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hyperspermia!robby is fucking with my head in the best ways
the sounds are obscene and itâs because he has to fuck you so deeply.
robby needs itâhis loadâto take, and the only way thatâs happening is if heâs got you on your back and your legs wrapped around him⊠hugging him as close as possible. his cock feels like itâs splitting you in half and youâre certain youâre already halfway full with all of the pre cum heâs leaked out.
the both of you are a mess, robby rocking himself into your hole thatâs squelching and sloshing stains of his cream mixed with yours, and it leaks all the way to your ass and splotches along the sheets with little care. his balls smack against you, heavy with the incoming flood of his load and adding soft plaps to the wet sounds of robbyâs pounding.
you choke on the air robbyâs panting into your mouth, and can feel his tip kissing the deepest parts of you. grazing against every ridge of your walls as he drags his hips away before slamming back into your g-spot with an impassioned grunt. the whining of his name from your lips only heats him further, and he fucks you at an angle that makes it impossible to know anything except him.
fuck, you always take him perfectly. gushing out splatters of your juices, and stretching just as his cock asked.
when robby comes, itâs shaky-breathed and leaking and filthy. endless ropes of his seed release inside you with an oozing warmth, and he groans and groans until his voice goes hoarse. you hold the back of his neck, sweaty and weak with your own peaks that swell alongside his, flowing through your lower half with an undeniable pulse of euphoria. each of them giving you little chance to rest before the next one flutters you completely breathless.
and even though his hips grow too tired to thrust, it doesnât mean heâs finished coming.Â
at a certain point, robbyâs hips just grow too tired and his arms give out, collapsing himself on top of you⊠cock still crammed inside and pumping out thick spurts with sporadic twitches. belly pressed into yours, robby can only lie there and fill you until heâs leaking out from all directions. spilling his entire self inside your hole, robby quakes in frantic grabs of your sides. face buried against you and muffling his straining gasps.
pulling out is a flood; of moans and cum that squirts back out of you as you clench around nothing and whine at the absence. robbyâs mind is mush as his cock slaps messily against your puffy lips, and he canât see straight. the kisses he drags along your neck are full of tongue and sweet sucks, vibrating with low rumbles purring from the back of his throat.
âfuckinâ jesus,â robby slurs out, still drunk off you and the way your legs stay wrapped around him. âjust gimme a minute, ân iâll clean you upâŠâ
ââkay. there should be a towel on the counter in the bathroomâwhat?â you pauses, robby blinking at you with a glint in tired eyes, mouth quirked.
he raises, pressing his lips into yours. just barely pulling away, the man mumbles along the side of your jaw.
âwho said anything about me needinâ a towel?â
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#michael robinavitch x reader#dr. robby x reader#dr robby x reader#smut#fics recommendations#fics recs
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something something pope cody making you sit legs spread on your couch while he rubs you through your panties until youâre crying.
the man in just⊠in awe of you. it was just so easy for the crotch of your underwear to soak with the mess leaking from your slit. so damn beautiful.
popeâs especially obsessed with how your tits look when you arch your back and how he has to hold your thigh to keep you from squirming too much.
at some point in his crouch before you, heâll lay his cheek on the inside of your thigh, and just press the pad of his thumb into the crux your center. he adds hints of pressure over the large wet spot as the seconds tick by, making sure not to close his eyes when he inhales lungfulls of your scent.
his tongue sneaks out to wet his bottom lip before heâs forced to bite into it, his skin growing even warmer as he gazes across you. still fascinated.
itâs not making sense, at least in his mindâhow youâre real and letting him do this to you. this is why he takes his time⊠just in case this is some sort of dream he could be ripped away from.
you let out the prettiest sound heâs ever heard when he drags his finger from you, and pope pants.
âcan i lick you, please? you just,â he pauses the desperate plea to slink his arms around your thighs while reshuffling on his knees with a grunt. his eyes bore straight into yours when heâs ready to continue. âyou smell really, really nice⊠and i, uh⊠can i? please? just need a tasteâŠâ
it isnât until you nod that he releases the breath he heâs holding.
