goes to kiss the top of your head but stops himself, nuzzles his nose against you instead. 

It takes a bit longer for you to cry yourself out. Jack’s tears stopped well before yours and he never stopped whispering to you, never stopped holding you. Never made you feel like it was too much. Like you were too much. Like he needed this to stop and you to get out of his arms and leave him alone. Never rushed you.

And he keeps holding you once you stop crying, his hand still rubbing your back and the other still holding the back of your head to keep you close to him. You get to a point where you’re mostly quiet, only the occasional sharp stuttery breath. “I’m sorry,” you mumble against Jack’s neck. “That was unfair of me.”

He shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. You needed to let out some emotion. That’s part of what I’m here for, to hold you through that.” 

You shrug in his arms. “I don’t want you to think you caused it. By asking. I’m glad you asked.” You shift a little, pulling your head from his neck and resting the side of it in the crook of his shoulder, his hand on the back of your head quickly wiping the remnants of his tears and then coming down to wrap around you. “I… I don’t even know what that was. Or why it happened. It just does sometimes.” 

“It does for me too,” Jack murmurs. “And you don’t need to know what it was or why it happened. It can just happen.” 

It’s then you can hear the remnants of tears in Jack’s voice and the realization you made him cry is enough to bring you back to the brink of tears. “I’m sorry for making you cry and hurt.” Your whisper is so low he barely catches it. 

“You didn’t,” he says firmly, trying to emphasize that it wasn’t you. “You didn’t anymore than I made you cry and hurt.” He shrugs. “The world did,” he says simply.

There’s a lot more you want to say to that but you don’t. Because it doesn’t really matter at the end of the day. It happened. It’s the past now. You cried clinging to each other on your couch and made it to the other side of that overwhelming grief together. All you want is to be closer to Jack somehow. 

You shift again, pulling your head away from Jack’s body so that you can look at each other, his arms loosening around you automatically so that you’re free to move, to get off him if you want. But you don’t want that. 

“Jack?” Your voice is a little shaky and it feels so dumb to have it be shaky over what you’re about to ask him to do. It’s barely anything but for some reason it feels huge right now.

“Yeah?”

“Will you kiss my forehead?”

His eyebrows raise. It feels huge for him too right now. Almost as intimate as kissing your lips. Jack’s eyes search yours. “You sure?” 

He has to check. Has to make sure you really do want it and are ready for it. You nod, smile at him and his concern and need to check softly. He cares about you so much. Cares about your relationship so much. Doesn’t want to hurt you or ruin anything. “I am. I want it a lot. If you do.”

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers a little breathlessly. “Yeah, I want it too.”

He moves slowly, giving you time to pull away and change your mind. His hands move to your neck, thumbs along your jaw and he nods with slightly raised brows, asking if it’s okay. You nod a little and lean closer into him.

Both your and Jack’s eyes flutter closed when his lips make contact with your forehead. He doesn’t linger with this kiss, just plants a kiss on your forehead and pulls back a bit to see how you react and if you pull away. When he sees a smile ghost your lips and you stay where you are he leans back in for another and lets this one linger, lips pressed to the soft skin of your forehead for a good thirty seconds before he pulls away. 

You let your eyes flutter back open. “Thank you. I, I liked that. If you ever wanted to do it again. That would be okay with me.”

Jack gives you a crooked smile, gaze as intense as ever. “I like that too. And I would like to do it again, yeah.”

You nod at him. “Good,” you whisper. Your eyes leave his and track the tear stains on his cheek and neck until you see the mess of his neck and shirt that you made and cringe. “I’m so sorry I got you and your shirt all snotty and gross.” 

Jack chuckles. “I’m a doctor. That doesn’t phase me for a second. It’s one of the most benign bodily fluids to get on me.”

“Still.” A rather large yawn hits you and you cover your mouth, shaking your head. “I’m so sorry, that just came out of nowhere.” 

Seeing you yawn makes Jack yawn of course and he similarly covers his mouth. “It’s been a long day and crying can make you tired.” Jack lets his hand rest on your hip, watching you intently to see how you react. “You should get to bed and get some sleep as much as I’d love to stay out here and talk with you all night.” He squeezes your hip gently. 

“Probably, yeah.” You yawn again, this one not quite as big. “Definitely, apparently,” you laugh. “You should get some sleep too.”

Jack laughs with you. “Yeah, probably I should.” He offers you his hand to hold as you slide off him and stand up, grabbing the baby monitor. Once you take a step away he stands up behind you, rests his hand on your lower back as he walks you over to your bedroom door. “I had a really great day. Thank you for inviting me to spend it with you. And um,” Jack blushes again and looks away from you for a second. You have to bite your lip at it as you smile because it’s so cute and you can’t believe talking to you, anything related to you, is making him blush. He looks so cute flustered. You get it. Why he said it earlier. “I’m,” Jack clears his throat as he looks back at you, cheeks still a little tinged with pink. “I’m really happy about us.”

You beam at Jack. You know you must look ridiculous, so overly excited and happy. The whole thing is kind of surreal and even though you’re in your house in front of your bedroom door and Jack’s about to walk down the hall and into the guest room it feels like him dropping you off at your front door after a first date. “I am too.” His words echo in your mind and it’s a little bold for you but you’re just following him really. “I have to tell you that you’re so adorable when you’re flustered like this. When you get a little shy on me.”

Jack laughs, shaking his head at you. His blush deepens and you really could scream at how adorable he is. “Yeah, well, you have that effect on me. You wanna talk about feeling like a teenager.” He rolls his eyes at himself playfully. 

“I totally get it,” you giggle. You get slightly more serious, the giggle fading away while the huge, what you’re sure must be at least slightly goofy, smile doesn’t leave your face. Jack’s smiling too though, just as happy and excited as you. “Are you going to tell Robby and Dana?”

“Oh,” Jack scoffs a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. It shouldn’t make your heart stutter the way it does. “I don’t think I’ll even have to. They’ll just know. Just from looking at me the next time they bring you up. Which will be the next time I see them.” He shakes his head at them and then looks back at you, cheeks a little pink again, that boyish, slightly flustered smile gracing his face. “Are you okay if I show them pictures? Of him? And uh, you and him? And all of us?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, of course.” Now you’re the one flustered thinking about Jack wanting to show you and your son off. 

“Thank you. I know they’ll enjoy seeing him. Anyway,” he nods at you, “I should let you get some sleep.”

“Can we hug?” You blurt out before Jack can say anything else. 

It catches Jack off guard so it takes a second to process, but his smile widens as it does. “Of course we can, if you’re ready for that. I would like that.” 

You nod. “I am. Not really that much different from the couch, is it? Except I won’t be sobbing into you this time.” You laugh breathlessly just at the thought of hugging him and him wanting to hug you. 

“True,” Jack laughs softly with you. “If you need to cry again you can of course. And I’m going to let you lead, okay? Show me how tightly you want it. And if a hand goes somewhere you don’t like or I do something you don’t like please tell me right away.” 

“I will,” you assure him, “but I trust you and I know nothing like that will happen.”

He nods at you and steps closer, holding his arms out a bit so you can wrap yours around him. You hug him tight as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close to him. You nuzzle your face against his chest and take in several deep breaths through your nose to savor his scent before resting the side of your head on his chest and enjoying the sound of his heart beating and the feeling of his arms holding you, warm and strong and safe. Half of you wants to ask him for his shirt to sleep in but you know you’re not there, that the smell of another man in your bed would be a little too much for you right now. 

Jack nuzzles his nose in your hair, absentmindedly kisses the top of your head occasionally because he can do that now. And he can tell you like it by the way you squeeze him a little tighter when he does. You feel perfect in his arms and holding you like this makes his heart glow in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. He feels happy and content in a way he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again after his wife.  

You could both stay like this for hours. But Jack knows you’re exhausted. Knows you have to work tomorrow. He relaxes his arms and pulls away just slightly. It has the desired effect, you look up at him wide-eyed with a small smile, able to guess what’s coming next. 

Jack slides his hands up your sides and then brings them to hold your face gently, smiling down at you like you’re the only thing that exists in this moment. He leans down and presses the softest kiss to your forehead, lets it linger as he tries to use the kiss to say thank you and he’s so happy because of you and he can’t believe you’re his girlfriend and he’ll wait as long as you need and he cares about you and you’re so incredibly important to him. He pulls his lips from your forehead eventually, only to bring them back down and give you a couple more kisses there, letting the last one linger just a little before his lips brush against your skin as he murmurs to you. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A day later Jack glances at the baby monitor when he hears your son stir a little. 

He shouldn’t be waking up yet, he didn’t go down that long ago and he is normally a very good napper. A good sleeper in general. True to form he just shifts around a little and then is back out. 

It makes Jack smile and laugh to himself as he resumes doing the dishes. Almost everything is in the now-running dishwasher but there are a few things that can’t go in and he’s giving your son’s highchair tray a good scrub. 

It’s Friday and Jack’s on a solid string of off days and so is home with your son. A kid at daycare is sick and honestly, Jack just likes being with your son, and so anymore it’s more common for your son to be with Jack than at daycare when Jack is off. You’re both looking forward to having the weekend together, especially now that you’re together. It’ll be your first weekend as a couple. You have absolutely no plans, but both of you kind of like that. 

As he scrubs Jack tries to formulate a plan to get you to let him take the monitor tonight so that he can get up with your son and you can sleep in tomorrow. He knows you’re going to fight him on it, but he wants to do it for you. He’ll just have to make sure he’s the one who grabs it when you guys get up to go to bed. 

The thought crosses his mind that maybe it’ll be a moot point. Maybe you’ll invite him to sleep in your bed with you. Just to sleep and be close, not for anything else and not even naked. But that thought quickly morphs into kicking himself mentally, asking himself why the actual fuck he’s thinking about that when you aren’t even ready to kiss and have been a couple for less than 24 fucking hours. 

He knows it’s because he wants that closeness with you. Wants to basically hug you all night. He would absolutely never pressure you into doing so, it’s just why he’s thinking about it. Thinking about your warm skin against his, your breathing slow and soft as you sleep curled into him, the little sounds you’d make in your sleep, how peaceful you’d look, and god the sound of your sleepy voice in the morning, spoken more into his chest than anything as you nuzzle against him and try to hide from the light and ask for five more minutes. 

No. Just no, Jack tells himself. He needs to stop. It feels wrong on so many levels to think about you like that, even though it’s not sexual. If only Jack knew the way you were miles away daydreaming in your office about effectively the same thing and about kissing him. 

He turns his thoughts elsewhere. What to make for dinner. He likes cooking for you and your son. He likes watching your face when you take first bites and is borderline addicted to the smiles you give him, the soft hums you give him that are really almost moans when you particularly like something, the praise of ‘this is amazing Jack’ and ‘god you really outdid yourself tonight’ and ‘fuck that’s good’ and ‘you spoil me’ and ‘this is incredible Jack, thank you for cooking’ you give him. 

But what to make? He could do something he’s made before and knows you like. He could try something new. Or you could get takeout. Make it kind of a mini-date at home. He knows your favorite places and dishes by now and he could wait until you get home to order, ask what place you’d prefer. Depending on how long your son naps and what kind of mood he’s in the three of you could potentially go out somewhere. But you did that last night. So maybe him making something is actually better. So he circles back to the question. What to make?  

While he’s letting ideas for dinner percolate in the back of his mind he thinks about how he needs to set up something so that you can meet Robby and Dana. He wants you to meet them of course but they’re also the two best potential babysitters if you end up liking them and feeling like you can trust them. And you’re going to need one if he’s going to ever be able to take you out on a real date. He loves doing stuff as the three of you, yes, but he still wants to date you. Just you. Do something with you that you guys couldn’t do with your son. Focus on each other.

Jack knows it’ll be hard for you to leave your son and he’s not going to force the issue of course, but he hopes that having a nurse or a doctor as a sitter will help allay at least some of your fears. He should probably think of a good date idea before bringing it up though. 

What if he had you cook with him tonight? If you wanted. Almost like a little cooking class date, just at home. You always talk about wanting to become a better cook. That could be fun right? Your son could watch from his highchair or Jack could baby-wear him with a wrap or the carrier. Depending on how late you get home and how early your son goes down for the night and how late you’re okay eating your son might even be asleep by then. Unlikely but not impossible. 

As he finishes the dishes he decides that he’ll go pick something to make and get a list of things to buy at the store. Then once your son is awake from his nap and maybe had a snack they can walk to the store together, maybe drive depending on how much is needed. 

Jack grabs the clean dish towel to dry his hands. And that’s when he realizes it. When he feels it. Or rather doesn’t feel it. His eyes snap to his left hand. 

No wedding ring. 

Jack’s stomach drops, fingers and toes going cold while adrenaline floods his system and shoves him right into fight or flight, breathing and heart rate picking up. He spins back to the sink, praying that he’ll find his ring resting in the sink or on the grate of the one side and that it didn’t slide down into the pipe on the garbage disposal side. Or that he didn’t lose it somewhere else and is just now noticing. How could he have not fucking noticed the second it came off?

A short burst of relief floods him when he finds it sitting against the grate. He’s quick to pick it up and hold it in the palm of his hand, stare down at it. He still can’t believe himself. That he didn’t feel it when it came off. He knows he was in his head and thinking but still. That’s his wedding ring. That’s her. One of a few things he has left of her and it came off and he didn’t feel it. The ring he’s worn every day for how many years now? And he didn’t fucking feel it come off. He’s the worst, his brain tells him as he slips into mentally berating himself. 

And the thing is, Jack has known he needs to take off his ring, especially now that you’re ready and in a relationship and together. He’s been mentally preparing for it and thinking about it. He’s been trying to work his way up to it. He was hoping to do it this weekend at some point. 

He never expected to not have a choice. For it to slip off while doing the dishes. He’s been doing the dishes for the past five years, scrubbing his hands at work for the past five years and nothing. It never came off. And he knows he does have a choice. He knows he could slip it back on right now. 

But instead he just stares at it in his palm. 

He doesn’t know what to do. It needed to come off. But he wanted to take it off. Have it be an intentional thing. Be talking to her in his mind when he did it, reassuring himself and her that it’s not that he doesn’t love her anymore because he does, he always will. And instead it came off and he didn’t notice. What does that tell her? But if he puts it back on how long will it be until he can bring himself to take it off again? Was he ever really going to work up to taking it off or did something like this need to happen? Is this a sign from the universe? Did it happen on purpose?

A tapping sound on the glass of the window behind the sink interrupts Jack’s thoughts. He looks up and there’s no fucking way this is real. A bird is there on the windowsill looking back at him and tilting its head back and forth at him how birds do. It’s not just any bird though. 

It’s a mourning dove. His wife’s favorite. 

The irony of the name was not lost on him the first time he saw one after she died. It was years ago. Five and a bit years ago. At her funeral. One had landed on her casket and Jack had come a little unglued for a minute, ended up squeezing Robby’s forearm so tight it was bruised for a couple of weeks. 

Since then they’ve become a little thing for him. He tells himself it’s silly, but he feels like they’re her in a way. A kind of manifestation of her spirit visiting him. Because he’s only seen them a few times since then and each of those times has been poignant. A couple of times when he visited her grave. A few times on the roof at work when his feet got a little too close to the ledge. Once after he kissed a woman other than her for the first time after her death. And now that he really thinks about it he realizes that one landed on the ground in front of him as he waited to cross the street on his way to work on the day he met you. 

He looks back down at his wedding ring and picks it up with his right hand, holds his left hand out as he thinks about putting it back on. More tapping on the glass and that familiar coo has him focusing back on the dove. It’s beautiful. Just like she was. It has a unique line of black feathers just above one of its eyes. It makes the usual blue ring that circles a mourning dove’s eye pop even more. 

It has to mean something, Jack tells himself. Except that’s crazy, right? It’s just a bird on a windowsill. It doesn’t mean it’s her visiting and trying to tell him something.

Jack stares back at it. It feels like a sign. All of it. His ring slipping off while doing the dishes at your house when it hasn’t before in over five years of doing dishes. The dove appearing. It feels like her telling him that it’s okay. It’s okay to not wear his ring. It’s okay to be with you. It feels like her blessing. 

He closes his right hand around his ring and the dove looks at him for a few more seconds, gives him a couple more coos before it flies off leaving Jack standing there trying to process everything that’s happened in the last five minutes. But then his mind goes blank for a moment and there’s nothing but the feeling of his wedding ring pressing into the palm of his right hand. 

Jack’s turning so his back is against the base cabinets as he slides to the floor, tears blurring his vision as it slams into him and consumes him. The memory of that ring going on his finger. Her face and how excited she was. How beautiful she looked in her white dress with that veil. How she could barely get her vows and the ring exchange out, not from tears but from giggles. How her it was. How she held onto his finger once she slid his ring on. How she didn’t let go until the very end of the ceremony when she could finally hold his face as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. How she was obsessed with his left hand all night, constantly holding it and running her fingers over his ring. How she kissed it that night in bed. 

Jack doesn’t even realize how hard he’s sobbing as he clutches his right hand and ring to his chest, right over his heart. It all replays for him. How they met. Their first date. Their second date. Their first kiss. Their first time. Leaving for his first deployment while they were together. Coming back and her running and jumping into his arms, refusing to leave them all night. 

Getting to be home and spend time with her. All the things they did together in between deployments. Going abroad. Hiking. Renting a cottage on the beach in Connecticut for a weekend. Making dinner at home together. Fun dates. Their sadness when he found out he was being deployed again. Her tears when she had to hug him goodbye. His promise he’d come back to her.

An IED. Physical pain indescribable until the adrenaline fully hit as he tried to save the others around him. Looking down and realizing his foot was gone. 

Waking up in Germany. Waking up at Walter Reed to her asleep in a chair next to his bed. Surgeries. Moving to a hospital in Pittsburgh. Physical therapy. Depression. Finding his therapist. Her right by his side through it all. A prosthetic. An honorable discharge. Her being more than he could ever deserve as he struggled to adjust.

Medical school. Medical school graduation. The pride in her eyes and how tight she hugged him and her breath against his ear as she whispered how proud she was of him. Residency. 

Him picking out her engagement ring. Planning the proposal. Proposing. Wedding planning during residency. Their whole wedding. Their honeymoon. Their talks of kids and a house in the suburbs. Her saying how she wanted a group of little boys that were all the spitting image of their father. Plans to start trying once he became an attending.

Becoming an attending. Deciding not to actively try but more to just not prevent and see what happened for a bit. The death of her mom hitting her hard and putting the brakes on kids for a bit. Holding her as she cried. Helping her plan a funeral. Things slowly getting better. The death of her dad just a year later understandably obliterating it all. Holding her as she cried again. Helping her plan another funeral. Things slowly getting better again.

Deciding to actively try and track her cycle. An emergency medicine and trauma conference in Vegas. Hugging and kissing her goodbye at the airport. Dreaming of her surprising him with a ‘welcome home daddy’ sign when he got back. 

That phone call from Robby as he laid in his hotel bed reading some materials from one of the presentations. 

Denial. Numbness. Yelling at Robby that this wasn’t even close to a funny joke. The slow realization it was the truth. A drunk driver had taken her from him almost instantly but the driver got to walk away with a couple of bruises and a broken arm.

Robby getting him a ticket on the next plane home. Crying silently in that hotel bed because this couldn’t be real. Finally feeling it and sobbing in an airport bathroom with the sound of slot machines in the background. 

The blur of getting back home and Robby being there. Robby telling him the details of what happened and her injuries after he demanded them through a yell when Robby tried to tell him he didn’t need to know, that it wouldn’t make a difference and would just torture himself. Jack screaming at Robby and blaming him for not saving her when Jack knew based on what Robby told him that she was effectively DOA. That there was no hope of her surviving. That if the paramedics hadn’t happened to recognize her as his wife she almost certainly would’ve been pronounced on the scene and never even brought in. Dana grabbing him in the tightest hug as his screams turned into sobs, choked apologies and thank you for trying-s to Robby and asking what he was supposed to do.