âyeah?â he rasps, already reaching to pull the fabric out of the way. âyeah?â
the next thing to tumble from your mouth is a broken squeak, pope sinking the flat of his tongue to you with thick grunt of his own.
he canât stop himself when his eyelids flutter shut.
licking you slow with a furrowed brown of determination, pope doesnât detach from you before lapping his tongue one more, and then again. each flick is deeper and heavier, making you wiggle against the rough of his tastebuds gliding over your clit.
âpopeâshit,â you cry out and he growls at how your name sounds coming from you like that. coasting along you in a dragging of his head, pope eats you with a fuzzy brain and slinking tongueâslagging circles around your pearl and sucking a little harder whenever he hears you gasp.
please keep saying his name like that. it might pulse his cock to a mess inside his jeans but that doesnât matter. he wants it⊠needs it.
when your grip finds its way to a light tug on his hair, pope deepens his intrusion with a sinking of his mouth further into you. he slurps with intention, eyes opening to slam right back into yours as he focus the pressure onto your clit.
you donât dare look away from him, even when your head wants to throw back and roll against the cushions behind you. keeping your stare intertwined with his, your jaw drops in a long, teary whine.
god, youâre everything. not perfect, because nothing is, but heâs certain that you is as close at is getsâŠ
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I Bled Where You Were
Fandom: Lockwood & Co Prompt: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. In and out. But of course, nothingâs ever that simple when ghosts are involved. You take the hitâshielding George without thinkingâand everything goes sideways. By the time Lockwood and Lucy fight the ghost off, youâre unconscious and bleeding, and George is spiraling. He wonât leave your side. He keeps pressure on your wound with shaking hands and mutters under his breath like itâll keep you tethered. âYouâre not allowed to die. Not before I tell you Iââ And then he freezes, realizing what he just said out loud. When you wake up, pale but alive, your first words are, âTell me what, George?â Bonus: He tries to brush it off. You grab his wrist and whisper, âSay it again. I heard you.â by @dearhnymn Pairing: George X Reader TW: Mention of blood, angst, but also they're so cuttteee

______________________________________________________________
It was supposed to be easy.
An in-and-out retrieval. The kind they could do blindfolded by nowâget in, find the Source, contain it, get out. Quick. Clean. Controlled.
The house was quiet when you stepped inside, unnervingly so. Every breath felt like it echoed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your boots, as if the house remembered pain. Dust hung in the air like old breath, and the coldâit was already curling around your ankles, soft and slow, like fingers testing your pulse.
Lockwood led with his torch raised, coat sweeping behind him like a story in motion. Lucy followed close, her grip steady on the hilt of her rapier. George walked beside you, one hand fumbling in his satchel for his notebook, muttering the details from the case file under his breath.
âMale. Died on-site. Age unknown. No documented burialâbody was likely lost in the collapse. Cold spot reported near the northeast room.â
You nodded, listening more to the rhythm of his voice than the words themselves. It was easier to stay calm when he talked like thatâsteady, focused, George.
The northeast room was the library, or what had once been one. The shelves had mostly caved in, spilling mouldy pages and shattered glass across the floor. A grandfather clock stood frozen in the corner, its pendulum stilled mid-swing. Something in your chest clenched at the stillness.
And then the temperature dropped. Fast.
The kind of cold that didnât creepâit sank. Bone-deep, soul-shaking. Your breath fogged instantly. Lucyâs torch flickered once, twice, then steadied.
You all stopped.
The ghost rose from the debris like it was waking from a long dream. Slow. Drifting. Not angry, not at first. Just⊠there. A boy, maybe seventeen, maybe younger. His eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. He didnât floatâhe hung, suspended in something invisible, arms limp at his sides.
George inhaled sharply beside you.
And then, he faltered.
Just for a second. Split-second of stillness. He stared at the ghost, face unreadable, fingers tightening on his rapier but not moving. Like he saw somethingâsomeoneâin that face. A flicker of recognition, or regret, or too many nights spent studying names that didnât belong to living children.