Considering killing himself. Considering killing the driver that hit her and then killing himself. 

Planning her funeral. Seeing her again for the first time in her casket. Feeling a pain so deep and a grief so profound he was sure he would drop dead. Her funeral. Trying to give a eulogy. The dove. Watching her be lowered into the ground. Feeling like the photo of her to the side of her casket was mocking him. Feeling like a piece of shit for feeling that. The celebration of life after. Spending too much time comforting other people as they came up to him and apologized for his loss and talked about her. 

All consuming depression. Not leaving his bed for days. Laying on his side and looking at her pillow and crying because he was looking at her pillow and not her face. Because he’d never look at her face like that again. He’d never have her laying in bed with him again.

Slowly coming out of the depression. Finding a new normal. Deciding to live for her as much as it hurt. Working at the Pitt. Things getting better and life and himself feeling stable. Visiting her grave. The years eventually blurring together as he falls into a routine and goes to work and comes home and listens to the scanner and sleeps and goes back to work again. Some dates and casual flings, brief romances. Nothing serious. They grow fewer and farther between.  

And then Jack hits meeting you and his mind stops. 

The sobs don’t. The way he rocks himself slightly in an attempt to self soothe doesn’t. The choked out apologies to her for everything don’t. The way it feels like he’s right back there, on the day he lost her and the day he saw her in her casket doesn’t. The guilt he suddenly feels for being with you doesn’t. The guilt he feels for his wedding ring falling off and him not noticing while he was doing your dishes, washing your child’s highchair tray doesn’t. The ache that fucking dove and what felt like her blessing put in his heart doesn’t. 

Missing her so badly he can’t breathe doesn’t. But neither does his want and need and affection for you. 

Jack hasn’t cried like this in a good while. Hasn’t felt everything all over again and watched his entire life with her and the aftermath play out in his mind in even longer. And he doesn’t understand, or maybe isn’t letting himself understand, why he feels so sad and so guilty and why he had to replay everything in his mind. Why he’s still fucking sobbing and clutching his ring so hard it’ll take hours if not a full day for the indent it leaves behind to fade. 

Deep down Jack knows it’s a form of processing. He knows his ring coming off is a huge thing for him and he knows that’s okay and that this reaction is okay. He and his therapist have talked at length and repeatedly, especially recently, about his possible reactions to taking it off. But he didn’t really take it off, did he?

His sobs taper off as exhaustion hits and he runs out of tears. But his feelings don’t stop. He’s a storm of emotions, has guilt in every direction possible. He hits that numbness that accompanies exhaustion though and it’s a nice change, not feeling every emotion even as he knows he still has them. His head feels fuzzy and it gets harder to think.

Jack lets his head fall back against the cabinet and closes his eyes. It quickly becomes apparent to him though that if he stays here he’ll fall asleep here. So he forces himself up and to the guest bed, pretty much just flops onto it, head barely hitting a pillow. He looks at his ring for a few seconds before his eyes start to close, curls his hand back around it and brings it back close to heart as he falls into a deep sleep.

He wakes hours later to the sound of crying. It’s not a screaming cry like something is wrong or your son is deeply upset but still. It takes him a minute to come back to fully, to remember what happened, to remember the thing he’s still clutching in his right hand is his wedding ring. Jack rolls onto his back and runs his left hand over his face and through his hair to try and fight off the remnants of sleep. And he feels it of course, the lack of it, no metal ring gliding over his skin. 

As he sits up he opens his hand to look at his ring. He feels so fucking melodramatic now. It’s a ring. She’s been dead for over five years. It should have come off a long time ago. It’s not like he has to get rid of it. He just won’t be wearing it anymore. And yet he can’t let go of all those emotions. 

He goes to grab the baby monitor from the nightstand, vaguely wondering why the volume is turned so low but it’s not there. He’s confused for a minute but then it hits him. He left it by the sink. Your son was so quiet and he was so exhausted when he forced himself off the kitchen floor that he just left it there. So who fucking knows how long your son has been awake and crying. After it processes completely it jolts him awake, has him setting his ring on the nightstand and all but running to your son’s room, berating himself further the entire way. 

Jack cannot believe he did that. Forgot the monitor. Left your son nearly alone effectively. Him crying is bad enough but what if something had happened? What if he had started choking? What if someone had broken in? What if he’s been in there for fucking hours crying so long he’s going to get sick now? What if you’d come home to Jack passed out in bed and your son crying? How could you ever forgive him? Ever trust him again? More guilt surges through him and it’s enough to make him teary again because you trust him with your son and he forgot the monitor and your son is one and won’t understand why nobody came for him. Why Jack didn’t come for him. Why Jack left him in there crying alone. 

“Hi Baby,” Jack calls to your son as he opens the door and flicks the light on. “I’m so sorry Bud. I hope you weren’t in here upset for too long.” Your son starts to calm the second he hears Jack’s voice and sees him, small arms reaching up towards Jack asking to be picked up. The big alligator tears rolling down his face make Jack’s heart ache as he picks him up, chubby hands grabbing at Jack’s shirt while Jack settles him against his chest. 

Jack bounces slightly, cupping the back of your son’s head with the hand not holding him, thumb brushing back and forth soothingly. “I’m so sorry Honey.” He turns his head and kisses your son’s temple a few times. He’s stopped crying, he did pretty much as soon as he was in Jack’s arms, just the occasional sniffles and small hiccupped breaths as he settles back down. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry, I really am, and I’m here now, I’ve got you.” 

He settles into the rocking chair that’s there in the nursery and rocks with your son, presses a few more kisses to his head, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo. It calms him. Jack keeps whispering to your son, that he’s sorry and he’s here and everything’s okay and he’ll never do that again. Jack glances at his watch. It hasn’t actually been that long, really it’s been about the length of time your son usually naps for, so it’s unlikely he was crying for that long, right? Unless today was the day he couldn’t sleep and woke up earlier. There’s no way to know and Jack hates it, can only hope he woke up quickly and as soon as your son started crying. 

Your son rests quietly on his chest, hand playing with Jack’s shirt a bit to keep himself occupied, cooing and babbling to himself a little occasionally. It’s comforting, holding him like this and rocking. Jack knows he’s doing this more to soothe himself than your son who’s pretty much completely unbothered now. 

Jack thinks about what precipitated his passing out without the monitor as he holds your son close, namely his ring and the dove. 

Jack knows it was some kind of sign from her and the universe. The whole thing. He doesn’t care how it sounds. He knows it was her blessing. Her way of telling him she’s happy for him and he should be happy too and not feel guilty. And he wishes his guilt could be erased that easily, by a dove and his ring coming off. But it can’t. And it lingers. And Jack is so glad he has someone who understands and won’t hold it against him. Because he’s sure he won’t be out of this funk by the time you get home.    

Even though he knows you’ll understand and won’t hold it against him he still hates that he’s going to be a bit off with you, especially when you just started your relationship officially yesterday. Yes, you cried into him last night from grief but it feels different. Jack brought up pet names and asked a question specifically about your husband. That made you think of your husband. This is his ring falling off. Something that needed to happen anyway. His reaction could easily make it seem like he’s not ready for this or isn’t fully ready to commit to you and let her go in a way. And he doesn’t want you to think that because it’s not true. He is ready for this, he wants this with you so badly, wants you and he is ready to commit to you. He’s been ready and patiently waiting for you. 

He knows he needs to try and get out of his head. Your son starting to chew on his shirt pulls him out of his thoughts. 

“You hungry, little man? Want a snack? A real one, because my shirt isn’t going to do much for you.” Jack looks down at your son and pulls him away from his chest gently. “No it’s not,” he says in a bit of a baby voice, smiling and shaking his head at your son. “It can’t taste very good either.” 

Your son giggles up at Jack at his voice and the way he shakes his head, hands reach for Jack’s face. Jack playfully takes one of your son’s hands and brings it up, mouths at it and makes fake eating noises just to pull more laughter. Jack releases the hand and brings your son up a little closer, leans into him and kisses at his cheeks dramatically, tickling his face with his stubble and his hand on your son’s tummy. It earns him more pealing laughter and makes him smile widely at your son. He loves making your son laugh, could spend all day making him laugh. He loves making your son happy and hearing your son’s laugh helps him, makes him happier and relax a bit. It’s damn near audible serotonin. 

Your son’s eyes shine and he looks so happy, like Jack’s the best thing in the whole world and Jack doesn’t feel like he deserves it in the moment. But he tries to shove that aside to just focus on your son. Your son seems to love eye contact as much as Jack does so it’s easy to catch his gaze and talk to him softly, earnestly, almost achingly so. “I love you Honey, so so much. I hope you know that.”

And he does. Jack loves your son like he’s Jack’s own. Jack, like you, would walk straight into a burning building and through flames for him, would jump in front of a car for him, anything, without a second thought, he’d just do it. Instinctually. And if, god forbid, something ever happened to your son, Jack would bleed himself dry donating his O- blood to your son if that’s what was needed. 

Your son babbles at him in response, smiling at Jack and laughing while clapping his hands. Jack laughs with him and then sighs contentedly. “Alright, you. Let’s get you changed and then get a snack and text mommy and we’ll figure out the rest after, okay?”

Jack’s quick to get your son changed and out to the kitchen, turning off the monitor where it sits by the sink and shaking his head at himself. He’s nervous about telling you, about your reaction. He’d understand if you didn��t trust him with your son anymore, if it somehow ruined things. He just really hopes you still will trust him and nothing is ruined. He can pretty much assure you he’ll never do it again.

Once he has your son squared away with a snack and some water in his highchair Jack sits at the table next to him and texts you. Not telling you what happened never even crossed his mind. He debates calling you instead but he doesn’t want to interrupt your workday more than he has to.  

J - I’m so so sorry. I fell asleep and accidentally left the monitor in the other room. I woke up to him crying and I have no idea how long he was crying for. He calmed as soon as I picked him up and is okay now. Having a snack and some water. But I totally get if you don’t trust me with him anymore and don’t want me watching him by myself anymore. I’m so sorry

Jack stares at his phone waiting for your reply. He knows you’re at work and busy and it might be a bit before you even see that he texted you let alone have the time to read his message and reply. And he knows you might not even want to reply. He’s just praying that you give him something so he knows that you know what happened. 

You do. You don’t even take that long all things considered, it’s only a minute or so before those three dots appear. 

You - Hey, it’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’ve done the same thing more than once, I promise

You - All that matters is he’s okay. Not surprised he calmed down as soon as you picked him up, he’s so enamored with you! 

You - And of course I still trust you with him. I’ve seen you with him and how aware of him you are and how in tune, so if I had to bet, I’d say he wasn’t crying long at all before it woke you up. And even if he had been crying for a while, it’s okay. I’d still trust you. Like I said, I’ve done it before more than once. It’s just one of those things that happens. Especially if you need a nap just as bad as he does!

Jack lets out a sigh of relief reading your texts. His head is still a fucking mess from everything and he hasn’t forgiven himself for this, he’s just so good at compartmentalizing it’s all in a box on a shelf to deal with later. 

J - Okay. I really am sorry though and I can pretty much guarantee you it won’t happen again

You reply quickly. 

You - It’s really okay, try not to feel bad about it. I know it’s not that easy but just know that I’m not upset or anything 

A few seconds later before Jack can respond there’s another message from you. 

You - You otherwise okay? 

Of course you’d pick up on it and know. Of course you’d worry about him. It makes Jack feel so good to know there’s someone out there who cares about him that much, who he’s that important to in a non-platonic sense. But at the same time part of him hates that he didn’t hide it better, that he’s worrying you and burdening you with himself. 

J - Yeah, just been a day kind of

J - Mentally. Nothing to do with him

He glances up at your son as he waits to see if you reply. “Good stuff?” he laughs, your son having devoured the cheerios Jack gave him. “Want some more?” Your son giggles and claps a bit as Jack pours some more out for him. “You’re the best, you know that Bud?”

You - I’m sorry, Jack. We can talk tonight if you want but don’t have to of course. Just know I’m here for you for whatever. I think I’ll probably be able to leave a little early today too

Jack bites his lip. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about it, or how much he wants to talk about it. 

J - I know. And okay but don’t rush home on my account 

He sets his phone off to the side and turns his focus back to your son, scooting a bit closer to him. “Oh, thank you,” Jack chuckles when your son offers him a cheerio in his tiny pincer grasp and Jack lets him feed it to him, much to your son’s delight. He does it a few more times and Jack takes every cheerio offered until the two of them have eaten them all. 

Jack takes your son to the living room, sets him down on the floor and gets down to play with him. If you end up being able to leave work a bit early it really won’t be too long before you’re home. 

Playing with your son is a good distraction until it’s not and the walls of the box he’d put everything in start to crumble and all his feelings and guilt from earlier flood his mind. Jack’s at least able to focus on both your son and those feelings at once, not outwardly showing any distress or being off with your son or suddenly less interactive. The feelings just eat away at him inside. The guilt. 

Jack’s not even that aware of time passing until he hears your key in the door. “Hi!” you call out as you walk in and set your stuff down, kick out of your shoes. You’re glad to be home and done with the week and so excited to have a weekend with Jack. You walk into your living room and smile at the sight of Jack and your son on the floor together playing. 

“Hey,” Jack calls back. He lowers his voice as you walk into the room. “Who is that?” he asks your son, “Mommy home?” Your son claps and gets excited, starts to crawl over to you but doesn’t get super far. “How was your day?” 

“Oh you know,” you sigh. “Work.” Jack laughs softly. “How was your guys’ day?” You walk over to pick up your son. He’s still close to Jack and without even being fully conscious of it you run a hand through Jack’s hair affectionately before grabbing your son, picking him up and peppering his face with kisses, cooing at him softly that you missed him and you love him and did he have a good day with Jack.

Jack clears his throat as he stands up and walks over to sit on the couch. “Oh you know,” he repeats your words with a similar sigh, only his has an edge to it that concerns you. “You know.” 

You turn to really look at Jack as he sits on the couch and he hates the way your face drops when you see him. You can tell he cried at some point today and you’re guessing it happened before he fell asleep without the monitor. Your brows furrow together, eyes widening slightly in concern. Jack shakes his head and sighs, ready to apologize for ruining your mood and Friday night. But you speak first. 

“Jack?” You walk over and sit on the couch with your son on your lap near him, but leave a cushion between you in case he wants space. You’re worried about him, quite a lot. You’ve never seen him look this sad and almost lost. “What’s wrong honey?” 

Jack isn’t sure how to even begin to answer because it feels so ridiculous. You’ve had your rings off for a long time. He bets you weren’t like this when you took them off. And even if you were it was so close to when he died and you were pregnant. 

Jack doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything and just holds up his left hand. Your eyes slowly leave his and move to his hand. It doesn’t take you long to notice. And Jack can see it on your face the second you realize. Your eyes go back to his. 

“You took your wedding ring off.”

Jack brings his hand down and sighs, shaking his head. “I didn’t really take it off so much as it fell off while I was doing the dishes.” He looks down at his hand. “It’s on my nightstand, it didn’t get lost in the pipes or anything. I just…” He shrugs. He wants to look back up at you but he can’t bring himself to for some reason. “I didn’t expect it. I’ve done the dishes for over five years, scrubbed my hands at work and it never came off. But today it did. And the worst part is I didn’t even notice when it did. I didn’t realize it until I was drying my hands.”

You’re quiet as you try to think of what to say, what you would want to hear if you were in Jack’s position. And you’re trying to shove the massive guilt that’s hit you aside because this isn’t about you. This is about Jack. But if he hadn’t been doing your and your son’s dishes his ring wouldn’t have come off. It feels like it’s your fault somehow. 

“I… Jack I’m so sorry you didn’t get to do it on your own terms.” You want to move closer to him, rest your hand on him and squeeze reassuringly or hold his hand. But you’re not sure if he’d want that. “You can put it back on, Jack. If you need to or want to. That’s okay.”

Jack had a feeling you’d say that. And he can see in the way you shift a little that you want to be closer to him but aren’t sure if he’d want that. He’s not really sure either now that you’re talking about what happened and it’s all that’s in his mind again. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, it needed to come off. My therapist and I have talked about it. A lot,” he laughs dryly. He forces himself to look at you. “Especially recently, because it’s not fair to you. For us to be together and me to be wearing her ring-”

You’re shaking your head as he speaks and you have to interrupt him. “It’s not unfair to me Jack. It’s just not about fairness in general. I get it, you know I do.” And you do. But you can’t lie to yourself and say it wouldn’t be a little hard to see him put it back on, date him while he wears her ring. You’d never say that though and you imagine you don’t really have to. That Jack just knows because he can put himself in the same position. “If you’re not ready to have it off Jack, that’s okay. I promise.” And you do promise, because even if he did put it back on you would be okay with it even if it was a little hard. 

“I am. It’s been over five years. It needed to come off, truly. It was time.” You can see his eyes get a little glassy and it makes your heart ache for him. You know he must have sobbed about it and you hate that he was alone. Because you know what it’s like. You know what it’s like to suddenly no longer have your wedding ring on and be alone when it happens. You have no idea if he’d have wanted you around when he did it but at least he could have had the option. “I was thinking about it anyway. I was going to try to do it this weekend.” Jack bites his trembling lip and looks down for a moment before looking back up at you, the tears now visible in his eyes. “I just thought I’d get to do it. That it would be this intentional thing and I could talk to her while I did it, you know?”

You let out a shuddery breath and feel tears prick the back of your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper, “I know. And I’m so sorry you didn’t get that Jack.”

Jack takes a breath and shrugs at you, all the emotion disappearing from his face for a second leaving him stone faced. “Stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for.” Jack’s eyes fall down to your son as he starts to babble and wiggle against you more before Jack can see your slight flinch at his words. His tone was sharper than he meant or realized. Colder. He almost sounded annoyed. 

You swallow hard. Both of you knew there would be some really difficult moments during your relationship. Days where the grief was all-consuming and the guilt eating you alive. You just didn’t expect one quite this early on while things are still so new. It’s okay that it is one, just unexpected. “Okay, I’m-” You stop yourself before you apologize again and Jack knows it, looks up at you and gives you the smallest amused smile. It falls quickly though when he sees how upset you are. He hates that he’s the cause. “I, you, um,” you let out a breath, “you’re of course welcome to stay here, always Jack, I hope you know that. And I’m here for you and this if that’s what you need. If you want to talk about, or be close or whatever it is that would help you. I don’t want it to sound like I want you to leave. Of course I’d like you to be here but more than that I want whatever you need and is best for you. I just, it’s also okay if you need to go home, Jack. Be alone and have some time to yourself. Time with her. Go visit her, maybe, if you think that would help.”

You look down at your son while you give Jack time to think, shift him on your lap a little and bounce him on your legs, earning you some squealing laughter. 

“Maybe,” Jack finally says. “I don’t know.” He’s not sure what would be better. The thought of being home and alone with his thoughts sounds awful. But maybe some of the guilt would pass if he wasn’t here with you as terrible as he knows that sounds and is. He doesn’t know. His brain just doesn’t know. He’s paralyzed in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. 

“That’s okay, it’s okay to not know.” You glance around the room as you keep bouncing your knees for your son. You’re trying to think of anything that might help him. Emotionally or just help him figure out what he wants and needs. “He and I can go into my room and give you some space, or go take a walk if that would help?”

Jack shakes his head, frowning at the ideas. “No. This is your house. I’m not confining you to a room in your own house or making you leave.”

“You’re not making me do anything Jack, I’m offering.”

“No.” He’s firm in his answer. “Maybe,” he swallows hard, “maybe I should go for a walk.” He’s not sure if being alone with his thoughts is a good idea but maybe a walk would at least clear his mind a bit. But he also feels bad about it, like he’s just leaving you as soon as he’s struggling with grief. He knows it’s a little more than just normal struggling, but still. He doesn’t want to be that guy, doesn’t want you to feel like you don’t help or he doesn’t want your comfort. 

You’re quiet for a moment, looking down at your son and pulling him up when he wants to stand and bounce on your legs. He’s getting close to walking. You’re not upset that Jack wants to leave and needs space, you’re not sad or hurt. It’s not that. You’re worried because you know how hard it is. How one thing in particular can seem like the best answer.

“Jack,” you whisper, force yourself to look at him so he understands your question. “Are you going to come back?” He nods. Jack understands what your question means. Is he suicidal. He hadn’t even thought about it really. It hadn’t crossed his mind as something to do now, largely, he thinks, because he has you and your son. But Jack hates the fact that he made you worry like that. About losing someone else. “Because you really need to come back, Jack.” You’re still whispering. “Even if it’s not to me.” 

Somehow Jack’s heart breaks a little more. “Hey,” he says softly, tilting his head at you. He reaches out and rests a hand just above your knee. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m going to come back, Sweetheart. To you.” He squeezes your thigh as he speaks, hoping his touch and the honesty he’s trying to project through his eyes will reassure you. “I think I should just try a walk and see if it clears my head or helps me decide what I want to do.”

You nod at him. “Okay. I hope it’ll help.” Jack nods at you and you let out a small breath as he gets up and makes his way to the front door. “Just, um, take your phone? Please. And be safe.” 

Jack smiles at you, lets out the softest laugh through his nose. “I’ve got it, yeah. And I will be.” He turns and rests a hand on the door handle but then turns back to you. “I don’t want you to think this means I’m not ready, or that I can’t be in a relationship with you. Because it doesn’t. I just didn’t expect it and-”

“Hey,” you cut him off gently, “I think a really big and meaningful thing on the grieving the loss of a spouse, I don’t know, checklist, for lack of a better word, happened unexpectedly today and so you’re having a really bad grief day. That’s okay. Those days will happen for both of us. And if on your walk you realize you aren’t ready or can’t be in a relationship with me that’s okay too.”

“I won’t.” He shakes his head. “Because even with all these thoughts and feelings and whatever else right now I feel ready and I want to be in a relationship with you. I just need to try and work it out in my head.” Jack takes in a shuddery breath. He feels like such an asshole for doing this to you. “I’m sorry for dumping all of this and then running.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jack. I don’t feel like you’re dumping anything. Or like you’re running.” You give him a small smile. “You’re taking a walk to clear your head. That’s healthy.”

“I’ll be back tonight. Even if I decide I need to spend some time at my place, okay?”

You nod at him and he turns back and opens the door, stepping out and locking it behind him so you don’t have to get up. You straighten out on the couch so that you’re facing the TV, holding your son close just like Jack did earlier in the day but letting him stay standing on your legs. 

You hate yourself for it but you start crying. Of course you start crying. You feel like you’re totally usurping Jack’s grief and feelings or using them and him somehow but you can’t stop the tears even as your son bounces on you and giggles. They’re not even for yourself, not really. They’re for Jack and how fucking badly you know he’s hurting right now, how much he’s missing her, how guilty in every way he’s feeling, how conflicted he is. Because you’ve been there since you met him. More than once. And you understand. You know your situations aren’t identical and you’d never say you understand perfectly or completely know what he’s going through but on a fairly deep level you understand. You know the emotions and how easily they can swallow you. You cry because you care so much about Jack and hate that he’s hurting and that you can’t do anything to make it better. 

Jack has no idea where he’s walking to. He considered your suggestion for a moment, going to see her. He knows that’s a kind of fucked up luxury he has. He can just go and visit her whenever he wants. You can’t go visit your husband easily like that. He’s in Arlington, a four hour drive away. And he knows you love that and are glad he’s honored there but he’s sure it hurts at times. It’s actually one piece of this he really can’t imagine. He can’t imagine not being able to go see her whenever he wanted.

But Jack decides visiting her right now doesn’t quite feel right. So he just walks. And walks. And walks. It all runs through his head again. Every emotion and feeling and scrap of guilt. He’s not even really fully aware of the conversation he’s having with himself in his head, of how he’s trying to process. He just doesn’t fight anything and lets it happen.

He’s so completely in his head and on auto-pilot that Jack doesn’t even know where he is or how he got here when he stops walking as he hits the entrance to a park. It kind of freaks him out how he doesn’t remember walking here but he just rolls with it, walks into the park and along the trail until he spots a bench a little off the path near some bushes. 

More than anything at this point, Jack finds himself struggling with the guilt. He feels guilty for doing this to you. For dropping this big emotional thing on you that clearly upset you for him and just leaving. For making you wonder if he was going to come back or if you’d never see him again and be stuck with another loss and cleaning out his clothes and belongings that are at your place just like you had to with your husband’s. For scaring you like that. For forgetting the monitor and letting your son cry. 

He knows that in some sense this guilt will be easier to let go. That it really will fade almost completely with time because he can spend time with you. He can apologize and reassure you. You guys can make new happy and fun memories, smile and laugh together.

Jack knows that’s not true for the rest of his guilt. His guilt for not noticing his ring coming off. For not putting it back on. For letting that piece of her go. His guilt for moving on with you even when he knows that’s what she would want, is what he would want for her. And he thought about that each time he was deployed and made her a video just in case he didn’t come back. He always told her. Grieve and then find someone else to share your life with and be happy with. He wanted that for her. But now that he’s here having to be the one to do it, it feels like some form of betrayal in a way. How could he possibly ever get over her? Jack knows it’s not really about getting over. Because he couldn’t really, in the same way you could never truly get over your husband. It’s not a breakup. Nobody chose to end the relationship. It was ripped away. 

But he knows it’s not betrayal. He knows that being with you, falling in love with you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her anymore, doesn’t diminish how much he loves her. Doesn’t make her some figure in his past that he’ll slowly come to think of less and less until he forgets her. He could never forget her and a part of him will always love her. He doesn’t think he could go a single day without thinking of her even if only for a second. And Jack knows that you would never let him. That if the day came where he started losing his memory that you’d be right by his side with pictures of the two of you and your family together but also with pictures of her and her and him together, tell him all the stories he’s told you about her. 

He knows it’s not betrayal and this is what she would want but it’s so fucking hard at times. He wishes he could just call her. Or that she had left a video telling him to grieve and find someone else. Maybe hearing it directly from her would help. But he can’t and she didn’t. All he has is a dove on your windowsill and while it feels so strongly like a sign and her blessing it’s hard to hold onto that belief at times. 

Jack lets out a long breath and closes his eyes, tips his head back and feels what’s left of the heat from the sun and the slight breeze across his face. He should head back soon so he doesn’t get back after dark. Or at least text you that he’s okay and still walking if it does get dark. But he still doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what he needs. Whether to go back to his house for the night or even the weekend. 

He thinks he’s having an auditory hallucination when he first hears it. That coo of a dove. Jack opens his eyes slowly and brings his head back down. And sure enough there on the opposite end of the bench is a mourning dove. He gives a short laugh of disbelief. So he’s having a visual hallucination too, great. Because this can’t be real. And it especially can’t be real when the dove moves and Jack recognizes it as the same one that was on the windowsill. That line of black feathers just above one of its eyes too unique to be a different bird. 

But then a kid who must be four or five yells “Look mommy! A bird!” as they point to the bench. The kid’s mom looks over and nods, says something Jack can’t hear to her daughter. 

Jack tells himself to be relieved that he’s not hallucinating. But it just feels like too much, in every sense. It’s too perfect to be true and mean anything. But it’s also way too coincidental and on point to mean nothing. Right? 

The dove gives a soft coo and then tilts its head to one side as it looks at Jack, eyes almost squinting. He swears it’s a really? look that he’s given Robby a thousand times. Like really the dove had to come find him again to give him the same message. So maybe he is hallucinating. Might as well go full send then. “I’m not convinced that you’re not some very realistic fucking animatronic dove Robby’s controlling off in some fucking bush to try and help me,” Jack huffs and rolls his eyes, doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying but still.

He can’t believe he’s actually fucking talking to the dove now. Joking with it. He has to laugh at himself and the dove coos a few times as he does, ruffling its feathers again. Jack rubs his face with his hands and shakes his head before looking back at the dove. He bites his lip when he feels that pressure behind his eyes. He won’t cry. Not with this dove. That’s the line. That has to be the fucking line. 

Jack and the dove just look at each other for a few minutes. Maybe it’s true, likely it’s Jack forcing himself to believe it, but it feels like sitting in her presence. He presses his lips in a line as they tremble slightly. “Yeah?” It’s a loaded question. 

He can’t believe he actually just asked that out loud. To the dove. The random bird in a park on a bench. Like it really means something. Like it’s actually her. But Jack wants to believe it is. He wants that comfort. Wants that sign. And he tells himself that’s okay. That it’s human. That humans have been looking for and seeing signs in all sorts of things forever. Jack needs to believe in this. And so he gives himself this and lets himself believe.

The dove coos back at him once. Jack smiles and shakes his head. After a few more coos at Jack the dove flies off. He watches it fly off, laughing as a few tears leak out of his eyes. He brings his head back down and rests his elbows on his knees, holds his face in his hand for a second and gives himself a single muffled sob through his laughter. Because the dove isn’t here now. He’s not crying with the dove. 

He wants to tell you. Jack needs to tell you. And maybe you’ll think he’s totally off the fucking rocker and break it off and that’ll be the real sign. He has a feeling you won’t though. 

Jack wipes his eyes and sniffles and then stands up. He walked on auto-pilot for so long that he actually has to use his phone to get directions to point him in the direction of your place. He feels much better, as kind of crazy as that fact makes him feel. He’ll stay at yours tonight. The whole weekend if you’ll let him. 

Eventually you force yourself to get up. The tears have at least lessened if not stopped completely. You take your son into your room with you and set him on the floor for a second while you change quickly. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Taking a walk with your son crosses your mind but you don’t want to accidentally run into Jack and have him feel like you’re stalking him or can’t give him space. You’re just restless. 

You could go to the park a few blocks up. You doubt Jack is going to go there if he’s taking a walk, it’s not a huge park you can really walk through. But still. You shouldn’t risk it. You sigh and pick your son up, head back to the living room and get down on the floor to play with him like Jack was. You feel like a terrible mother for not giving your son your full attention since you’ve been home so you do your best to go completely into mom mode and forget about everything but your son. 

Two or so hours pass and Jack still isn’t back. You head to the kitchen and put your son in his highchair, get some dinner ready for him. You consider making something for yourself and maybe Jack but you’re not even remotely hungry. You’re vaguely nauseous if anything. But at least the tears have truly stopped and you put in some eyedrops so your eyes hopefully won’t completely give you away when you see Jack again. You don’t want him to feel like you’re taking his trauma and struggle for yourself. 

You’re helping your son eat dinner when you hear the lock turn over and your front door open. It makes your heart rate pick up quite noticeably. You have no idea if the walk will have helped at all, if he’s going to just run in to tell you he’s leaving for tonight or the weekend or forever. Because you can’t help but catastrophize. You don’t even know whether to call out a greeting. But when he doesn’t offer one as he locks the door behind him you figure you shouldn’t either. 

“Hey,” Jack greets you as he walks into the kitchen, kissing the top of your head as he walks by before doing the same to your son who squeals in excitement at seeing Jack. He sounds much better. Happier.

You freeze for a second. It’s not what you expected so it catches you a little off guard. “Hey,” you reply, tracking Jack as he sits down at the table across from you, baby at the end in the middle. He looks lighter. He’s been crying at least a little but he looks lighter and happier and like he found some answers and worked things out and is almost at peace. It gives you whiplash for a few seconds before Jack’s eyes leave your son and turn back to you, that intense gaze of his helping to ground you. He flashes you one of those smiles of his that gives you butterflies. “The walk helped I take it?”

“It did,” he nods at you, still smiling. “Well, actually, it wasn’t really the walk, it was a bird.”

You raise your eyebrows and smile back at him, confusion ghosting your features. “A bird?”

“A bird,” he confirms. “The whole thing is going to sound insane, and like I said yesterday, if you want to kick me out forever at the end I’ll get it. And I’m sorry.” Jack softens a little. “I know you’re going to say don’t be, but I am.”

“And like I said yesterday I very much doubt that’s how I’ll react.” You give him a small smile and turn to help your son finish his dinner. “And you’re right, I’m going to say don’t be sorry because you have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything to be sorry for.” You glance over at him with a knowing smile. 

“Still am,” he teases and you roll your eyes affectionately. “What do you want to order for dinner?”

You laugh a little. “How do you know I didn’t make myself something and eat already?” 

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You never eat when you’re stressed or worried or anxious.” He shrugs. “It worries me sometimes.”

“I-” you start, but have to stop. He’s right. You never eat when you’re stressed. The fact that he cares about you enough to have noticed and have it worry him isn��t missed by your brain and it makes you feel warm all over.

“You know I’m right.” Jack smirks at you. 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you grumble at him, but have to smile at the sound of his soft laugh. You help your son finish the last bite of his dinner and shrug at Jack. “I don’t know. Whatever you want. Nothing sounds particularly good or bad.” You stand up and grab a pack of baby wipes, start using one to clean your son’s face. 

“I’ve got it, you grab him,” Jack murmurs once your son is clean. 

“No, you take him. You already washed all of this once today. I’ve got it this time.” You turn your attention to your son. “And you want to go see Jack, don’t you Baby?” Your son laughs, holds his arms up and makes grabby hands at both of you really, looking between you and Jack, but eventually settling on Jack. “You really going to tell that face no?” You click your tongue at Jack. 

“I could never,” Jack hums as he picks your son up. “And he knows it.” He bounces your son in his arms a little, smiling at him and making faces. He glances over at you as he does. “Nauseous?” 

You pause before setting the tray in the sink and starting to wash it. You don’t know why you’re surprised. The man clearly knows you and he’s a doctor. There’s probably some outward physical symptoms you were displaying. “A little,” you simper at him, “but it’s passing.” 

“Good.” Jack sits back down with your son and orders something quickly, the lightest of your favorite dishes. “Food’ll be here in twenty.” 

“You didn’t have to do that Jack.” You shoot him a look from the sink. 

“Wanted to.” You shake your head at him with a little smile and bite of your lip as Jack adjusts your son to bounce on him. “Honestly, I had this whole little cooking lesson date at home idea where he and I were going to go pick up ingredients and then when you got home we’d cook and I’d show you things and wear him or he’d chill in his highchair and then… my ring fell off and kind of derailed everything.” The end of the sentence is much quieter than the beginning. 

You look at Jack as you finish drying the tray and set it on the counter. He’s still focused on your son. As much as he’s feeling better he clearly still has some stuff lingering under the surface. “That’s a very sweet idea. I’m sure we can do it someday soon.”

“Yeah.” He nods and glances at you, gives you an uncharacteristically shy smile. “Anyway, I figure once the food is here and we’ve eaten and put him down for the night we could talk? And I could tell you about the bird. A dove, specifically.” 

“I’d like that.” You nod at him and drape the dish towel back over the oven handle and go back and sit across from your boys at the table. “A mourning dove?”

“Mhmm.” Jack confirms, making a face at your son and then tickling his tummy. They’re common enough that he’s not surprised you guessed it.

“Your wife’s favorite,” you say softly, giving Jack an understanding smile when he looks up at you. 

Jack blinks at you for a solid thirty seconds. It strikes him that you said it. As in you didn’t ask it. You said it because you know it’s true. You know they’re her favorite. He must have talked about it once and you remembered. You remembered. “Yeah.” Jack nods, a little dazed. 

Your smile widens a little. “You’re not the only one who notices and remembers things Sweetheart,” you tease him lightly. 

Jack huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes playfully, but his smile makes clear how he really feels. How touched he is. The two of you chat for a bit until the food arrives. Once it does you eat at the table together, your son happy to hang out in his highchair next to you both. You get him down for the night while Jack clears the table and wipes it down. And then you meet him on the couch. 

You pause for a second, unsure of where you should sit. As of late you and Jack have been sitting side by side on the couch and so normally you would just take the seat next to him and not think about it. But you’re not sure where he’s at tonight, if he wants you that close. 

He pats the seat next to him. “Here, please. If you want. It’s okay if you don’t.” 

“No, I do,” you nod as you walk over and sit next to him, put the monitor on the coffee table, “I just wasn’t sure where you were with it tonight.” 

“I appreciate you thinking about it, but I’d like you close. I like having you close.” 

“I, I like having you close too,” you admit with a shy smile and slightly lowered head. You both shift on the couch so that you’re slightly angled and can see each other.

 “I’m going to preface this all by saying I know how crazy and ridiculous some of this is going to sound. But I just… want to believe it. Need to. So I’m trying to let myself. And maybe that’s not the healthiest way to deal with everything, but I can try and figure that out with my therapist later.” You nod and give him an encouraging smile. 

And so Jack begins. He starts with what happened with his ring, finding it. He spells out all of the emotions and guilt and feelings he’s had throughout the day. There are tears from him, moments where you pull him close and let him cry into your neck and chest while you rub his back and kiss his curls. You reassure him at the right times, express your understanding of his feelings and especially of a lot of the guilt. 

Then he finally moves to the dove. He tells you about both instances, at the windowsill and the park and you listen, nod at times and smile. You don’t look at him like he’s crazy or like you’re just putting up with this until he stops talking and you can free yourself. You squeeze his hand and laugh with him when he does. 

Jack shrugs at the end. Even though your reaction has been nothing but positive as you listened he’s still worried about what you’ll have to say. Still feels exceptionally vulnerable. “So, yeah. That’s the story of the bird I guess,” he laughs weakly, clearly somewhat embarrassed. He squeezes your hand that he’s holding to tell you he’s ready to hear what you have to say.

“Oh Jack,” you sigh, squeezing his hand back. His heart races a little faster. He’s not sure what to make of your sigh. “I don’t think there’s any part of that story, of anything you just told me, that’s crazy or ridiculous or insane.” 

Jack lets out a long breath. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Nothing to thank me for Sweetheart, I’m being honest with you. That’s what I think.”

“No I know, but…” Jack trails off, not really sure where he wanted to take that sentence. 

“I know.” You nod at him for a second. Now that you have that out there and Jack has relaxed you take a minute to gather your thoughts. Jack can tell it’s what you’re doing by the look in your eye as you keep your eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. Once you have a rough idea of what you want to say you look back at him. “I think it’s like you said Jack. Humans search for meaning and signs in everything. It’s normal. Especially in this context. And I think that if that wasn’t a sign from her then nobody in history has ever truly received a sign from anybody or anything because what happened with that dove was, I don’t even know how to describe it. Intense? Overly coincidental? I guess I don’t know how anyone could have that happen and think it meant nothing and was just two random things that happened at a very specific time with no significance.”

“Okay, good. I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” Jack lets out a bit of a groaned laugh and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Even if it was Jack, who the fuck cares? The only thing that matters is what it meant to you. How it made you feel. What you believe it is. Everyone else’s and the world’s opinions on it are irrelevant. Even mine. To be clear I’m with you on this, I promise. I’m just saying. Nobody but you will ever truly understand what all of that felt like so who is anyone to judge or tell you that your interpretation is wrong?” You shrug at him like it’s so simple. 

And in a way Jack guesses that it is. Because you’re right. Nobody else could ever truly understand. Not even you. “Yeah. I guess I was busy judging myself on behalf of the world about it and never really thought about it like that.” He tilts his head at you. “I’m really glad you don’t think I’m weird for it and that you understand. And uh,” he looks down and grows quieter, almost nervous, “we’re okay, right?” You know he’s asking if you still consider the two of you to be together, a couple.