You didnât think. You moved.
One step. Two. You cut in front of him, arms raised, body squared. You were used to his pauses. Used to being the first one in, the one who acted while George still processed. It never felt like a choiceâjust instinct, fierce and fast.
Then everything shattered.
The ghost lungedânot at George. At you. Its face twisted, mouth stretching open in a scream that made no sound, just a piercing ache inside your skull. You felt it, the impactânot physical, not exactlyâbut like being knocked backward inside yourself.
The cold tore through your ribs like knives of ice. You screamed, or maybe you didnât, because sound didnât matter anymore. Your limbs lost their shape. Your chest caved inward. You fell to your knees, the shield you tried to build slipping from your fingers.
Then came the blood.
A thin, hot trickle at first. Then more. From your nose, your mouth, somewhere deeper. You collapsed sideways, vision splintering at the edges.
"No!" Georgeâs voice cracked. You barely heard it over the thudding in your ears. His hands were on you in seconds, frantic and too warm, pressing somewhere on your side where it burned and pulsed and hurt like your body had turned against itself.
Lucy's blade sliced the air with a scream. Lockwood barked orders, but you couldnât catch the words. Everything was muffled now, like cotton had been stuffed into the world.
You could still feel Georgeâs hands. One shaking as it pressed on your wound, the other gripping your arm like he could anchor you to the floor.
âStay with meâcome onâdonât you dareââ
You wanted to look at him. Wanted to say something. Joke about how dramatic he was. But your eyes wouldnât stay open, and your lips were too heavy to move.
His words were inaudible, you could  not process them. They were just sounds, music to your ears as if it was the last, the most beautiful one. The last thing you clearly heard was Georgeâs voiceâcracked and trembling, full of panic and something else, something sharp and breaking.
âYouâre not allowed to die. Not before I tell you Iââ
The sentence ended in a silence so loud it hurt.
And thenâ
black.
There was blood under Georgeâs fingernails.
He couldnât stop staring at it.
It dried in the creases of his knuckles, caught beneath the edge of his bitten nails, warm once and now turning tacky. It didnât feel realânot on his hands. Not yours. It was supposed to be theoretical. Distant. Something in reports. Not something he pressed his palms into.
But your blood soaked through his sleeves. It was real.
You were too still. Wrongly still. Not unconscious like sleep, like the gentle collapse of someone at peace. No, this was stillness like a paused heartbeat, a body frozen mid-fall. Your lips were pale, eyes closed, lashes twitching like they were trying to dream their way out.
George pressed harder on the wound, his hand sliding as more blood welled up. âPlease,â he whispered. âStay with me. Just stay.â
Lockwood stood near the door, coat torn, face pale. His voice had lost its usual brightness. Lucy was crouched nearby, torch gripped so tight her knuckles looked like ghosts of their own. Neither of them spoke. Neither tried to touch you.
Because George was the one breaking.
âI shouldnât have hesitated,â he choked out. âI shouldâve moved. I shouldâveâGod, youâre such a bloody idiot, whyâd youâwhyâd you jump in for me?â
He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing shallow and hot. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, fogged and streaked with tears he didnât remember crying.
âStay with meâcome onâdonât you dareââ
The pain didnât matter. Not the ache in his back from kneeling too long, not the way his wrists shook from the effort. The only thing that mattered was keeping your chest rising. Just. One. More. Breath.
"Youâre not allowed to die,â he said again, lower this time, like a ritual. âNot before I tell you IâŠâ
He stopped.
The words spilled out like a broken pipe, and the silence that followed was worse.
He hadnât meant to say it. Not like that. Not with blood on the floor and your pulse fading beneath his fingers. Not when it felt like the world was caving in.
He looked at your face, eyes searching for some signâanything. A twitch. A flinch. A miracle.
Nothing.
So, he stayed there, hands red and heart raw, saying nothing more. Just breathing for you, holding pressure like penance.
Until help came.