You smile at him, lean in and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. “We’re more than okay, Jack,” you whisper against his skin, press another quick kiss there and pull back. 

“Good,” he breathes. You look at each other in a comfortable silence for a minute. “Have you,” Jack pauses and debates whether to finish his question. “Have you ever had something like that happen to you? You don’t have to answer either. I just wondered.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, well, I, um, yes. But not quite in the same way? I don’t know. He…” You look down at your lap and laugh softly to yourself before looking back up at Jack. “My husband, he used to give me daisies. All the time, for everything. Every big thing, anniversaries, birthdays, sometimes just because. Before we started dating I must have mentioned it once and so he actually showed up to our first date with a little bouquet of them, it was very sweet. I actually pressed one of them and have it still. Anyway, after I gave birth, when I was in the hospital I had ended up telling the nurses about him and what happened, and my doctor already knew. They felt bad, obviously, and so because I didn’t really have anyone to celebrate with they all went in on getting me some nice flowers.” You let out a bit of a shuddery breath, eyes a little glassy as you think back on the memory.

“It was a bouquet of daisies,” Jack murmurs. 

You smile at him and nod. “It was a bouquet of daisies,” you confirm. “And I asked the nurse who brought them in if there was a reason for daisies and she said when she went to buy them they just kind of called to her.” You shrug. “So, it’s not quite the same, but in the moment and even now I like to believe that he was somehow behind it and was there with us.”

As much as the memory warms Jack’s heart, parts of it break it too. He still hates the thought of you not having anyone, not having any support during labor and birth and after. Hates how your husband’s death was still pretty fresh for you. He can’t even begin to imagine. “I think he was,” Jack nods, reaching out and taking your hand, hoping it gives you some comfort and doesn’t feel weird. “Both behind it and there with you.”

“Thank you.” You nod at him. “Now whenever I see them I think of him, tell myself he’s saying hi.”

Jack nods and gives you a gentle smile. “He is.” 

After a few seconds you and Jack both shift at the same time, lean in and hug each other. “Thank you for trusting me with all of that. The story and your feelings. I’m really glad she helped you find some peace. I would be regardless of what it was about.”

“Thank you for listening and trusting me with the daisies.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your temple. 

Neither of you have to say anything else. You both get it, understand exactly what it meant to the other and for the two of you as a couple. You settle against Jack a bit once you break the hug.  

The mood is still a little somber. You guess that’s how you would describe it. You tilt your head and pull it back a little, give Jack a small smirk and try to help pick the mood up. You hope it doesn’t backfire. “You want me to ask Robby the first time I meet him if he has a very realistic animatronic mourning dove that he follows you around with?” 

“Please!” Jack snorts a laugh, “I would love to see his coughed out ‘excuse me?’ and his panicked and concerned eyes looking at me for a second before he gives you the actual fucking nicest, ‘no, I can’t say that I do,’ while internally trying to figure out how he’s going to casually pull me aside nicely ask me ‘what the fuck?’”

You giggle with him as Jack laughs at the thought. “You know I could never, right? I’m way too shy and socially awkward around people I don’t know to do that.”

Jack laughs as he nods. He lets his laughter trail off and grows a touch more serious, the smile he’s giving you dripping with the adoration and affection and gratefulness he has for you. “I do know that, yes, it’s something I lo-” Jack catches himself, “really like about you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack is right. Kind of. He doesn’t have to tell Dana and Robby. But they don’t even have to ask to know. Just looking at him is enough. 

“Did Dr. Abbot get divorced?” Trinity poses the question to the group at the hub. 

Nobody answers for a moment. Half the people there don’t know and the other half don’t really want to spread Jack’s business. 

Robby can feel the eyes of the half of the group that doesn’t know on him. He slowly raises his head and shoots them all a don’t gossip look. “No.” He looks at her a little longer. “What prompted that question?” 

Trinity shrugs. “He just used to wear a wedding ring and isn’t now.” 

The iPad in Robby’s hands drops the few inches to the counter as he spins to look at Jack, who apparently just arrived and is speaking with Dana. 

“You have a good weekend?” Dana asks as she looks at Jack over her glasses with a knowing smile. 

“I did, thank you Dana,” he says a little saccharinely. “Did you? Or did you have to work?”

“No I had it off. It was fine. Didn’t do much.” She tries to keep it casual but Jack can see right through it and it almost makes him laugh as he sets his phone on the counter and grabs a few things out of his backpack and puts them in his pockets. “What about you? Do anything fun?” 

You text him and when it wakes his phone Dana’s fast enough to glance down and see his new wallpaper. A photo of the three of you. She keeps her head down as she smiles to herself. 

“I did yeah.” Jack doesn’t offer anything more much to her apparent chagrin. She clocks his ringless left hand when he picks up his phone, her eyes widening and mouth dropping open for a second before she closes it and looks back up at him. Jack looks at her. He knows she knows. ��I’m going to put my stuff away now.” 

“Yeah, okay.” She nods at him, watching him walk towards the lockers. Once he’s out of sight she spins. “Robby!” She flicks her head to beckon him and walks away from the hub in the middle of the floor. 

“He’s not wearing his ring.” Robby whispers. 

“I know. And his phone’s wallpaper is a picture of the three of them.” Dana nudges his arm as she says it. 

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Something must have happened.” Dana pauses and glances over Robby’s shoulder to see if Jack is walking back to the floor yet. “He said he had a good weekend and did something fun but he didn’t give any other details.” 

“He’s gonna have to figure out something to say to everyone because Santos already asked if he got divorced because he’s not wearing his ring.” Robby gives Dana a look. They both know Jack is private by nature, but that at the same time he would absolutely hate people thinking he got a divorce. 

“He is.” She nods. “You think we can get him to talk?” She moves her chin subtly to point where Jack is walking back on the floor. 

Robby shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.” The two turn their attention to Jack, watching as he starts walking to the hub.

He can feel their eyes on him. And they’re not exactly subtle or trying to hide it. He looks at them for a second and stops walking.

Jack sighs before turning and walking into the breakroom. As much as he acts annoyed about it he really does kind of like it. He likes having two people he trusts to talk to you about and show you off to. 

He crosses his arms over his chest as Dana and Robby walk in. “Can I help the two of you?” They both just raise their eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you both off? Go home.” 

“Can’t.” Robby shakes his head and clicks his tongue at Jack. “Haven’t run the board with you yet.” 

Jack scoffs. “Then let’s go fucking run it.” He takes a couple of steps forward. 

“So it led to more?” Dana finally asks, getting Jack to stop walking and cross his arms back over his chest. 

Jack looks at her stoically. “Does it matter to the two of you?” 

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “Yeah it matters Jack! You’re not wearing your ring! It’s been over five years and you haven’t taken it off and now you have her in your life and it comes off? It absolutely matters. She matters! She’s important!”

There’s a little pang for Jack when Robby mentions his ring and his lips turn down for just a split second, but both Robby and Dana catch it. “I didn’t ask if she mattered or if it mattered generally. I asked if it mattered specifically to the two of you.” 

“It does Jack!” Dana smiles at him. “Like I said before, we want to see you happy and support you.”

Jack looks at the two of them for a second before taking a deep breath and settling his hands on his hips. “Yes, if you must know, there’s more than just friendship now.” He can’t fight off the smile that pulls onto his face as he says it. Nor does he really want to.

“Oh yeah?” Dana’s smile grows and she raises her eyebrows at him. 

“Are you like together?” Robby asks. “Like is she your girlfriend? Or is it like the dating stage before you make it official?” 

“Oh my god,” Jack mutters, shaking his head and looking away from them. “Yes, we’re together and she’s my girlfriend, okay?”

“Since when?” Dana beams at him. Jack knows how happy she is for him, knows she and Robby have seen him at his lowest and truly do just want him to be happy and are excited for him and care and are accordingly being affectionately nosey. 

“Really?” Jack sighs. 

“Has to be pretty recent, we’d have noticed otherwise,” Robby says to Dana. 

“Really, I guess,” Jack mutters to himself. “Thursday night, okay? Thursday night.”

“So I’m guessing you haven’t been out on a real date yet,” Dana hums at him. “It’s important to go on dates without the baby. Real dates.” 

“Yes, I know, thank you.” Jack gives her an exaggeratedly annoyed smile. 

“And do romantic things,” Robby adds.

“I do romantic things! I know to do them! I-” Jack huffs and shakes his head. “What the fuck even is this? I don’t need dating or relationship advice! And we’ve been together all of five days, can we all slow the fuck down?”

“Listen,” Dana starts. “I’m just saying. I’ve been in the baby phase before and I know I was married, but it can be easy to fall into a routine and always have him with you. So if you guys ever need a sitter, I’m more than happy to do that for you, okay?”

“I would be happy to as well,” Robby offers. 

Jack nods at them both as he considers. “Yeah, I kind of like that. The idea of his sitter being a medical professional. And I’ve thought about it before. How the two of you would be my preferred sitters. But,” he shrugs at them, trying a little too hard to look uneffected, “he’s not my kid, so it’s not my decision.” 

“For some reason I think she’d take your opinion into consideration pretty seriously.” Dana smirks at him. 

“This would, you know, require us meeting her,” Robby teases him. 

Jack stares at him. “Thank you for that very helpful insight Michael.” 

“I’m just saying.” Robby smirks a little and shrugs at Jack. 

“Yes,” Jack sings the word a little, “she would like to meet you both. We’ll get it set up. Figure out something to do.”

“Good.” Dana nods approvingly. “We’ll be on our best behavior to convince her to let us babysit for you guys. Won’t we Robinavitch?” 

“Why’d you say it like that?” Robby looks at her with mock offense. “Of course I will be.” 

“She’s going to like you.” Jack rolls his eyes at the two of them. “She’s shy though, has some social anxiety. So if she’s quiet and seems a bit reserved it’s just because she’s shy and it has nothing to do with you guys. She opens up more as she gets comfortable but she’s just quiet by nature. So it’s different.” He nods at both of them. They both know what he means. That you’re not extroverted like his wife. That you’re kind of the polar opposite in a way. Jack clears his throat. “Now is there any other part of my relationship you’d like to plan or be involved in? You wanna actually plan the dates too?” Jack asks pointedly, though there’s enough of a ghost of a smile on his face for the two to know he’s not actually mad.

There’s silence for a few seconds but then Robby apparently just can’t help himself. “You have condoms? You should keep one in your wa-”

“Robby!” Dana lightly smacks his arm with the papers she’s holding as Jack glares at Robby with a set face. “Really? Even for you!” Dana shakes her head at him, but it’s quite obvious to Jack she’s biting down a smile. And when she turns back to look at Jack she gives him the quickest flash of a he’s right though look. 

“What? I just like fucking with him sometimes!” Robby half laughs as he twists and moves his body away from Dana and her papers. He looks back at Jack. 

Once he and Robby have locked eyes Jack speaks. “I’m going to give Myrna your home address,” he deadpans so stone faced and stoically he can see Robby have the quickest flash of worry that he might actually do it.

“Oh come on I was joking!” Robby holds his hands out to his side. After a beat he gives the smallest shrug and lowers his voice. “Kind of.” 

“See,” Jack looks at Dana and waves towards Robby, “and I was going to offer to show you guys pictures and then Michael had to open his fucking mouth.”

“Woah woah woah!” Dana shakes her head and moves closer to Jack, holding her hands up in acquiescence. “Don’t punish me for his bullshit! I didn’t say anything. I just volunteered to babysit!”

Robby scoffs loudly. “Thank you Dana, for the solidarity. I’m really feeling it right now.”

“I actually do genuinely appreciate you offering, Dana. We may take you up on that soon. But she’s not going to let you do it for free,” Jack tells her in a much softer voice. He pulls his phone out and starts pulling up some photos to show her. 

“I can babysit too!” Robby offers. “I’m also a medical professional you know!” 

Jack flicks his eyes up to look at Robby, stone faced again. “That’s debatable.” 

“I made one joke! After being so supportive-”

“Shut up and get over here to look,” Jack cuts him off with a slight cock of his head to tell Robby he’s just fucking with him back and not actually upset. “And yes, we might ask you to babysit one day too.”

Jack brings up a few random photos of your son that he’s taken over the months while watching him, a few of him and your son. “God, he is just too fuckin cute,” Dana laughs. 

“The cutest.” Jack smiles fondly as he looks at your son. 

He brings up a few more of your son, a couple of you and your son. Then he hits Thursday. 

“This was on Thursday. It was his first birthday. We took him to the zoo.” Jack laughs softly as he looks at the photos. “He loves animals.” He offers his phone to Dana. “You can go through.” 

Dana does, her and Robby laughing sweetly at some of them and awing at others. She stops on a photo of a three of you that you’d had someone take. “Oh Jack,” Dana coos, “you guys look so happy. All three of you.” 

“Yeah.” Robby nods, smiles to himself. “And that little boy loves you.”

Jack flushes at that. He’s not really sure why but it makes him a little emotional. He watches as Dana flicks through some more photos. “He’s a year old, he’s hit the stage of liking anyone who gives him attention.” He has no idea why he’s downplaying it like he doesn’t absolutely fucking love the fact that your son loves him.

Jack doesn’t have to see Robby to know he’s rolling his eyes. It’s clear in his voice. “That is so not true Jack. And he loved you that first time we met him.” 

“He’s right,” Dana agrees, “babies can be pretty good judges of character. They’ll stay away from and cry around people they don’t like. And he did love you when we met. So just accept the boy loves you.” 

Jack just hums in response. It makes him smile though. He loves your son too. “And she’s beautiful, Jack. You can tell you make her happy.” Dana looks away from the phone and at Jack. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling as he looks down at you, “she makes me happy too.”

Dana and Robby share a look. “You know she’d be really happy for you Jack,” Robby says softly, talking about Jack’s wife. “She would want this for you.” 

“He’s right again,” Dana whispers, leaning into Jack and wrapping an arm around him and giving him his phone back. 

Jack leans into her in a silent thank you. “Two times in one day,” he says quietly, “someone better mark it on the calendar.” Robby huffs at him but Jack looks up and smirks at him for a second before giving Robby a genuine, slightly emotional smile and tipping his head at him. “Thank you, Robby.” Robby returns Jack’s smile with an identical one of his own. “And thank you,” he tells Dana as he bumps into her and returns her half hug. “Can we go run the board now?” 

“I think we can,” Robby nods, clapping Jack on the shoulder as they walk towards the door. “But hey,” Robby pauses by the door, opening it so Dana can walk out but looking at Jack who raises his eyebrows at him. “You weren’t serious about giving Myrna my address?”

Jack’s stoic look returns, not a hint of real emotion on his face. “Not today,” he deadpans and walks out. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I feel ridiculous for being this emotional about something so simple. It’s just a haircut.” You shake your head but lean into Jack a bit more as you both stand and watch your son get his hair cut. 

He’s needed it. He has for a bit you’ve just struggled to bring yourself to do it and life got busy. But earlier this week you’d worked yourself up to it and asked Jack if the place he got his hair cut also did kids’ hair. He’d been a little surprised by the question, for some reason it felt kind of meaningful in some way that you wanted your son to go to his barber shop. He told himself that realistically it was probably just because you didn’t know where else to go, but you could have gone wherever you get your hair done, but maybe they just don’t take kids. 

In any event your son is here at Jack’s barber shop getting a haircut. And you had asked Jack to come with you again once you made the appointment. He’d told you that you didn’t need to ask again, of course he would. You’ve been together a little over a week now and things have been good. Steady and sweet. Lots of hugs and forehead kisses and side cuddles on the couch when you’ve both been home at the same time. 

“First haircut, though. It’s kind of a big deal,” Jack murmurs to you, hand rubbing your back. 

“I don’t even know why I’m like this.”

“You don’t need to know why. You’re allowed to just feel. But I’m guessing it’s because it’s a sign of him growing up.” Jack presses a kiss to the top of your head. He’s not super sure how much you’ve thought about the end result but he wants you to be prepared. “Sweetheart, you know this haircut is most likely going to make him look much older?”

You go still and then Jack hears you sniffle. “No!” Your voice gets adorably high-pitched like you’re fighting back tears and you turn further into Jack and rest your forehead in the crook of his shoulder while you let a couple of tears fall. 

“I’ve got you,” Jack says with a sad little laugh, holding you close and rubbing your back. “I just wanted you to be prepared.” 

“I didn’t even think about that, I was just so focused on the haircut generally,” you mumble into him.

“I kind of thought so,” he murmurs, wiping away the one or two stray tears when you pull your face from his shoulder.

“God,” you huff at yourself, “when I said come with me to be my shoulder to cry on I didn’t think I was going to mean it literally.” 

Jack chuckles. “That’s alright, it’s part of what I’m here for. As in right now and generally, you know?” 

You look up at him and smile. You know he means as your boyfriend. “I do, yeah.” 

Later that night you and Jack are in the kitchen grabbing some water to take to bed with you and putting away a couple of things that have dried on the dish rack. You’d just finished watching your current show on the couch together like you often do. Jack had been right. The haircut makes your son look older. You’d had a little moment about it after you guys left the shop but you were able to move past it pretty quickly. 

Something about the day and the night has felt different for you. Jack has been so understanding and sweet and supportive and perfect, not just over the last week and a bit you’ve been together officially but even the three months before that, just in a different capacity. And you want more with him. You want to express your thanks and affection through more than hugs and side cuddles on the couch and forehead and cheek kisses. You want more of Jack. And you feel ready.

He’s putting the last of the dishes away.

“Hey Jack?”

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” His eyebrows raise a little as he shuts the cabinet door and turns to look at you. 

“Thank you. For today. Coming with me and holding me while I cried.” You shrug with a soft laugh. “I’m sorry you have to do so much of that right now.”

“You’re welcome. I was very happy to come, thank you for inviting me.” He walks closer to you but lets you initiate any touching. You wrap your arms around his waist loosely as you look up at him, his arms doing the same. “You have nothing to apologize for though. And I don’t feel like I’m having to hold you while you cry particularly often. Even if I was, I wouldn’t care. I mean I would care in the sense that I fucking hate seeing you upset, but not at the fact that you needed and wanted me to hold you. And I’m pretty sure you’ve held me while I cried recently too.” He tilts his head and gives you a little smirk. 

“I would anytime you needed.” You take a step closer to him and wrap your arms around him a little tighter, one of Jack’s arms around your waist while his other hand rubs up and down your back. 

Jack laughs softly, eyes crinkling so perfectly you could scream. “Same for you.” 

He looks beautiful in the flickering light of the lit candle on the kitchen table. Unfairly handsome with the way his skin glows and with his molten eyes and kissable and suckable lips and salt and pepper stubble. Jack’s thinking the same thing about you in this light. How the flickering light makes your eyes look like they’re shimmering, how the shadows hit perfectly to highlight your features and how the soft glow of the candle makes you look radiant. 

“What are you thinking about so hard?” you ask him a little breathlessly, closing the last of the distance between your bodies so that you’re flush against each other chest to chest, both your and Jack’s arms tightening around each other.

“That you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Incredibly so.” 

The smile that pulls on your face is bashful. “Funny, I was just thinking how incredibly handsome you are.” You lean your head up and in towards his, eyes dropping down to his lips for a second before returning to his eyes. “And how I’d like you to kiss me.” 

This close you can just about see Jack’s pupils dilate a little further. God does he fucking want to kiss you. But he finds himself unable to just do it without checking. “We don’t have to do this. You do not owe me. Not for going with you or because you cried and I held you or for anything at all. Ever.”

You nod at him. 

Jack brings his head down towards yours, tilting it slightly, eyes focused on your lips for a moment before going back to your eyes. “Say it please.” 

“I know. I know I don’t owe you,” you whisper, “I promise. I want this. I’ve been wanting this. And I’m ready.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, leaning his head down and towards yours further. Your lips are just about touching now.