And then the rest was noiseâparamedics, lights, movement. But George didnât move from your side, not even when they pried his fingers loose. Not until they promised you were still alive.
Not until he saw your fingers curl, just slightly, against the edge of the stretcher.
Only then did he allow himself to fall apart.
The world returned in fragments.
A beep.
The prickle of warm light behind closed eyelids.
The heaviness of limbs weighted by sleepâor something deeper.
Your mouth tasted like metal and cotton, and your throat burned as if you'd swallowed fire and tried to apologize for it. There was a dull throb somewhere in your side. Not sharp. Just present. Like a bruise made of memory.
And thenâ
A voice. Quiet, hoarse, too close.
ââstill not awake. Thatâs fine. I can wait. Iâve got all night.â
George.
You didnât open your eyes right away. His voice was cracked at the edges, the way old records skip when you listen too hard. He was trying to sound normal, you could tellâstill mumbling facts, little tangents, telling you how many types of ghosts had been miscategorized in the last Fittes Journal of Psychic Studiesâbut every word trembled.
There was a weight on your wrist. Warm. Familiar.
His hand.
ââŠyou scared the hell out of me,â he whispered eventually, and now the facts had stopped. âYou looked like you were gone. I didnât know what to do. I justââ He stopped. Exhaled. âYou canât do that to me again, okay?â
You finally opened your eyes.
It took effort, like peeling back layers of something thick and stubborn. The light was low, and everything hurtâbut your gaze found him instantly. Slumped in the chair beside your bed, glasses smudged, curls a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled like he hadnât changed in days.
He looked like heâd fallen through grief and landed in a chair and stayed there.
ââŠGeorge?â Your voice barely made it past your lips. A scrape. A ghost of a sound.
He bolted upright. Eyes wide. Like youâd just come back from the deadâwhich, technically, you had.
âYouâre awake.â He blinked hard, and then again, and you thought he might cry. âYouâbloody hell, youâre awake.â
You managed a tired smile. âTell me what, George?â
He froze.
Like a record skipping again. He stared at you, breath caught between ribs like it didnât know if it should leave.
âI heard you,â you whispered. Your fingers found hisâweak but insistent. âYou said something. When I was bleeding out and you thought I couldnât hear. Tell me what.â
His hand twitched in yours. âYou⊠You werenât supposed to hear that.â
âBut I did.â
Silence.
His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thousand possible denials, trying to swallow them before they left his mouth. But you saw it. In his eyes. The thing heâd been burying behind sarcasm and science and safety.
Your thumb brushed his knuckles. âSay it again.â
He didnât look away this time. His voice was barely a breath when it came.
âI love you.â
The words trembled like a confession to a god he wasnât sure believed in him.
âI was supposed to tell you when you werenât covered in blood,â he added weakly. âWhen we were both, I donât know, breathing properly.â
Your laugh came out like a wheeze. âTerrible timing, George.â
âI know.â
ââŠI love you too.â
He blinked, stunned. Like all the air had been knocked out of himâbut softly, this time. Like the fall was worth it.
And when he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours, you realized he was still shaking.
But now you were awake.
And he wasnât letting go.
The scar isnât large.
A small crescent near your ribs. Pale, healing, insignificant by battlefield standards. But for George, itâs a fault line.
And ever since you came backâlips pink, pulse steady, eyes burning with life againâhe hasnât stopped watching you. Not in a romantic way (though, yes, that too). No, itâs something deeper. Sharper. Like his eyes are trying to memorize every movement in case you blink out of existence.
You call it hovering.
He calls it being thorough.
Lucy calls it âcreepy as hell, George, back off, sheâs fine.â
But he doesnât back off.
Not when you go upstairs without a word. Not when your laugh drifts from the kitchen and he doesnât see the context. Not when you flinch slightly while pulling your shirt over your head and he rushes over like itâs day one again.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. Itâs healing."
âLet me see anyway.â
You sigh, roll your eyes, let him check. His fingers hover just above the scar like heâs scared to touch it, like pressure alone could undo the stitches that already dissolved. He doesnât speak while he looks. You let him. You know this isnât really about your side.
Itâs about his.
Because something inside George broke that night.
And heâs terrified itâll break again.
On missions, he doesnât stray more than a few feet. If youâre near the Source, heâs next to youâtorch ready, heart in his throat. He startles when you gasp, stiffens when you run. He sleeps with one ear turned toward your door.
âGeorge,â you say one night, gently. âIâm here.â
Heâs sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, knees pulled up like a kid lost in thought. His eyes lift to meet yours, haunted and tired and heavy.
âYou stopped breathing,â he murmurs. âOn the floor. Just stopped. And I thoughtâwhat if thatâs the last thing I ever remember of you?â
You kneel down in front of him, touching his face. âBut itâs not.â
He leans into your palm like itâs the only thing tethering him to gravity.
âI canât lose you,â he whispers. âNot when I only justâwhen we only justââ
âStarted,â you finish.
He nods.
You slide your hand into his and press it gently against your chest. âFeel that? Thatâs mine. Still going.â
âIt better keep going,â he mumbles. âOr I swear to God Iâll fight death itself.â
You smile. âDramatic.â
âDesperate.â
He kisses your knuckles.
And maybe heâll stop hovering one day.
But tonight, you sit beside him in the hall, tangled in silence, in shared breath, in a love that clings tight like ivy around a scar.
â
Tag list: @dearhnymn @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow
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the guy with the list



one shot
Pairing: george karim x f!reader
Word count: 1.5k
Summary: George can't pick up on social cues so he makes a list
Comment: short little surprise george drabble for all the george fans out there, just a fluffy little fic on this rainy sunday afternoon
@maraschinomerry @neewtmas @avdiobliss @oblivious-idiot @bella-rose29 @bobbys-not-that-small @demigoddess-of-ghosts
George was terrible at picking up on social cues. He couldnât take a hint to save his life. He learned that the hard way when Lucy moved in. Or at least what he thought was the hard way. He put his foot in his mouth enough times when y/n was around to really grasp the concept of embarrassment. He didnât use to care about those things. Until she came around.
He had been oblivious to her signs, her flirting, her teasing. He took everything literally, including Lucyâs exaggerated looks or winks, which he mistook for dust getting in her eye. The first three months of their platonic relationship had been a landmine of misunderstandings and avoidable hurt feelings. So, when they finally managed to get their words out and address what was clearly going on â according to Lucy â he wanted to avoid useless fights as much as possible. For this purpose, he had started a list. Well, more like lists. Plural. One wasnât enough to cover everything.
He reached for the notebook he kept in the third drawer of his desk. It had been the first one he had managed to find empty that night. His mind was still reeling from the look in her eyes, which he was able to interpret in hindsight as fondness. The way her hand had reached for his, her touch featherlight against his skin. The light tug at his wrist, which meant she wanted him to get closer, he noted. The soft, barely perceptible smile, tugging at the corner of her mouth. The hypnotic pink of her lips, which didnât require any interpretation, he was just fascinated by it. Her nose tilting up and her eyes fluttering shut. He hadnât believed in magic, but maybe he did now. He dealt with the supernatural every day, but nothing was more out of this world than the feeling of her lips against his. At that moment he had acted on instinct. Looking back, he wondered how he had known to put his arms around her waist, one hand pressed against the small of her back. How he had known to draw her closer. How he had known to deepen the kiss just enough to take the lead. How had he known when to pull back and look into her eyes? And how could he ever do it again if he didnât understand that?
His first entry had been messy, trying to capture the moment, to immortalize the feeling forever. He didnât want to forget it for anything in the world. But it had only brought more fears, more insecurities and doubts. How would he ever make her as happy as he had felt just a few moments ago? He needed to sort this out, into categories, lists by themes. He would be more observant, more attentive, more everything if it meant keeping her happy.
On the second page of his notebook, he had listed her looks. The fond look he had first written about, trying to describe it in vivid detail, blushing as the words filled the page.