“Jack,” you breathe against his lips. 

He nods once. “Yeah? You sure?” 

You nod at him. “Please.”

Jack doesn’t need asked twice. And so in your candle lit kitchen you share your first kiss. He presses his lips to yours in an almost painfully sweet and chaste kiss, holding his lips against yours just the right amount of time before he pulls away to look you in the eye, check in, see if you liked it, if you want more, if that’s enough for the night. 

The look in your eyes tells him all he needs to know just as the look in his tells you. But Jack doesn’t have time to even move in to kiss you again because you’re already kissing him, one hand resting on his chest while the other comes to cup his jaw and keep him close. 

You’re stealing kiss after kiss from each other, most of them starting to linger. Starting to get just a touch hotter. No open mouths or tongue or hard sucking, just more urgent.

Even kissing you Jack is respectful, though you expected absolutely nothing less with how he is, how he treats you. He lets you set the pace, follows your lead. There are soft noises of appreciation from each of you, the sounds slipping out easily even with the relatively chaste kissing you’re doing. 

You can feel the uncertainty of Jack’s hands as they rest against your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your shirt. You know it’s not that he’s not confident or is particularly self-conscious, but that he’s not sure what you’re okay with, where you’re okay with his hands being. It makes you smile against his lips. 

“What?” he asks against your lips as he smiles just because you are. 

“Nothing.” You take another kiss. “You’re just very cute.”

“Oh?” Jack kisses you again.

You nod a little. “Yeah.” It’s mumbled against his lips. Your hands leave his chest and jaw to find his and bring them up to hold your face, silently communicating to him that it’s okay for him to hold your face like that, touch you like that. 

Jack doesn’t get to appreciate his hands holding your face very long because you’re grabbing them again, wrapping them around you and using your hand to make his hand squeeze and grab at your hip and waist, bring one up to hold the back of your neck, kissing each other all the while. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your lips. And he means it. He’s very thankful for you showing him what you’re okay with. 

“Thank you,” you mumble back, continuing to kiss him.

The last kiss breaks naturally and you pull apart. You’re both panting softly, less because you’re out of breath and more because you’re just worked up for each other. 

“That was…” You feel a little lightheaded. 

“Yeah.” Like you, Jack is a little dizzy from kissing you. “That felt so good.” He’s struggling to come up with words.

“Felt so… right,” you laugh, the sound breathless and airy. 

“Good.” Jack nods and smiles at you.  

“Did it for you?” you ask, suddenly a touch self-conscious. “Feel right?”

“Oh yeah, Sweetheart,” he drawls the first two words with a quiet and shaky laugh that says everything you need to know about just how good and right kissing you felt, “that felt right.” 

It’s then you get a good enough flicker of light to really notice the flush of his cheeks and neck. “Good.” You lean up and kiss him again.

The two of you kiss for another minute or so before you naturally break apart again. But this time Jack rests his forehead against yours. 

“We should probably go get some sleep,” Jack whispers.

“I’m not opposed to doing this all night.” You smile. 

Jack’s breathy laugh fans across your lips. “Neither am I. Believe me, neither am I.”

“I know you’re right though.” You can’t help the way your bottom lip pushes out in the slightest pout. 

“I really wish I wasn’t,” Jack groans before pulling his forehead from yours. 

You giggle at him. “But you are.” 

You share smiles before actually grabbing the water you in part initially came into the kitchen for. You grab the monitor and Jack blows the candle out as he follows you into the hallway, illuminated only by the nightlight you have so neither you, nor Jack now, has to blind yourself if you need to get to your son in the middle of the night. 

Like always as of late, Jack walks you to your bedroom door. “Thank you for a great day, Jack. And night.” You lean up and give him a quick kiss. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

He smiles at you. “No, thank you. For the great day and fantastic night.” Jack winks at you with a small slightly smirked smile that makes you bite your lip and laugh to yourself, bashful again. He leans back down asking for one last kiss that you’re happy to give him, along with a hug. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack’s finishing up his shift Wednesday morning around 8:30. A trauma had come in right at shift change, so he’s only just had the chance to run the board with Robby. He’s signing off on a few last things and then is out, looking forward to some sleep. 

He nods a quick goodbye to Dana and starts to leave the hub when he hears a baby crying.

But it’s not just a baby crying. Jack would recognize that cry anywhere. Ice starts to spread through his veins.

Your son is here and crying and he is decidedly not happy. It’s not his usual cry. And for Jack if your son is randomly showing up here in his ED and not happy and crying the way he is, it means something is wrong. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope it was okay and worth the wait and you enjoyed and I would love to hear your thoughts and comments! They give me much joy and inspiration! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox is always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming! As are my DMs! 🙂

Do we want more of these two? I have like seven thousand ideas for the two of them if more than just myself would like to see more of them lol. The next couple of parts would probably less time jumping like this one and then I think it would probably pick back up again. Let me know if you'd like more!

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[c-grant]

blue line | jw60

requests are open

summary: when Joseph abruptly cuts you off, you confront him in a storm of confusion and hurt, demanding answers.

You hadn’t expected forever. You just didn’t expect silence.

You stand outside his condo, fists clenched in the sleeves of your jacket. Toronto’s late spring wind doesn’t quite bite, but it carries enough chill to mirror the ache sitting in your chest.

It’s been twelve days since he last texted you.

Ten since you sent that dumb “hope the game went well” message.

And zero since he acknowledged any of it.

And maybe that would’ve been fine — if you two were strangers. If this was just hookups and post-game adrenaline and laughing under blankets until sunrise with no strings.

But there were strings.

At least, you thought there were.

Your knuckles rap against the door harder than you meant to.

When it swings open and you see him — messy hair, hoodie, surprise flickering behind tired eyes — it’s like everything inside you erupts.

“What the hell, Joseph?”

He blinks, startled. “I… what?”

“You don’t get to do this,” you snap. “You don’t get to just disappear. Not after everything—”

“I didn’t mean to disappear—”

“Really? Because it felt pretty fucking intentional.” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. You hate how hurt bleeds into anger like this, how it makes your chest feel tight and stupid and small.

He runs a hand through his hair and steps back, wordlessly letting you in. You hesitate, then storm past him into the apartment — familiar and now painfully unfamiliar all at once.

You spin on your heel to face him. “If this didn’t mean anything to you, just say it. I can take that. But don't pretend it wasn’t something.”

His jaw tightens. “It was something. That’s the problem.”

You freeze. “…What?”

He lets out a slow, breathless laugh — more bitter than amused. “It wasn’t supposed to be. That’s what we agreed on, right? No pressure. No feelings.”

You stare at him, heart thudding. “So what, you caught feelings and decided to ghost me instead?”

He flinches.

And that’s all the confirmation you need.

Your voice lowers, rough and trembling. “You could’ve just talked to me, Joseph.”

“I didn’t know how,” he says, a little too quickly. “God, I— I’ve never done this. I’m used to shutting people out before they matter, and you— you didn’t give me that chance. You just mattered. And it scared the shit out of me.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You cross your arms tightly, more to hold yourself together than anything else. “So you ran.”

He nods once. “Yeah. I ran.”

And somehow that makes it worse — the fact that he’s not denying it. That he’s owning the damage like it's some awful truth he’d rather hold than let go of.

“I thought I did something wrong,” you whisper. “I thought I made it too serious or read into things that weren’t there.”

His face crumples like he’s trying not to break.

“No,” he says, voice thick. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just didn’t know how to handle it when it got real.”

You swallow hard. “It was real for me the whole time.”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, all the walls between you both dissolve. You see everything in his gaze — the regret, the fear, the way he never stopped thinking about you even if he pretended to.

“I don’t want to keep running,” he says softly. “Not from you.”

You want to believe him. God, you want to. But this still hurts. It doesn’t just get patched over in one night.

Still…

“I’m not doing the casual thing again,” you say firmly.

He nods. “I don’t want casual. I want you. All of it. If you’ll give me another chance.”

You hesitate.

But then, slowly, you nod.

Because beneath the hurt is something softer. Something that says maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop hiding. And maybe you're ready to let him try.

[c-grant]

the best day | s. crosby

warnings: some language

summary: Sid comes home after a long road trip and is immediately sucked into the chaos of his three children.

request: Can we get a dad Sid fic, like coming home from a road trip and seeing his family (I personally think he gives boy dad but girl dad Sid is cool too) and just embracing all the chaos of it?? I love ur work!!!

word count: 4.3k

a/n: I had a lot of fun with this one omg. original asker I hope I did your request justice! If not please don’t hesitate to reach out!!! enjoy it guys I have more to come <3

—

The house had been a whirlwind of little feet, snack wrappers, and endless laundry piles for the past ten days. With Sidney gone on his longest road stint of the season so far, you’d had the full reins of the Crosby circus—and while you were used to solo-parenting during stretches of the season, this one had dragged a bit longer than usual. Ten days. Eleven if you counted the departure that had cut breakfast short. But who’s counting?

You had. You’d counted every bath time meltdown, every spilled cup of juice, every "Mom, watch this!" shouted from the top of the couch when you were mid-diaper change. But there was also the good stuff. Mornings where all three of them woke up in a snuggle pile, Luca’s strong five-year-old legs tangled in yours, Alex drooling a little into your shirt, and Mallory cooing with her sleepy curls stuck to her forehead. There were driveway hockey games until it got dark, stick-handling drills taught by Luca to Alex, and Mallory giggling every time someone smacked the puck too hard and hit the garage door.

You’d managed. You always did.

This morning, though, felt different. Lighter. Hopeful. The boys had slept in a bit, worn out from backyard chaos the night before, and Mallory had woken up in one of her chirpy moods—babbling to her bunny plush and banging her chubby fists on the crib mattress like a tiny dictator summoning her kingdom. You’d scooped her up and breathed in her neck, that sweet, warm scent that only a baby can have. You mumbled a quiet, “Dada’s coming home today,” and she’d squealed like she understood.

Now, the house was clean, or as clean as it could be with two boys and a baby, the laundry was done (you had at least three clean loads folded and stacked, even if none of it was put away), and you were walking the boys through the grocery store while Mallory was strapped to your chest in the carrier, tugging on the drawstring of your hoodie with chunky fingers.

“I want to get Daddy the big cookies,” Luca said, skipping ahead a little as you navigated the cart toward the bakery section.

“You always want the big cookies,” you teased, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “You mean the oatmeal chocolate chip ones?”

He nodded furiously. “The ones with the gooey middles. Daddy said those are his ‘favorite of all time.’” He stretched the words out dramatically, mimicking Sid’s voice.

“Of all time,” Alex repeated, practically bouncing on his toes. “But what if they don’t have them?”

“We improvise,” you said, steering the cart with one hand while gently rubbing Mallory’s back with the other. “You think Daddy’s gonna mind if he comes home to just chocolate chip instead?”

Luca and Alex exchanged a solemn look. “He won’t mind,” Luca said, dragging out the word like it pained him to say it. “But he might be a little bit… disappointed.”

You laughed softly. “Tragic.”

Alex grinned up at you, missing one of his front teeth. “Can I pick out the juice for dinner?”

“As long as it’s not bright blue,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him playfully.

“Green?”

You shrugged. “Borderline.”

He nodded, satisfied with the challenge.

Mallory shifted against your chest, her face nuzzling into your hoodie before she popped her head back up and looked around, eyes wide like she owned the store. She’d been more and more alert lately— more curious—grabbing at everything, drooling on the straps of her carrier, and trying to mimic every single noise her brothers made. She’d started sort of babbling some version of “dada” the day after Sid left. He’d almost cried on FaceTime when you showed him.

The bakery section smelled like sugar and nostalgia. The boys hovered around the cookie counter, faces pressed close to the glass like little food critics, debating between their usual pick and a seasonal cinnamon one that had sparkles on top.

You leaned over the cart, picking out a pack of the oatmeal chocolate chip. “Let’s stick with what we know,” you said. “Dada doesn’t do glitter cookies.”

Alex pouted. “But I do.”

“You, baby boy, are a glitter cookie,” you said, tapping the tip of his nose.

The woman behind the counter smiled at the boys. “Helping Mom today?”

“We cleaned the house!” Luca said proudly. “I vacuumed all the crumbs. Even under the couch.”

“I put the pillows back,” Alex chimed in. “And I sorted socks. Mommy says it’s ‘em-portant.’”

You laughed again, cheeks warm. “They’ve been my little dream team today.”

“Bet Dad’s excited to come home to that,” the woman said, sliding your pack of cookies across the counter.

“He better be,” you muttered with a grin, checking the time on your phone. Sid’s flight is set to land in half an hour. “Alright, guys, produce section and then we can head out.”

“What’s for dinner?” Luca asked, falling into step beside you, fingers brushing the side of the cart.

You adjusted Mallory again and shrugged. “I was thinking grilled chicken, some potatoes, maybe broccoli. Something easy.”

“But fancy?” Alex asked.

“Fancy enough that Daddy thinks I tried.”

He giggled and grabbed your hand. “You always try, Mommy.”

You blinked, heart skipping in that way it sometimes did when they said things like that out of nowhere. You leaned down to kiss the top of his head, breathing in the faint scent of his apple shampoo and sweat and whatever mess he’d gotten into earlier.

At checkout, Mallory started getting squirmy, so you slipped her out of the carrier and held her on your hip while bagging up the groceries. The cashier commented on her cheeks—as everyone always did—and Mallory responded by blowing a loud raspberry and waving one dimpled hand like a queen. You could already feel the ache in your back from carrying her, but you didn’t mind. Her weight was comfort now. Familiar.

“Can we listen to the playlist Daddy made us?” Luca asked once you were in the car, groceries loaded, all three kids strapped in.

You turned the key in the ignition and smiled. “Of course we can.”

It was a mix Sid had made a few weeks ago. Songs for the boys, mostly. A few for Mallory. Some of them were ones he’d grown up listening to with his own parents and others were just silly tracks the boys liked to dance to. But tucked in the middle were a few quieter ones. The kind that made your throat tight when you listened too closely. The kind that made it clear that Sidney, for all his gruff silence and media polish, was a man head over heels for his family.

As the first song came on, the boys started singing from the back seat, half in tune, half shouting. You glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of them—Luca tapping the rhythm on his thighs, Alex doing some kind of air-drum routine. Mallory leaned against the side of her car seat, thumb in her mouth, eyelids starting to droop.

“Almost home,” you whispered, reaching back and smoothing baby girls' curls. “And Daddy’ll be there soon.”

The idea sent a warm flicker through your chest. The house was ready. The kids were clean. Dinner was planned. The long stretch without him was nearly over.

And that meant, finally, you’d get to slide into his arms again—the one place that still felt like quiet in the middle of all this chaos.

You made a right at the light, headed toward home, already picturing him standing in the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, that soft tired smile on his face when he saw all four of you waiting.

But that had to wait, because it all fell apart about ten minutes before Sidney was due to walk through the front door.

Dinner was being prepped and simmering on the stove, the smell of garlic and cream and roasted chicken winding through the house like a soft, savory promise. The table was already set, candles unlit but placed—because the boys had insisted on a “fancy welcome home”—with their little plastic forks beside the real ones, and Mallory’s tiny bowl and spoon laid out on her tray. The dishwasher hummed softly in the background. For a few brief minutes, it had almost felt serene.

And then chaos took hold. As usual.

The kitchen clock ticked down from 4:48 and you were elbow-deep in a half-stirred sauce when Alex let out a “HEY!” so loud you flinched and nearly dropped the whisk. You turned just in time to see him pointing an accusatory finger at Luca, who stood guiltily beside the rug, a foam boxing glove slipping off his hand and the long black shaft of Sidney’s stick held awkwardly at his side.

“I said no high shots!”

“It wasn’t high!” Luca shouted back, face flushed and sweaty, curls sticking to his forehead. “It was a wrister!”

“You hit me in the boob!”

You pressed your lips together to avoid laughing, wiping your hands on the dish towel tucked into your waistband. “Okay, that’s enough boxing hockey for one day. Go take the gloves off and pick something else before someone loses a tooth or… gets hit in the chest again.”

They groaned but listened, though not without muttering to each other in that ridiculous hushed whisper they thought you couldn’t hear.

“I didn’t even cry when he hit me.”

“Because you didn’t know I hit you!”

“I did too!”

You just shook your head, returning to the stove. The house smelled good—real food good. Chicken roasting in the oven, potatoes crisping up with garlic and rosemary, broccoli steamed and tossed in butter.

Honestly? You were proud of yourself. You’d handled it all—three kids, one house, two hockey-stick-swinging maniacs, and one teething baby. And the finish line? It was so close.

By the time 4:56 rolled around, the boxing gloves had been abandoned on the kitchen floor (one still attached to a stick, for reasons you would never understand), and the boys had taken up position at the kitchen island in their seats.

“Don’t start without me!” Alex barked, his little hands slamming the counter as you set the box of Jenga in front of them.

“I won’t!” Luca snapped back, already reaching for a piece.

“Guys,” you said, “you always start before each other and it always ends in chaos.”

They both looked at you with wide-eyed innocence. “We’ll be gentle this time.”

You snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Mallory was plopped into her high chair with a soft little oof of protest, which she immediately forgot about as soon as you handed her a stick of celery and one of her favorite teething “toys”. She latched onto both like a woman on a mission, her chubby hands gripping and gnawing while she stared at her brothers like they were the best live-action show on TV.

And of course, the Jenga game devolved into exactly what you expected: chunky little fingers knocking into the tower, Luca pulling from the bottom when Alex said top only, pieces clattering to the floor every three minutes, and you resetting it almost as fast.

“I want the pink one,” Luca said, reaching for a block that didn’t exist.

“There is no pink,” you said.

Alex leaned forward, tongue poked between his lips in concentration. “Okay. Watch this. I’m gonna take this one—”

CLATTER.

They both shrieked.

“Luca moved!”

“No I didn’t! You breathed too hard!”

“Oh my God,” you muttered to yourself as you started stacking again.

You didn’t hear the front door open.

You didn’t hear the shuffle of Sidney’s bag hitting the floor, or his keys hitting the little ceramic dish by the entryway, or the sound of his footsteps padding down the hall.

You did hear his voice though.

“Hey.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. Just that familiar, calm tone that made something in your chest go loose and warm all at once.

You turned around before the boys even registered it, cheeks already warm and tired eyes blinking at the sight of him.

He looked like home.

Coat on, Polo soft and wrinkled from the plane, scruff thick on his jaw. And that smile—that smile—crooked and quiet and just for you.

You didn’t even say anything. You crossed the kitchen in a couple steps and threw your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in the side of his neck as he dropped everything to hug you back.

His arms came around you with that familiar pressure—solid and safe and strong enough to hold it all.

“Hi,” you mumbled, eyes stinging for no reason except the fact that he was here. Finally.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered into your hair.

You pulled back only enough to kiss him—slow and soft and lingering. He leaned into it, hands warm on your waist, and it was the kind of kiss that made the whole world fade for a second. Made it feel like just the two of you again.

Which, naturally, did not go unnoticed.

“Yuck,” came Alex’s voice from behind you. “They’re doing kissing again.”

“Ewwwwwwww,” Luca echoed with genuine horror.

You pulled away laughing, forehead still pressed to Sid’s cheek as you mumbled, “You’ve been gone a week and they’ve turned into full-blown critics.”

“Did they say ‘again’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked past you.

“Multiple times,” you said. “Apparently I’m not allowed to kiss my own husband.”

“Terrible rule,�� he said, turning just in time to see the boys finally launching out of their seats like rockets.

“YAY!”

“YOU’RE HOME!”

It was chaos.

Luca tripped over the boxing glove still attached to the stick and barely caught himself. Alex rounded the corner like a linebacker and nearly took out the island stool. Mallory shrieked so loudly from her chair it sounded like a fire alarm.

And Sidney?

He laughed. That warm, crinkly-eyed, can’t-help-it laugh you missed so much.

“What happened to my quiet, peaceful house?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You had a quiet, peaceful house. Until you gave me three miniature versions of yourself.”

He crouched just in time to catch them both—Alex hitting him first, arms around his neck, followed by Luca flinging his entire body into his side like a WWE move.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy!” Sid said, laughing, nearly toppling backward. “You guys get stronger while I’m gone?”

“Did you bring candy?”

“Did you see my drawing?”

“Did you win?”

“Did you eat gross hotel food?”

Sid looked up at you from the floor, both boys wrapped around him like clingfilm, and grinned. “Have they been like this all week?”

“This is them mild,” you said.

Mallory had both fists banging against her tray now, little body shaking with excitement.

“Da-da-da-da-da!”

Sidney’s head snapped toward her instantly. “Is she saying—?”

“Nonstop,” you confirmed.

He stood up slowly, still holding Luca on one hip while Alex dangled from his arm like a koala. “Hey, bug,” he cooed. “Did you miss Daddy?”

She squealed and flapped and you quickly unclipped her from the chair, setting her on the floor where she immediately made a beeline for him with her unsteady crawl.

“Go get him, baby girl,” you said softly, watching the entire scene unfold with your heart basically trying to melt through your ribs.

Sid crouched again, arm out, and Mallory threw herself into him with her little head tucked under his chin and her fingers tangled in his shirt.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, holding all three of them like he’d never let go. “How did I survive ten days without this?”

“I have no idea,” you said, arms crossed, watching your family pile on top of each other like a bunch of overexcited puppies. “Because I barely did.”

He smiled up at you. “Come here.”

“I’ve got the potatoes—”

“I don’t care.”

You laughed and leaned down to kiss his cheek, brushing Mallory’s wild hair out of her eyes, as the boys started shouting over one another again about Jenga and boxing hockey and who got to sit next to him at dinner.

Chaos.

Absolute, beautiful chaos.

After a few minutes Sidney took Mallory and changed her into fresh pajamas with tiny skating penguins on them, her curls fluffier. Now they were curled up on the sofa. Dinner was twenty minutes out, which meant you should’ve been pouring drinks, pulling the rolls from the bag and—

“Can we play hallway hockey with Daddy?” Alex asked breathlessly, like it was the most urgent ask in the world.

Luca popped around the island a half second later. “Please can we, Mama? Please? Just a quick one.”

You glanced toward the living room where Sid was stretched out on the couch, baby Mallory splayed across his chest like a starfish, her little legs twitching in her nap.

“She just fell asleep,” you whispered.

“Not asleep,” Sid called from the couch, eyes still closed. “She’s fake-sleeping. I know the difference.”

You raised an eyebrow, walked over, and gently poked her squishy thigh. Sure enough, her eyes popped open like she’d just been waiting for the cue.

“Traitor,” you said to her as she kicked happily.

Sid sat up slowly, shifting her upright against his chest. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

The boys cheered and bolted down the hallway toward the front closet, already shouting over each other about who was going to be goalie first.

Sid came into the kitchen, tightening the baby carrier straps around his chest as you handed Mallory over, now fully alert and giggling like she already knew what she was in for.

“You’re playing with her strapped on?”

“Obviously,” he said. “Moral support.”

“She’s gonna whack you in the face with her stick.”

“She’s team captain,” he grinned, reaching into the utensil drawer. “Where’s her stick?”

You handed over the mini pink foam stick from the play bin by the pantry. She immediately grabbed it like she knew exactly what she was doing. Which, of course, she didn’t.

He raised his brows as he looked down at her. “You ready, coach?”

Mallory gave a mighty eeeeeh! and wiggled in his grip like she was being prepped for battle.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling like an idiot as you watched all of them march back into the hallway.

Alex had already rolled out their makeshift foam puck. They had the mini goals set up—one by the base of the stairs and the other near the mudroom. The hallway was long and had scuffed baseboards that bore the full history of rainy days, inside soccer, and countless rounds of “puck tag.”

“I brought you my lucky stick,” Alex announced proudly, handing over a slightly worn, knee-high blue hockey stick with his name and a Lightning McQueen sticker on it.

Sidney took it, crouching down just a little so he was at eye level with him. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll need it.”

Sid looked at you over Alex’s head and mouthed, I’m gonna pay for this tomorrow.

You stifled a laugh. “Stretch first,” you called. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I never warm up,” he said, already crouching low. “We go in raw.”

“That’s what got us three kids, genius,” you muttered to yourself.

The first few minutes were pure chaos. Shrieking. So much shrieking.

Luca and Alex took off at full speed like the rules of physics didn’t apply. Sid, kneeling to try and keep pace with them (and not decapitate someone with a stick meant for a child), held Mallory against his chest while she swung her foam blade enthusiastically into the air, catching him in the jaw twice and barely missing an eye on the third swing.

“I think she’s trying to fight me,” he grunted.

“She’s training to be a goon,” you called from the doorway.

“She gets that from you,” he said, ducking as Luca ran past him with the puck.

You watched like it was the Stanley Cup Final. The game didn’t have real rules. It never had. It was basically a free-for-all of slapping the foam puck back and forth, calling out nonsensical play-by-plays, and celebrating every single goal like it was a game-winner.

At one point, Alex tripped over his own feet, face-planted into the carpet, popped up, and yelled, “I’m okay!” before charging again.

Luca scored the first goal. Sidney was clearly going easy, dramatically whiffing a few shots and groaning like the boys were too fast for him.

“Mallory!” Alex shouted. “Your team’s losing!”

“She’s conserving her energy,” Sid said. “Like a real MVP.”

“She’s just chewing her stick!” Luca argued.

“She’s multitasking.”

But around the five-minute mark, the tides turned.

You could see it in the way Sid’s shoulders shifted—he was still kneeling, still careful, but now his posture had just a little more purpose.

He blocked a shot with his thigh. Poked the puck away from Luca with a grin.

“Oh no,” Alex shouted. “He’s trying now!”

“Yup,” Sid grunted.

“I knew this would happen!” Luca wailed dramatically.

“What happened to being nice?” Alex asked, running across the hallway to guard the net.

Sid raised an eyebrow. “You guys said this was real hockey.”

Luca dove toward the puck, missing by inches. Alex swung his stick a little too wide trying to block it. Mallory shrieked joyfully from her perch as Sidney tapped the puck right past both boys and into their goal.

“GOOOOOAL!” he yelled, lifting Mallory’s tiny hand into the air like she was raising the Cup.

“I saw that!” Alex cried. “You can’t do that! Mallory didn’t even do anything!”

“She’s literally on the ice, buddy,” Sid said through a grin. “It counts.”

“Rematch!” Luca shouted.

They regrouped and came back stronger—charging, giggling, half tackling him at one point. Mallory squealed when Luca slid on his socks into her dad’s shins.

You leaned in, recording on your phone, heart so stupidly full you thought it might melt into your socks.

“Water break!” Alex shouted seven minutes in, flopping dramatically onto the hallway floor.

Sid stood above them, sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, Mallory gnawing her stick and making wet sounds of approval.

“You guys are brutal,” he said.

“You cheated,” Luca replied, chest heaving.

“I’m just good,” Sid teased, tapping his stick on the ground.

Sid grabbed his water glass from earlier and passed it around. Mallory reached for it, so he tilted the glass toward her carefully, letting her wet her lips while she smacked at the cup.

Then—without warning—Luca darted up again, grinning like a bandit.

“NO BREAKS,” he yelled. “SURPRISE ATTACK!”

He hurled himself forward with the puck, and Alex met him with an equal lunge, the two of them smacking sticks, laughing and tangled, the puck ricocheting toward the side wall.

Sid went to intercept, adjusting Mallory’s carrier as he moved. “Here we go—Daddy with the breakaway!”

The boys collapsed into a pile in front of the net, groaning dramatically, sticks tangled beneath them. Mallory, clearly sensing the victory, squealed and bounced in her carrier harness, clapping her tiny hands.

“I think you broke them,” you said, checking the timer. “One minute.”

And that’s when it happened.

The final face-off. The boys were panting, flushed, eyes wild with determination. Sid crouched low, dropped the puck, and before you could blink, both boys lunged at it.

Luca’s stick got there first.

Unfortunately, so did his elbow.

There was a little stumble, a clumsy collision of limbs, and then Alex was on his butt, blinking fast.

“Uh oh,” you murmured, setting your phone down and stepping in—but then—

“My tooth!”

Alex lit up.

“Wait! My tooth!”

Sid immediately dropped his stick, crouching down. “Let me see.”

Alex opened his mouth, and sure enough—blood on his bottom lip, and a tiny gap where his front tooth used to be.

Luca gasped. “I did it! I knocked it out!”

“It was already wiggly!” Alex said quickly. “You helped!”

Sid blinked. “You okay, bud? That didn’t hurt too bad?”

Alex shook his head proudly. “Nope. I’m a hockey player now!”

You handed Sid a tissue, and he gently cleaned Alex’s mouth while Mallory made grabby hands toward her brother’s face.

“I’m gonna put it under my pillow,” Alex said, voice muffled. “And then the Tooth Fairy will come and bring me a million dollars.”

“She usually does like, a couple bucks,” you said cautiously.

“I’m getting a million,” Alex declared.

“I want a tooth to fall out too!” Luca added, sticking his finger in his mouth.

You leaned back, checking the time on the oven.

“Okay, future millionaires—go wash your hands. Dinner’s ready in like thirty seconds.”

The boys scrambled down the hallway—Alex carefully cradling his tooth in a tissue, Luca babbling about which tooth he should “wiggle the hardest.”

Sid stood, adjusting Mallory’s carrier again. “I think your son just made his NHL debut.”

“I saw,” you laughed, rubbing his shoulder. “Might want to ice your knees later.”

“Worth it,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That was the best game I’ve played in months.”

You smiled, heart fluttering, and reached for Mallory’s tiny foot to give it a gentle squeeze.

“Good game, Captain.”

She squeaked, still clutching her chewed-up foam stick like a trophy.

And just like that, the oven beeped.

Dinner was ready.

The house smelled like home.

And your whole team was back together.

The boys had already started arguing about who would sit next to Daddy for dinner. Ten minutes ago, you had a clean, quiet house.

Now?

Your sons were sticky, sweaty, and missing teeth.

Sid was limping just slightly.

Mallory’s hair looked like she’d been in a wind tunnel.

And dinner smelled like heaven.

Everything—everything—was exactly how it should be.

—

[c-grant]

i like my men tall and quiet

[c-grant]

white lie - f. langdon x fem!reader

summary: you and frank have always been on opposing sides, but one day when a patient becomes too handsy with you, frank lets out a little white lie to save you.

warnings: SMUT (minors dni, 18+ only), not very explicit smut but smut nonetheless, plot with a sprinkle of porn towards the end (still, minors fuck off), patient grabs your arm, cursing, stereotypical pitt gore, no use of y/n, asshole idiots in love, frank has no kids, angst if you squint?, bad medical terminology/logic but let's be real you're not here for that.

author's note: i lied she's here early! this took seven years off of my life but i hope you enjoy :,) my attempt at something with a bit more plot

wc: 6k

The Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center was known to be many things. A teaching facility, a life saving establishment, and an incredibly fucking noisy place. 

It wasn’t unusual to have patients screaming bloody murder, to have the constant beep of machines and dilators ring in your ears, to overhear a pure teaching moment between an attending and a resident. 

However, a unique factor that all doctors in the Pitt could count on contributing to the decibel level were the arguments between you and one Frank Langdon. It was normal, expected even, for the two of you to be at each other's throats. It seemed like you were always disagreeing on something—a diagnosis, bedside table manners, even down to what kind of coffee should be kept in the staff lounge.

(“We’re not getting dunkin donuts coffee,” you scoff.

“Why the hell not?” Langdon shoots back.

“You two have to be fucking joking.”)

On this particular shift, Frank and you stand on opposite sides of a patient bed, throwing harsh glances like they’re daggers. The middle aged woman below you is bleeding profusely in her throat due to a neglected respiratory tract infection, causing multiple issues with her oxygen levels. She’s practically drowning in her own blood. Your first instinct was to do an intubation, but before you could even begin to ask for the tube, Frank immediately shut you down.

“There’s too much blood, we wouldn’t be able to see anything through the camera. Have you ever done an intubation blind?” He interrogates, his gaze cold and sterile. “I’m vetoing it. We’ll have to do a cricothyrotomy instead.”

“I can do it,” you argue back. “A cricothyrotomy is a last resort, you haven’t even tried intubation yet—”

“We don’t have time to play it safe, last resort or not we should be doing the cricothyrotomy.”

You feel the familiar, fire hot frustration bubble in your chest. It isn’t unusual for Frank to fight against you, and it isn’t unusual for you to want to kill him for it.

The two of you go back and forth like this until Robby approaches the room, finally free from his GSW in Trauma 1. His aging face drops as soon as he realizes the scene before him. Annoyance slowly creeps into his expression, sinking into the lines by his eyes as his mouth presses into a thin line, gritting his teeth before speaking. 

“That’s enough.” His voice booms out, causing the both of you to pause mid argument. “You two are wasting time. Make a concise decision. Dr. Langdon?”

“Intubation is too risky.” Frank begins, trying to appeal to his mentor and somewhat friend. “A cricothyrotomy may be a little bold but at least it’ll work.” 

“And you?” Robby turns to face you. “You believe you can perform the intubation?”

“I know I can, Dr. Robby.”

You see Robby consider both ideas for a brief second, tossing them around and considering the weight of his decision. It’s not just choosing a life saving operation, but choosing a favorite. He—and all the student doctors and nurses for that matter—know whoever loses this war will be enraged, silently fuming for the rest of their shift.

“Get the tube. We’re performing this intubation.”

As soon as the words hit your ears, your stomach somersaults. You try to control the muscles in your face as your lips twitch into a smile. There’s a voice in the back of your head that wants to jump up and down and point to Langdon, screaming I won, I won, I won! You know it's unprofessional, but it's rare when you get to win against him, especially when it comes to Robby. 

You can feel Langdon’s anger radiating off of him as he moves out of the way, watching you and Robby prepare for the procedure. You try your best to hide your joy, but you’re sure you fail.

//

After a successful intubation with the help of Robby, you find yourself aimlessly wandering back towards the ED’s TV screen, bumping into Whitaker. The two of you make small talk as your eyes scan for something interesting to busy your hands with. Whitaker reads out a few promising symptoms, but his words fall away into nothing as you scan the room, your eyes landing on Langdon as he walks out of the staff lounge. 

He stares back at you, something dark swirling in the ocean blue of his irises. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. You know he’s fuming, probably imagining all the ways he wishes you would die a slow and painful death so that you’d never interfere with him again. You’ve been on the losing end of this battle before, and you remember just how much you wanted to strangle him when Robby chose his side.

Your stomach flutters slightly as you narrow your eyes, rolling them and trying to focus back on Whitaker. You don’t care if Frank sees. You mutter something along the lines of approval when Whitaker finally chooses your next case, not quite mentally there as you still feel the heat of Frank’s gaze.

It wasn’t always like this between you and Langdon. In the very beginning, you remember bits of indifference, some semblance of mutual respect. You don’t remember what changed exactly, but one day you two went from innocent coworkers to enemies. 

After the change, you remember him being snippy with you, always avoiding taking you on a case, begrudgingly teaching things to you and fighting you on every diagnosis you made. You just weren’t sure why. 

You didn’t bother to search for an answer. You decided you would simply return the energy that was given to you. If Frank wanted to be a dick, you had no problem meeting him halfway. 

You give him no more thought as you trail behind Whitaker. 

//

Hours later, somewhere around 3 PM, you feel a wave of drowsiness begin to hit you. Despite all your best efforts to go to bed on time, to drink caffeine in the morning and maintain unwavering energy levels, you always seem to struggle in the early afternoon. You know if you slow down, you’ll never pick back up again, so you down the rest of your energy drink and flip through the list of patients waiting to be seen. 

Your eyes land on the chart of an older gentleman: Isaiah Vander, 52, complained of lower abdomen pain. 

Based on past experience, you know abdomen pain has the ability to go south very quickly. You decide to charge forth, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst as you lead him back to an open bed. 

“Please, have a seat Mr. Vander,” you smile. Gloria’s been on everyone's ass about bedside hospitality, so you try to attempt to be a bit brighter than usual.

Mr. Vander, a balding and slightly overweight man plops down in front of you. He’s dressed in jeans, wearing some sort of athletic t-shirt with a pair of cheap sunglasses resting on his head. He returns your smile with a large toothy grin, showing off his coffee stained teeth. 

After a short but concise introduction, you begin your assessment. “So, when did the pain in your abdomen start?”

“Last night, a little after dinner.”

“And what did you eat?” You ask casually. 

“So curious!” He laughs in response. “I had two big macs, a large mountain dew and some french fries, I think. I work late a lot, so I had to grab something quick last night. Do you cook?”

You smile politely. “When I can. Now, do you take any medication?” Your mind prepares to cross off a few different diagnoses depending on his answer.

“Would love to have you cook for me sometime.” He responds, ignoring your question. His boisterous laugh rings out into the hall. His warm breath that smells of cigarettes fans your face. Gross. 

You frown, trying not to assume the worst. You know sometimes patients get a little chatty when they’re comfortable, so you try and steer the conversation back to his condition.

“My cooking may give you worse abdomen pain if you can believe it. And, sorry, just to confirm, no medicine?”

“Only viagra.” He smirks. 

Your breakfast bubbles in your gut. You’re taken aback. You forgot what the shock of a situation like this feels like. You recover quickly though, ignoring his comments by giving him a tight lipped smile.

“Is the pain more throbbing, or like a pricking sensation? And any nausea, vomiting?”

“Throbbing, definitely throbbing. Ever since the wife left me I’ve been eating alone a lot, hence the junk food. So maybe that's where the throbbing pain comes from. Maybe it wouldn’t happen if I ate with someone else. If you get what I mean.” He licks his lips lustfully.

You clear your throat, trying your best not to lose your shit. You’ve dealt with flirty patients before, but he seems… grimey. Clearly this guy isn’t dying of a ruptured intestine, he’s just some asshole with a tummy ache. 

“So, again. Nausea? Vomiting?” There's an edge to your voice as you grit out the question through your teeth. Despite your annoyance, you continue to interrogate him—there’s a part of you that’s fearful that if you left now, he would end up dying of a cause you could have prevented—growing more frustrated as the minutes pass. 

Trying to converse with him feels like torture. The conversation is painstaking slow, and for every question you ask, Mr. Vander responds in a suggestive manner, talking about his lonely late nights while simultaneously giving you no information that could help you treat him. 

It comes to a boiling point when you ask him when his last bowel movement was. He laughs and ignores you, stating that it's ‘no business for a lovely lady such as yourself.’ It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. You mentally decide you’ll probably have to hand this case over to someone else. 

“Well,” you start, beginning to stand up. “Thank you for answering some of my questions, another doctor’ll be in shortly to—”

“You’re not staying sweetie?” 

You choke a sarcastic laugh. “It's Doctor. And no, I have another patient I need to check up on.” Not that its any of your fucking business. “Like I said, someone will be in soon to—”

Before you can finish your statement, you feel his calloused hand wrap around your forearm. It’s warm and sticky, and your eyes widen at the contact before you jerk yourself back. You’re about to yell at the man before you when out of nowhere the half shut curtain opens, revealing Langdon.

His heavy footsteps echo on the linoleum floors. His chest is puffed out, his muscular arms crossed over one another as he clenches his jaw. He looks angry. You can only assume it's because of you.  

“Dr. Langdon—” You choke out. You weren’t sure where he was supposed to be, but you’re pretty sure it's not here with you. You want to explain that this isn’t what it looks like. You have everything under control. You would hate for Langdon to hold this against you, to see you weak. 