He hadnât needed to think about it for too long before the list grew more extensive. He thought of the way she gazed at him with bright eyes and smile lines tugging at their corner, usually followed by a playful, mostly harmless provocation; her teasing look he loved so much. She usually looked more exasperated when she made a sarcastic comment, most of the time at Lockwood for being too prideful. Lucy had called him out when she caught him smiling to himself when she did that. He also listed the way her eyes sparkled when she was full of enthusiasm. The way her eyes seemed muted when she said she was fine, but she really wasnât. The thinly veiled fury when she said she was fine and she was, as long as you donât mess with her. The disdainful one â that one was for Kipps. The eye roll that made him smile.
Further down the line he had managed to catch the stolen glances too, that had a mischievous air to them. He prayed heâd never have to see sadness in her eyes ever again. But if he did, he knew that a hug, a cup of green tea with bergamot and a piece of dark chocolate would do the trick.
He turned the page and remembered how Lucy had helped with a few hints, before he had caught on to y/nâs insinuations. Specifically, he had been dense about body language. He had been shocked to learn that the way she rested her hand lightly on his forearm when they were sitting at the kitchen table, talking seemingly innocently, hadnât been so innocent. But it wasnât like the way she bit her lower lip. The forearm touch was fondness. The lip thing was attraction. He had blushed when Lucy had told him that last part. When he had first asked y/n why she was doing that with her mouth, she had said something about dry lips and lip balm. Weird how she always seemed to have this issue when he was on chain duty.
Now that they were closer â a lot closer â he got to enjoy a whole new flourish of soft touches and attentions. She preferred to hug in the morning, the sleepier she looked, the longer the hug. He noted that it was worth extra point if he nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck with a kiss at the top of her head. He knew this because she hugged his waist tighter when he did it that one time. He also knew that if he took her hand in his and kissed the top of it, she would look fondly at him and stroke his neck, so he did. A lot. He knew that playing with her hair helped her fall asleep. After tough cases he always insisted for her to sleep in his bed, so he could watch over her and make sure she slept through the night.
He smiled reading through all her likes and dislikes, finding pieces of her in her tastes he had learned by heart. A unique brand of chocolate, a tea for each time of day. Flowers for every occasion and movies for every mood. His finger traced over the page. He was holding a piece of her in those words, his scribbled notes forming a portrait of her looking at him with a tender smile.
He could spend hours analyzing her smile. She loved to communicate with unsaid words. She preferred to look at him with a tug at her lips and a raise of eyebrows. Their own secret language. âThey are so gone for each other,â she would say silently with curled lips whenever Lockwood and Lucy would stare at each other in that intense way they did. It happened often enough that it had earned a spot in the list.
âNice work with the research,â was the subtitle of what he called her professional smile.
âThanks for having my back,â was expressed with a shy, almost embarrassed smile.
He sometimes found her holding back a laugh, when she forced her lips to behave in front of a client to not give anything away. Uncontrollable tears always formed at the corner of her eyes and smile lines rose to her eyes despite her best efforts. Once the coast was clear, the dam would finally break with wrinkles on her nose and the laugh he loved so much finally escaping. He would do anything just to hear it again.
His favorite smile of all was always the one reserved for him, the one that matched her sparkling eyes when it was just them. It held too much power, because she knew he could never resist it. He was drawn to it. If she looked at him that way she knew he would have his forehead against hers in seconds, gazing at her with a matching intensity.
He often went over the lists before going to sleep, hoping sleeping on it would help him memorizing it faster. Last night however, he forgot to put it away. He only realized the mistake when he found her standing in his room, notebook in hand, with an unreadable expression on her face. That look wasnât part of the list yet. His heart dropped to his feet when he noticed the tears forming in her eyes. This was a mistake. Guys who made lists didnât have the best reputation from what he was told. He blushed with shame as he crossed the threshold of his room, stepping into what he expected to be their first fight. Maybe their last one too.