“And who do we have here?” He says, taking a look at the chart beside you. “Hello Mr. Vander, sorry to hear about your stomach pain. I’m here to help, I’ll be taking over this case.”

You feel your face become hot. Suddenly, you’re worried Langdon thinks you're incapable of handling this. 

“Excuse me, but why can’t she stay?” Mr. Vander responds, motioning towards you. 

Frank replies without missing a beat. “She’s a very coveted doctor. Her presence was requested by an attending, so she’ll need to assist them instead.”

You hear Mr. Vander suck his teeth, sitting up slightly. “C’mon man, I was just starting to get somewhere. Can you leave? Can’t she just finish me up?”

You wince. You can't explain it, but a feeling of dread runs through your veins at the thought of this guy flirting with you in front of Langdon. 

“No, I won’t leave.”

You watch as Mr. Vander rolls his eyes and averts his attention to you. “Well, since you’re leaving, I’ll get to the point. You should get dinner with me.”

“Wow—um.” You choke. “That’s entirely unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional,” Frank starts with a smile, “And I’m pretty sure her boyfriend wouldn’t like that very much.”

“Boyfriend?” You and Mr. Vander question at the same time. Your eyes are wide with confusion. The last time you checked, you were single. 

“Boyfriend, you have a boyfriend?” He sputters.

You’re positive you don't, but the way Langdon is looking at you makes you feel otherwise. Before you can gather your thoughts to respond, Frank is sliding his hands onto your waist, giving them a squeeze. 

“Yep, she does. And as I said, I wouldn’t be very pleased if you took my girl out on a date.”

It’s so quiet in the room you can hear the conversation in the hall outside. Your mind feels a million miles behind. Mr. Vander is so focused on Langdon that he misses the way your jaw drops. 

“I’m sorry man, didn’t realize she was taken.” He apologizes, looking like a child who was just scolded for staying up too late. Shame blooms in his chest, while something much more sinister grows in yours.

Frank takes a seat beside him, motioning for him to lift his shirt. “No worries. Do you mind if I take a look at your abdomen to assess the area?”

As Langdon begins to work on Mr. Vander, the voice in your head is screaming at you to leave, to take the out that Frank has so clearly given you, but you can't bring yourself to stop staring at him.  You watch as he begins to pat his hand on Mr. Vander’s belly, pressing particularly forcefully, watching as the patient groans in pain.

“Whoops.”

He turns back to look at you. “Dr. Robby wants you.”

You try and decipher the look on his face, but gone is the charming Frank Langdon, and only his colder alter ego remains. 

You nod wordlessly, leaving the room. You don't allow yourself to catch your breath until you round the corner. It feels as though the world around you is blurred, blood rushing to your ears and face as embarrassment and something else creeps up your neck. 

Langdon has never touched you before, let alone put his hands on your waist, squeezing them. 

Many inappropriate things cross your mind. You force yourself to shake it off, looking for Robby. When you find him minutes later, he’s deep in conversation with Collins. You hate to interrupt, but you thought he needed you.

“Did you ask for me?” You say as you approach the pair.

“Me? No, why? Did something happen?” He asks with concern.

“No… Langdon said—Nevermind. Must’ve been a mistake.”

You smile weakly before walking away awkwardly, beelining for the nearest bathroom. You shut yourself inside the single stall, locking the door behind you before you begin to pace around the room, the soft sound of your sneakers scuffing the tile echoing off the walls. 

You’re mainly confused. Why was Langdon lying to save your ass? Did he think you couldn’t handle the patient? How did he manage to step in at the perfect time?

Why did his touch make your brain short circuit?

You brace yourself on the sink. You feel pathetic, and you’re sure you look it. Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror—you look disheveled. Your face feels warm as you bite your lower lip. Get a fucking grip. 

When you feel like you've recovered as much as possible, you silently slip out of the bathroom. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself now. You really don't want to go back and check on Mr. Vander, and at this point, Frank has probably diagnosed him with constipation and recommended him some miralax. 

But, because you can't help yourself, you walk in the direction you came from, trying to see if Frank is still there. You’re not sure what you’re going to say, but you feel like you should say something. Right?

You realize you’re right as you round the corner, Mr. Vander is nowhere to be seen.

Langdon spots you immediately, and you feel every emotion at once brewing in your chest as he begins to stride towards you. Before you can even begin to pick your fight, he catches you off guard with sincerity. 

“Are you okay?”

Your breath hitches. You force yourself to recover. “What the fuck was that?”

“I was saving your ass. You’re welcome, by the way. You clearly needed some backup in there.”

“I was fine,” you retaliate. 

“He grabbed you, that’s not okay.” 

“I could’ve handled it. I was about to rip him a new one before you interrupted.” You toss your hands in the air. For a moment, Langdon looks at you like there's nothing more to discuss, like he finds no other issues with your previous interaction. 

“And the boyfriend thing?” You whisper, afraid of who might hear.

“Figured he wouldn’t back off until he knew you were taken. Guys are gross like that.”

“And my boyfriend had to obviously be… you.” You raise your eyebrows.

He doesn't reply to this. Instead, he rolls his eyes like you’re the crazy one, beginning to walk away. His face reads like he no longer cares, like it was a miniscule thing to say, like his big hands sliding over your hips is a casual morning activity.

“We’re not done here,” you hiss, trailing after him.

His long legs carry him faster than you can keep up. “Having a boyfriend would do you good, I think. Maybe it would mean you’d finally get laid. It’d also probably help the giant stick up your ass.” He hums.

“Oh, fuck off,” You say, gracing him with your middle finger. You want to slap him. You want to grab him by the collar and shake him. How can such a brilliant doctor be such an asshole? He looks at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say, anything else?

You scoff. 

He gives you a smile in return, looking deep into your eyes before continuing on his journey to the other side of the ED. 

//

In an attempt to clear your mind, you kill time outside with Dana on her smoke break. The two of you chat aimlessly about life, laughing amongst yourself about a few wild cases that have crossed her path today. You’re still talking and gossiping about Gloria when Samira runs up to you, asking to speak to you in private. 

At first, you’re worried that maybe Robby ripped her a new one, or that she had a particularly difficult case while you were running around, but the smile that tugs at the ends of her lips gives her away. You’re relieved it's nothing bad. 

“What?” You chuckle. She’s gripping your arm so tight you think you’ll lose circulation. 

“You’re dating Dr. Langdon?” She grins.

Your heart stops. 

“What?” You stutter, “Where did you hear that?”

“Holy shit, I always knew something was there!” Her eyes are wide with joy as she practically screams. She hops up and down with enthusiasm. 

You feel yourself growing flustered. How are you supposed to explain this? No—funny story actually—the man who I’ve wanted to climb like a tree just saved me from a creepy patient and lied about being my boyfriend, sorry for the confusion. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to find the right way to let Samira down slowly. You want to kill this rumor before it reaches anyone else, god forbid an attending. The words are on the tip of your tongue when Dana’s voice rings out into the ED.

“We’ve got a stroke case coming in, 5 minutes tops!” 

“Oh fuck,” you mumble, turning to look at her. When you turn back around, Samira’s already taken off like a shot, killing any attempt to set the record straight.

You bite your cheek in frustration. You just hope Samira won’t tell anyone.

//

Hours later, after unfortunately getting projectile vomited on by a pregnant teen, you find yourself standing in front of a familiar machine, muttering to yourself as you try to get a new pair of scrubs. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to return them when you haven’t given me a new pair to change into?” You mumble. 

You’re so immersed in your own troubles that you don’t hear Whitaker and Santos approach you from behind.

“How long have you been dating Dr. Langdon?” Santos starts, shoving you in the shoulder with her palm.

“Holy fuck!” You wince. You turn around sharply and come face to face with the pair. They look at you with stars in their eyes. “We actually aren—”

“But I thought you hated each other!” Whitaker gasps. 

“Well,” you huff, “It—”

“Holy shit… you guys have been in love and fooling us this whole time? That's insane.” Santos mumbles.

“Woah, woah, woa—”

“Congratulations, good on you guys for trying to keep it private.” They both nod simultaneously, giving you their stamp of approval. 

You’re just about to slap the two of them senseless when something else catches their attention, and they run off. 

“Jesus Christ,” you say, rubbing your palms in your eyes. You feel the pressure of a headache nestle its way between your eyes. “What the hell is going on with people today?”

//

Your final straw occurs towards the end of your shift. 

You aimlessly crack your bones and stretch your legs after finally leaving Trauma 1. You had spent the last hour resuscitating a 12 year old after they had a seizure, practically jumping up and down with Mel when the child’s heart rate came back up on the monitor. 

You breathe heavily. You still feel the weight of the little girl’s mother as she collapsed in your arms, sobbing as she mumbled thank yous and god bless yous into your fresh scrubs. It feels good, but it's still difficult.

You glance at the clock, grateful your shift is nearing the end. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take. You’ve somehow managed to avoid Langdon all day, miraculously being on opposite sides of the ED at any given time. But despite the distance, you can still feel something in the Pitt has shifted—something between the two of you has changed.

You don't have much time to ponder the odd feeling in your chest before Heather jogs towards you, her hand landing on your shoulder.

“You were great in there,” she says with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” you reply sheepishly. You’ll never get used to the praise, but you’re appreciative of it nonetheless. “I couldn’t have done it without Mel.”

“The two of you are killers, I’m super proud.” She beams. 

You feel appreciative of Heather’s leadership and kindness, she’s always been someone you know you can count on to be on your side, so it makes it all the more difficult to believe the words that begin to come out of her mouth.

“Also… I always knew he liked you.”

“What?” 

“Langdon! That's why he’s so harsh on you.” She laughs. “It makes sense that the two of you are dating, you're so alike. Robby guessed that something was gonna happen with you two. We even started a betting pool. How long have you been keeping this a secret?” 

Her words ring out into the air like bells, each one sending a wave of pain in your head. Your mouth feels dry, your throat feels tight. Your tongue seemingly swells in your mouth, rendering you speechless. 

Before Heather can notice you choking on your own emotions, Kiara walks up to the both of you, a clipboard in her hand and a determined look on her face. 

“Hey,” she approaches the two of you, distracting Heather from your conversation. 

You give her a small smile, hoping you don't look as nearly out of it as you seem. 

“Good to see you both, and congrats on the save. I just heard.” She says to you, giving you an encouraging smile. You thank her before she turns back to Heather, your mind drifting off as the two discuss a patient down the hall. Eventually, they say their goodbyes to you, walking away to discuss information more confidentially. 

You’ve never been so relieved and frustrated at the same time. 

You feel dizzy. All your mind knows how to do at this moment is flop back and forth between being mad and confused. 

You haven’t been able to tell anyone about what really happened today, and you haven’t been able to be honest with yourself about what it all means. Because, truly, why has this thrown you for a loop the way it has?

You head for the staff lounge, praying it's empty. When you enter the room and see it vacant, you shut the door behind you with the full force of your frustration, watching as the drying coffee mugs rattle on the counter. 

You take out your anger and confusion on a plastic water bottle in the fridge, twisting off the cap with such force it almost breaks the plastic. So many thoughts swim in your head as you down half the bottle in one sip. 

You can't seem to straighten it all out. Suddenly, the stunt Langdon pulled this morning seems so tame compared to everyone else’s reactions. 

I always knew he liked you. That's why he’s so harsh on you.

You guys have been in love and fooling us this whole time?

I always knew something was there!

You drop your head on the table, hearing a dull thud.

“What the actual fuck is happening?” you mutter to no one. You’re furious that a tiny rumour has managed to wiggle its way under your skin. You hate how easily it angers you, how easily it frustrates you, how easily the idea of it being truthful sends shivers down your spine. 

“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.” You remind yourself. You try and think of all the times he’s embarrassed you in front of your superiors, of all the times he's publicly called you out and humiliated you. You remind yourself of his cruelty, of his harsh words and even harsher hands. 

Your mind wanders to his piercing blue eyes and his dark brown hair that falls in front of them. The way they looked at you when he practically ran into the room this morning, taking your breath away.

You try not to focus on it any longer. I’m almost done, you remind yourself. I just need to get through this shift. 

//

You’re not sure how you make it, but somehow your shift ends. 

You’re on autopilot as you pack up, making sure you have your badge, your phone, your bag and everything else that comes with it, including your headphones for the walk home, along with your thoughts on the back burner that you plan to continuously overthink and never get over. 

You try to feel relieved that you’re leaving, to be thankful for escaping the rumours that float around like smoke. But when you find yourself finally walking out of the Pitt, saying your goodbyes to the remaining staff and giving your hellos to the first night shift workers, you don't get very far.

When you reach the brisk outside air, your feet feel cemented to the ground. You’re not sure what holds you back, but you can't bring yourself to start your music, to take the familiar route back to your place. It’s chilly out, and you watch your breath come out in puffs. It dissipates into the air, fading to nothing. You’re just about to chide yourself for being so foolish when a familiar voice rings out into the night.

“I thought you’d be home by now.”

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Langdon.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Me too.”

Your eyes try to focus on the Pittsburgh streets in front of you. You attempt to control the way your body tenses as Frank approaches to stand at your side, but you find it increasingly more difficult to command your body in his presence. 

“Had a hell of a day,” you continue. You’re not quite sure why you’re trying to talk to him right now. It’s odd speaking so calmly with Frank, normally you two would be yelling. 

“So I’ve heard. Apparently, our wedding is in September.”

“Ah. Good to know. I’ll try to make it.”

You’re caught off guard when, unexpectedly, Langdon laughs. You dont think you’ve ever heard such a warm, rich sound before. 

“I heard the betting pool was really big. Bigger than the ambulance one.” He says casually.

You snort. You were brand new when you joined that bet. You remember Frank had chewed you out so loudly in front of Gloria you thought you were gonna cry, so instead of breaking down in the bathroom you bet 50 bucks on ‘drug addict, crash, not in our vicinity.’ 

When you glance up at Frank, you realize how much time has passed since then. You’re both older, more advanced in the medical field, different. The two of you have battled demons no one knows about. 

“Heather said we made a good couple.” 

“I’m not surprised,” He replies. “Robby came up to me to tell me not to fuck it up, so clearly we have a lot hinging on this fake relationship.” 

You laugh at the thought. A beat of silence passes between you two, and for a moment, you're worried this peace may never happen again.

“You were the one who started this mess.” You say, trying to keep the conversation going. Where you want it to lead, you’re unsure.

“I know. And I’m… I’m sorry. Really.”

Frank turns to look at you. You see an unfamiliar emotion swirl in his irises: regret. He’s never apologized to you before, not even when Robby demanded it. You know he must be serious.

“No, I’m sorry.” You confess. “You were doing me a favor and all I did was yell at you.”

“I guess we’re both assholes.”

You toss him a soft smile. It’s weird, talking with him like this, but not unwelcome. You think this is the longest you two have ever spoken without raising your voices.

“I just… It’s so hard to be near you sometimes. You act like working with me is the worst thing in the world.” You say, looking up at him. Your brows crease in such a way that your face floods with sadness, like you’re just finally admitting to yourself that maybe this dynamic isn’t truthful to how you really feel.

“It’s not. I swear it isn’t. You’re a brilliant doctor.” He breathes out. He runs his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut before continuing. “I just can’t fucking concentrate around you.”

You feel your heartbeat pick up.

“And I’m sorry about the boyfriend thing. I just sort of… I don’t know. That patient was just so fucking handsy and—”

“You saw him grab me?” 

“Yeah. Yeah I, I couldn’t see straight. And I know you can handle yourself, I just really wanted to hand his ass back to him. And, fuck—I’ve really been a dick today—I’m sorry about the whole getting laid thing.”

You laugh out loud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. “No… No, you were right. I’ve had a stick up my ass all day. All year, actually.”

Langdon laughs with you, and you can see some of his hesitation leave his body as he turns towards you. The two of you chuckle over the absurdity of all. 

“So I distract you? That’s why you’re an absolute dick to me?” You say, feeling brave. You see the way his face flushes and his jaw tightens before he answers. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to convince yourself this is still friendly territory.

“Listen, I never said it was logical. Nor did I say it was a good excuse. But it’s true.”

You let the words sit between you two as you turn over your response. You’re not sure how blunt you want to be, but the actions of today have pushed you to a place you’ve never ventured before. “I feel like I’ve been going crazy, Frank. All day, all anyone’s told me is how much you like me, how good we look together, how we’ve secretly been in love all these years—”

“Are they wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you!” You groan. “I don’t know. Because, really, you’re a pain in my ass. You make me so mad sometimes I want to kill you. And yet, I practically fucking short circuited today when you said you were my boyfriend. So why’s that?”

“And you’re asking me?”

“Don’t you always have the answer to everything?”

You watch as his icy blue eyes scan your face, trailing down the bridge of your nose, the slope of your cheeks, the peak of your soft lips. 

“I got jealous today.” He states plainly.

“Because of Mr. Vander?”

“No. Well, yes, but also today I realized I’m actually not sure if you have a boyfriend. And then I got jealous in case he did exist... Does he?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Okay then.”

The air stills between you.

“Are you still jealous?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you suppose we do to make you feel better?”

//

For a brief moment as you and Frank stop kissing each other to gasp for air, fingers fumbling at the strings of your respective pants before flying back to each other's bodies, you wonder if you’ll regret this decision to end your war.

The two of you stumble into your apartment a few blocks away from the Pitt, lips entangled with one another as you struggle to lock the door behind you.

Frank, being the newfound gentleman he is after your confession session, decided to walk you home for ‘safety reasons.’ Of course, this resulted in you inviting him up, which has landed you exactly where you are now, in your bedroom peeling off your scrubs. 

When you two are fully undressed, your hands fly to his brown locs as he hoists you up on his hips. His strong arms hold you tightly against him before he lays you down on your bed, laughing into your mouth.

“Something funny?” You ask, eyes trailing down his abdomen. 

“Just thinking…I’m basically a genius.”

“How so?” You say, dragging him back to kiss you. His tongue swirls around yours playfully, momentarily losing himself in you before he pulls away, panting slightly. 

“I said earlier today that having a boyfriend would get you laid. And I was right.”

“Hmm… Is that what you are?” You whisper, your voice low and sultry. Frank’s pupils are blown out as they look at you, eyes ravishing your body as you lay bare below him. 

“I want to be, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll consider it,” you promise. You laugh slightly, but the warm feeling in your chest at the sight of Frank in your bed tells you you’ll never let him go.

For the rest of the night, You and Frank are a tangle of limbs and lips, hands clinging on to each other as he brings you to the edge of atmosphere and back again. He watches the stars in your eyes when his mouth licks at your core, when his dick brushes against the sensitive spot in your walls, when he whispers his dirty praise in your ear from behind. 

You two fall into a comfortable rhythm, working together in sync like you were meant to hold each other. You watch each other with care as your bodies work in tandem, as you aim to please one another. Your name on his lips as he paws at your chest, the softest kisses on your neck as his hips rock into yours. Somewhere in between the clapping of flesh lies the quiet conversations and heartfelt confessions. 

When you two eventually run out of steam, blissfully fucked out and sprawled on the bed in comfortable silence, all you can do to convey your affection is to softly graze his lips with yours, running your fingers through his hair as you fall asleep in his arms. 

//

likes, comments, reblogs, and follows are always appreciated :)

[c-grant]

[c-grant]

you again? | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

After a disastrous first date, you and Quinn Hughes think you’ll never see each other again—until he shows up in your office… as your newest therapy client.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

THIS IS MY WORK AND MY WORK ONLY. I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO ANY FORM OF “REWRITING” MY FICS

You agree to the date because your friend swears he’s normal.

“You’d like him,” she says. “He’s low-key. Dry humor. No red flags. And he’s hot. But like… tired hot.”

“Tired hot?”

“You’ll see.”

The app profile is vague. One picture—blurry, probably a cropped group photo. Bio says:

Hockey. Golf. Mostly quiet. Good at Mario Kart.

You message him because the Mario Kart line makes you laugh. He replies ten minutes later.

Only if you pick Yoshi. Anyone else is a war crime.

You meet him at a little place you like—a bar with decent food and mercifully low lighting. He’s ten minutes late, and when he walks in, he looks…

You squint.

He looks like he got hit by a truck, reversed over, and then forced to do media availability. His hoodie is slightly damp. His eyes are red-rimmed. He has the audacity to sniffle.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough. “Quinn.”

You blink. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not contagious.”

“Right.”

“I took DayQuil.”

“...Okay.”

You both sit.

It goes downhill immediately.

You ask normal questions. He answers in fragments.

“So, are you from around here originally?”

“Michigan. But I live here now.”

“What brought you to Vancouver?”

“Hockey.”

You sip your drink. “Right. Of course.”

He nods, sniffling.

“You play professionally?” you ask, just to clarify.

He glances at you. “Yeah. Canucks.”

“Oh. I don’t really follow hockey.”

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

You try again. “So besides that... what do you do for fun?”

He shrugs. “Not much. Golf in the offseason.”

You wait.

That’s it. That’s the whole sentence.

He reaches for his water and knocks over the salt shaker.

You press your lips together. “You know, we could reschedule.”

“I’m already here.”

“You’re clearly not feeling great.”

“I didn’t want to be a flake.”

“That’s very noble of you,” you say flatly, and he huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to scrape a conversation out of someone who answers like he’s being cross-examined in court.

Eventually, you set your fork down.

“This isn’t working, is it?”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“This. Us. The date. It’s not going well.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then nods. “No. I guess not.”

You sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“I’ll get the check.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I feel bad. You came out.”

You glance at him, and for a moment—just a second—you feel sorry for him. The hoodie. The puffy eyes. The way he keeps rubbing the side of his neck like he’s thinking hard about something he’ll never say.

But then he adds: “You ask questions like you’re a therapist or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I am a therapist.”

His face does a weird thing—like his brain short circuits and he reboots mid-sentence. “Oh. Shit. That makes sense.”

You stare at him. “Good night, Quinn.”

Two weeks later, your receptionist pokes her head into your office.

“New intake just arrived. Quinn H., 2:30 p.m.”

You freeze.

“No,” you say automatically.

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pulling up the intake form. “That can’t be right.”

You read the form. Referral: E. Pettersson Presenting concern: Work-related stress. Generalized anxiety. Difficulty with emotional processing. Client: Quinn Hughes.

You close your laptop and stare at the wall.

A minute later, there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t look up when you say, “Come in.”

You do look up when he says: “Are you serious?”

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like someone just told him he has to retake the SATs.

You stare back. “I could say the same thing.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Petey said you were good.”

You sit straighter. “Elias sent you to me?”

“Yeah. He’s worried about me or whatever.”

“I mean… fair.”

He glances up. “You gonna refer me out?”

You pause. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t treat someone I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Quinn snorts. “We went on one date and hated each other.”

You nod. “True. Still personal.”

He looks at the wall. Then back at you. “I just— I don’t really want to start over.”

You sigh. “You could’ve led with that.”

“Not really my style.”

You hesitate. Think. One session. One session won’t kill you.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s try. One session.”

He sits, awkward in the chair, like it might bite him. “So what now?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

He talks more than you expected. Not easily—but once he gets going, it’s like he can’t stop. He talks about pressure. About expectations. About how he gets stuck in his own head. About never feeling good enough even when he is good enough. About how sometimes he feels invisible, and sometimes he wishes he was.

You say very little. You let the silence do its work.

At the end of the session, he stands slowly, almost reluctant.

“That wasn’t terrible,” he says.

You give him a bland look. “High praise.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re still kind of annoying.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’re still emotionally repressed.”

Quinn pauses at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. On the date. About you analyzing everything.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts on his feet. “You were just trying to be nice. I was... sick. And stressed. And kind of a dick.”

You nod once. “Apology accepted.”

He clears his throat. “So, uh. See you next week?”

You smile. “Same time.”

Quinn’s slumped in your office chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. He's staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to count how many ways he’s trapped in his own head.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why is it still like this? I’ve done what you said—I've tried journaling, I’ve been getting sleep, I even stopped reading Reddit.”

You blink. “Wow. That one must’ve hurt.”

He gives you a weak smirk. “Little bit.”

You nod slowly. “Alright. You want to try something different?”

He looks at you. “Different how?”

“Out-of-office different.”

Quinn squints. “Like... a field trip?”

“Not officially,” you say. “But yeah. Come with me. I want you to try something.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside a strip mall building with blacked-out windows and a fluorescent sign that says: “Rage Room.”

Quinn looks at the door. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t blink. “Nope.”

“You want me to hit stuff?”

“I want you to let go of things without overthinking them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this even—like—allowed?”

“Ethically? Not ideal,” you admit. “But you said you didn’t want to start over. So you get me. And I say you need to get out of your own head before you spiral into another three-day silent shame cycle.”

He huffs a breath. “You’re weird.”

You smile. “You’re avoidant.”

The rage room smells like old rubber and drywall. A speaker’s blasting 2000s emo music at an almost disrespectful volume. A wall of bats, crowbars, and sledgehammers hangs like a weapons rack in a zombie movie.

Quinn’s in a beat-up hoodie and safety goggles, staring at a pile of breakables like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You hand him a metal pipe. “Start small. Smash something.”

He hesitates. “Like what?”

You gesture to the row of ceramic mugs lined up on a folding table. “Pick your least favorite and commit a crime.”

He gives you a look. “You get weirder every week.”

“You get quieter.”

He walks up to the table, lifts the pipe, and smashes a mug with one clean, decisive swing.

It shatters like a tiny explosion. Glass skitters everywhere.

You wait.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grin. “There it is.”

Twenty minutes later, Quinn has completely entered his rage era.

He’s sweating, muttering under his breath between swings. You only catch bits and pieces—some unholy mix of “fucking power play,” “media bullshit,” and “Jack gets away with this stuff.”

He’s wrecked three keyboards, a set of old plates, and a plastic printer you brought from home that’s been jamming since April.

And finally, finally, when he stops—breathing heavy, shoulders tense—he leans back against the wall and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

You pass him a bottle of water. He takes it, still catching his breath.

“That helped more than I want to admit,” he says.

You sit next to him, cross-legged on the padded floor. “Then why don’t you want to admit it?”

He shrugs. “It’s dumb.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not. It's physical release. Unfiltered emotion. No expectations. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I think that’s the part I’m bad at. Not being explainable.”

You blink. That’s… unexpectedly honest.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not loud. Or charismatic. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t want to sell myself. I just want to be good at what I do.” He pauses. “But everyone’s always trying to tell a story about me.”

You nod slowly. “So you feel like you’re not allowed to write your own.”

He glances at you. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You let the silence settle between you for a second.

Then, gently, you ask, “So what story would you write?”

He snorts. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn one good moment into a pop quiz.”

You smile. “I call it ‘holding space.’ You call it ‘being a pain in the ass.’”

“Both can be true,” he mumbles.

You nudge his arm. “Come on. Try.”

He sighs. Looks down at the dented metal bat in his hands.

“I think…” he starts, slowly, “...I’d write that I’m trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I fuck it up. I’m still trying.”

You look at him for a long second. “That’s a good story.”

He shrugs, glancing away. “No one wants to hear that one.”

“I do.”

It’s out before you can stop it.

He blinks. His face shifts—something between surprised and soft.

You clear your throat. “Professionally speaking.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But seriously,” he says, “this was good.”

You nod. “Next time we do yoga.”

He groans. “No thanks. That feels like a Jack thing.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

You walk out together. It’s raining lightly, just misty enough to make your clothes cling.

He stops at his car, hesitating before opening the door.

Then: “Hey.”

You turn.

“Thank you.”

You nod. “You’re welcome.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second. Then, very softly, “I don’t think I hated our first date as much as I acted like I did.”

Your breath catches.

You try to play it cool. “Because of me? Or the DayQuil?”

He laughs—low, real. “A little of both.”

“Noted.”

He opens his door.

“You’re still not allowed to flirt with your therapist,” you call after him.

“I know,” he says. But he smiles anyway.

Quinn stops coming to your sessions after the rage room.

At first, it’s just a reschedule.

“Practice ran late.”

Then a last-minute cancellation. “Bit of a travel day mess. Can we push to next week?”

Then nothing.

You try not to take it personally.

You’re a professional. You have to be. You remind yourself of this while reading over your clinical notes, chewing your pen cap like it might bite back.

Still, you can’t help but notice the shift.

He’s not just skipping therapy. He’s avoiding you.

Which—fine. It makes sense. The line got blurry. He opened up, got comfortable, probably caught himself too late. That happens sometimes.

But what bugs you isn’t that he stopped coming.

It’s that he didn’t say goodbye.

Three weeks pass.

You try to forget about him, but then Jack Hughes goes viral for doing donuts in a golf cart, and it’s all over your For You page.

Quinn’s in the background of the video, arms crossed, trying not to smile, and your stomach flips like you swallowed a rock.

You set your phone down and say—out loud, to your empty apartment— “Get a grip.”

It’s nearly 7 p.m. on a rainy Thursday when you hear a knock on your office door.

You glance at the clock. You don’t have anyone booked this late.

You open it slowly, cautiously.

Quinn’s standing there in a baseball cap and a hoodie like he thinks he’s undercover. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kinda.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You’ve missed three sessions.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even email.”

“I know,” he says again.

You pause. “You okay?”

He looks down. “Not really.”

You step back. “Come in.”

He doesn’t sit on the couch. He hovers, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he’s not sure he should be here.

You let the silence stretch until it starts to fray.

Finally, he says, “I think you should refer me out.”

Your heart sinks.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “Okay. That’s fair. If you think someone else would be a better fit—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “You’re—you’re a good fit. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I liked talking to you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

His voice gets quieter. “And then after the rage room… it didn’t feel like therapy anymore.”

You try to steady yourself. “We’ve kept clear boundaries—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’ve been... great. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did?”

“No, I just—” he stops, frustrated. “I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t feel like something else.”

Something thick swells in your chest.

He finally meets your eyes. “I couldn’t come back in here and keep pretending I didn’t want to see you outside of this room.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Look,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I don’t want to mess this up, and I don’t want to put you in a weird spot, but I— I want to try again. I want to go on a real date. With you. No DayQuil. No pretending it didn’t happen. Just... you and me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You understand the rules, right?”

He nods. “Six months. After termination.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked it up?”

He shrugs. “I looked a lot of things up.”

You stare at him. You think about your ethics board. You think about your job. You think about the way he looked in that rage room—focused, present, real—and the way his laugh got stuck in your throat after he thanked you. The way your fingers itched to reach for him and didn’t.

And you think: maybe it’s okay to want something, too.

You exhale. “Alright.”

Quinn blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I’ll refer you out. To someone I trust. And if you still want to try... after the required time... I’ll consider it.”

His eyes flicker with something bright. “You’ll consider it?”

You smirk. “You have to earn your second date.”

He grins, small and honest. “Fair.”

He stands to go.

At the door, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “For what it’s worth... I think I got better. Not fixed. But better. Because of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

Quinn nods once. “See you when I’m legally allowed to flirt with you.”

“Countdown starts now.”

[c-grant]

📷 lando and oscar monaco polaroid!

[c-grant]

good morning, I don’t want to go to work today but I must be strong and not listen to myself

[c-grant]

i’m a panthers fan (forgive me father for i have sinned) but i need joe woll to take care of me when i get too drunk, this is my deepest darkest secret i live a double life. also you’re one of the best writers on this app and if you write a blurb for this i will be eternally grateful

tiny little nsfw references. also idk if he drinks or not this is just for the blurb

joseph never drank. never touched the stuff, not even a sip of wine at communion—always folded his hands politely and passed the chalice by. said he didn’t like how it made people lose themselves. he liked being grounded, calm, aware. liked having full control of his thoughts, his actions, his hands—especially his hands.

but he never judged you for drinking. just smiled when you giggled too loud, brushed your hair back when it clung to your lipstick. always made sure you had water, made sure someone was walking you home. and if he couldn’t be there, he'd text every fifteen minutes. “are you safe?” “need me to pick you up?” “drink some water baby okay?”

but tonight, he was there. and you were fucking gone.

it started with shots—sweet ones, too easy to toss back, too easy to forget they were poison—and ended with you leaning into him at the bar, whispering slurred nonsense into his neck, your breath hot and sticky against his skin.

“m’fine. promise. i only had, like, six…five…ish. i can walk. look.”

you stumbled as soon as you took a step, nearly faceplanting into the bar stool, and joseph caught you before you hit the floor. both arms around your waist, holding you steady, soft laugh against your hair.

“come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, gentle and sweet, voice like fucking honey melting down your spine. “let’s get you home.”

you clung to him in the uber, draped across his lap like a limp doll, whispering nonsense, pawing at his chest.

“you’re so pretty, you know that? like. like… angel pretty. like biblical angel pretty. with the wings and the eyeballs.”

he snorted, kissed your temple, tucked your skirt down where it had ridden up your thighs. “thank you, baby.”

and when you got home? he didn’t even hesitate.

he stripped your heels off first, setting them neatly by the door like always. then your jacket. then your jewelry, placing each ring and necklace carefully in the tray on the dresser. he walked you to the bathroom, helped you sit on the toilet so you could pee, humming something soft while you giggled and babbled about how the floor was cold on your feet.

then he cleaned your makeup. warm rag, careful strokes, tilting your chin with two fingers while he wiped away every smudged smear of mascara and glitter, murmuring so softly it felt like a lullaby.

“there we go. just like that. still the prettiest girl in the whole damn world.”

you swayed, eyes half-lidded. “you’re so sweet, jojo. like. fuck. like sugar dipped in sugar. like... marshmallow boy.”

he chuckled again, soft and patient. “marshmallow boy, huh?”

“mhmm.” you leaned forward, lips brushing his jaw. “marshmallow boy who’s gonna marry me.”

his hands stilled for a second, then resumed. “damn right i am,” he said quietly.

he undressed you slowly. not like sex. just soft. reverent. like peeling away armor. pulled your dress over your head, unhooked your bra, eased your panties down your thighs while you stood there giggling and swaying, cheeks flushed. he never touched you wrong. never took advantage. just held you steady and whispered praise like he couldn’t help it.

“such a good girl. so beautiful. even when you’re drunk off your ass.”

you tried to kiss him—really kiss him—but he dodged it, cupped your face with both hands and kissed your forehead instead.

“not tonight, baby,” he said gently. “not when you can’t say yes for real.”

and fuck if that didn’t make your heart ache. he could’ve had you right then, pliant and needy and drunk enough to beg, but he wouldn’t. he just smiled, helped you into one of his t-shirts, pulled it down over your thighs, then picked you up bridal style and carried you to bed.

you snuggled into him instantly, pressing your face against his chest, sighing like it was the first deep breath you’d taken all night. his hand stroked up and down your back, slow and rhythmic, grounding you like prayer beads clicking through his fingers.

“you’re not mad at me?” you slurred, voice muffled against his collarbone.

“of course not.”

“’cause i was being a slut.”

he laughed—actually laughed—and it was warm and deep and low in his chest.

“baby, you’re my slut. that’s allowed.”

you moaned dramatically. “i wanna suck your dick.”

“i bet you do.”

“but i mean like. right now.”

“yeah, no. you’re barely conscious.”

“what if i promise not to bite?”

“you always promise that. you always bite.”

you tried to pout but yawned instead, long and slow and whiny.

he pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. his hand never stopped stroking your back.

“go to sleep, angel,” he murmured. “i’ll be right here.”

and you did.

passed out like a stone on his chest, drooling a little, legs tangled with his. and joseph? he stayed up the whole night. made sure you didn’t puke in your sleep. made sure you didn’t roll off the bed. held you close and whispered nothing into your hair like psalms.

and in the morning? he had water and advil and a trash can by the bed. and when you groaned, hungover and gross and whining, he just smiled and kissed your temple again.

[c-grant]

Bothersome beast, comforting friend

[c-grant]

My Snoppy Piastri agenda 😌

[c-grant]

don’t let your job stop you from enjoying an unemployed summer

[c-grant]

hi, happy 1 year 🥹💗💕, could i request a cafe latte with vanilla syrup: missionary and peppermint: established relationship for qh43 🩷 ty!

sry this is beaquinn core for me; if you get to the point where "quinn says your full name" just know that your full name is supposed to be "beatrice". thank u

“You feel so great,” Quinn says in a tone akin to a swear. “So tight and wet and perfect, could– shit– could stay inside you forever.”

“I feel like that might get uncomfortable after a while,” you quip, carding your fingers through Quinn’s soft waves and breathing in deep when he buries himself to the hilt. “I love when you fuck me, baby, but I think it would be hard to go grocery shopping if you were always inside me.”

“We can order delivery,” Quinn replies, nuzzling under your chin and dragging his lips over your skin. “People can shop for us. I’ll spend my millions on it.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you reminded me of your millions,” you sigh, rolling your head back on the fluffy pillows in his bed. “That’s such a turn on. Fuck me, Quinn, fuck me hard.”

His laughter comes out in muffled puffs against your neck. His teeth bite down on your shoulder playfully, a smirk on his face once he kisses back up to your lips. “Ha, ha,” he exaggerates. Quinn brushes a lock of hair out of your face and peppers your freckles with sweet pecks. “I knew you were in this for the money.”

You throw your arms over his shoulders and pull him in for another kiss, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth. “It’s so good to know I can stop pretending.”

Quinn sighs and smiles into the kiss, sinking into your heat again. “I fucking love you,” he murmurs. “I know you’re joking, but if you weren’t, I’d still let you spend all my money if it meant you’re mine.”

“That’s really sweet, Q, but now I’m worried that you’re susceptible to scammers,” you giggle, sliding a hand over his bicep. “Just fuck me, baby. Let’s not talk about it.”

Quinn draws out of your cunt and rolls onto his back. “Ugh, I feel like we ruined the moment.”

“No,” you whine, rolling onto your side and rubbing his chest. You tuck yourself into his side and kiss his neck, making soft noises. “Quintin.”

He wraps his arm around you, playing with the ends of your hair. He drawls your full name, fixing his beautiful eyes on yours. Quinn’s pupils dilate, lips quirked. He groans as he moves, rolling back on top of you and slotting his thigh between yours. Quinn cages you between his arms, dropped low on his elbows. He slots your mouths together, a soft kiss that tastes like his toothpaste. 

“I want it,” you tell him quietly.

“Best three words you’ve ever said,” Quinn replies. He lays his weight on one arm, the other sliding between your bodies to line himself up with your core. 

The sex is quiet this time, your breaths mixing together like leaves in the wind. Quinn holds your hip possessively, lips nudging your cheek and temple when you moan and whimper and sigh, encouraging you to do more. His pelvis swivels against yours, bringing you to orgasm slowly and surely, practiced and certain. 

“I love you,” he whispers into your hair when you come, massaging your sides and holding you close. “My beautiful girl. Take me so well, so sweet and lovely.”

“Quinn,” you breathe. His body is plastered against yours, pinning you to the bed, and there’s nowhere you’d rather be. He’s still pumping inside you slowly, the aftershocks diminishing despite your nerves being on end. “You feel great, babe.”

“Hm, thanks,” Quinn murmurs. He captures your lips. “Gonna make you come again, what do you think about that?”

“Ooh, I think you’re shooting for the stars,” you tease. “Let’s make it happen.”

[c-grant]

reminder that whilst yet another premiere of the F1 movie hits the world with its misogynistic representation, today June 23rd we celebrate the International Women in Engineering Day🤍