She turned around and a tear rolled down her cheek. Before he could apologize, she pulled him into a hug, her arms tightly wrapped around him. He couldnât breathe, both out of surprise and because of the tight embrace.
âAre you okay?â he asked in a low voice.
âThis is the most attentive and caring thing anyone has ever done. I love you.â
âI love you too,â he answered, smiling as he kissed the top of her hair.
He held her close, relief flooding him. Those were happy tears. He needed a new list. Â
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Darling
Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader
Summary: You use pet names for all your friends, and you're determined to figure out which ones George will tolerate
Content: fluff, flirty banter, unwanted advances, spontaneous fake dating, small injury and blood mention
A/N: I can't believe I've made it to the 2 year anniversary of my first Lockwood & Co fic!! I'm so incredibly grateful for all the support and encouragement, it means the world. Here's to even more fics in the coming year!
Word count: 3.7k
Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71 (let me know if you want to be added or removed!)
âThanks lovely,â you smiled at Lucy as she passed you a plate of toast, ignoring the way George rolled his eyes.
You'd always been quite open with your affection, and at last you'd found a place where it was appreciated. It had been nerve-wracking at first, settling in to Lockwood & Co, but eventually you felt more comfortable being yourself around your new colleagues and housemates. Things started out small, just the odd compliment here and there, but they were always well received, which gave you enough confidence to step up a notch. âYou're a star,â youâd say when someone brought you something you needed while you were working or training, âyou're the best, thank youâ was often your response to a home-cooked meal, or âoh you legendâ when your favourite fancy biscuits made an appearance on the daily snack plate. Finally, you'd progressed to pet names: love, angel, darling, whatever felt right in the moment. Lockwood and Lucy always seemed to perk up a little when you used them, which was half the reason for doing so in the first place. George hadn't been so receptive - the way he rolled his eyes every time was a dead giveaway - so you hadn't got that far with him yet. He didn't have a problem with you otherwise, in fact he practically glowed whenever you called him a genius for helping with research, but clearly this he just couldn't get behind for some reason.
Lucy beamed at your response as she set the toast down before sliding into the seat next to Lockwood. âSo what's the plan for today?â
Lockwood shifted his teacup to one side to double check the list he'd scribbled on the Thinking Cloth. âThe man who called yesterday, Mr Campbell, wants to discuss hiring us but he's unable to come here so Lucy and I will go and see him. George, can you keep researching the Rowland case, and y/n would you mind doing a quick stock check and heading to Satchells if we need anything? I'd like to get the Rowlands out of the way tonight if we can.â You both nodded, and you quickly washed your plate before heading into the basement. Cold seeped through your socks from the stone floor, and you stuffed your hands in your pockets. The quiet of the space was a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of your busy life within the agency, which you could hear carrying on above you as the other three prepared to head out for the day, making the floorboards creak and echo down the spiral staircase. You surveyed the shelves. It was a good job Lockwood had called for a stock take: they were looking particularly sparse after a busy few weeks of cases. There you had it, then. You'd be best just buying a set of everything.
Why you thought buying a set of everything was a good idea, you'd never know. The bags that were hanging from your elbows weighed a ton, and you struggled to negotiate the box of flares you were holding into one hand while you unlocked the door of 35 Portland Row, keeping it ajar with one foot while you rearranged your load to fit through. Without warning, the door was pulled open from the inside. Lucy and Lockwood must be back from their meeting already.
âThanks darling, you're a lifesaver,â you groaned as you heaved the bags up the final step and into the hallway. A huff came from behind the door, and you peered over the box to see curly hair and furrowed brows beneath the top of a pair of glasses. âOh, didn't realise it was you, George.â
âIt's fine,â he brushed it off. âHere, let me.â His hand slipped under the box, brushing against yours and sending sparks through your arm as he lifted it away in one smooth move and took one of the bags with his other hand.
You smiled in relief. âWell, thanks darling, for sure this time.â
He rolled his eyes. âDo you have to call me that?â
Something clicked in your mind, and you chewed your lip with a mischievous grin as you followed him through to the kitchen. Okay, he wasn't keen on being called darling, but you had plenty of other optionsâŠ
The Rowland house, as it turned out, was a bit of a maze. You'd split up, with Lockwood and Lucy on the ground floor while you and George ventured upstairs. From the glimpse you'd seen on your way in, the other two would be going in circles as the dining room, lounge, kitchen and entry hall were all inter-connected in some way. Up here was even more of a rabbit warren. It seemed like there were more storage cupboards than rooms, so you and George had taken a bedroom each to try and figure out which doors actually led somewhere useful. Yours had four: the entrance from the landing, two built-in wardrobes, and one leading to an en-suite. The en-suite itself had two more. The first was yet another cupboard, and the second you prodded open with your torch. A figure appeared in the light, and you gasped before you could stop yourself. At the sound, the figure spun, lightning fast. The tip of a rapier came dangerously close to your chest.
âJesus, y/n!â George exclaimed as he dropped the blade in shock. âI could have hurt you!â
You lowered your torch from his face, steadying yourself against him as the surge of adrenaline passed through you (though whether that was from the close call or getting to see George's assured combative side for once, you couldn't say). âSorry love, I thought this was another stupid cupboard.â
In the heat of the moment he almost didn't notice, but then you watched him replay the sentence in his head and throw you a disapproving look. You mentally filed love alongside darling in the ânot a fanâ section of this little experiment. However, despite his apparent annoyance he still helped make sure you were unhurt before you moved together to check the next room.
â
Only a few days after the case, you got hit with an unexpected illness which left you feeling thoroughly rotten and unfit for that evening's job. Lockwood had poked his head into your room to reassure you that it was okay for you to rest up, despite how guilty you were feeling (it wasn't your fault, of course, but that didnât stop you). As the sun began to set, filling your room with golden hues, there was another gentle knock at your door. You mumbled a response from within your duvet, poking your head out at the creak of the hinges to see who it was this time. A bashful George crept in, holding a small tray of tomato soup, buttered toast and a glass of water with some painkillers. He squinted a little against the rays as they illuminated his face in a warm glow.
âSorry, did I wake you?â he whispered. You shook your head and his shoulders unclenched with relief. âGood. I thought I'd bring you something to eat before we go, but you don't have to eat it if you're not feeling up to it, or I can get you something else or-â
You cut him off before he spiralled, your voice hoarse but soft. âNo, this is great, you're an angel. Thank you.â
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in spite of himself. Maybe he was just playing nice because you were in no state to fight back, but you added angel to your âmaybeâ list just in case. âYou're welcome. If your light is still on when we get back I'll check in again, or if not then sleep well.â
From that point on, there was a shift in the way you both handled your use of pet names. For you, it was a matter of when you used them - the more serious ones when George did something endearing, which was surprisingly regular for someone so blunt, and silly ones when he was winding you up and you wanted to get your own back. His responses changed too, of course he would still roll his eyes or bite back at the ridiculous ones, but you couldn't help but notice that when you genuinely called him something sweet he'd seem almost happy before remembering he wasn't supposed to enjoy them and close himself off again. It was a shame because those were your favourite moments, seeing him light up at your words, being able to be so affectionate with him without question or consequence. You weren't ready to admit yet that you were starting to fall for him and all the little things he did for you, so this was the best way you had to show him how much you appreciated it. How much you appreciated him.
â
George stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his orange trousers and a loose orange and black plaid shirt with rolled sleeves, tapping his foot impatiently. âCome on, the Archives will be closed by the time we get there at this rate!â
You yelled back over the rush of running water as you finished getting ready in the bathroom on the landing. âGive me one minute!â
âYou've had fifteen minutes of one minutes!â
âWell excuse me for making sure I'm presentable,â you scoffed as you bounded down the stairs, face fresh and dewy. âYou wouldn't want me to get you banned for impropriety, now would you honeybun?â
George pulled a face not unlike someone biting into a lemon. âThat's the worst one yet.â
âWorse than snookums?â
The imaginary lemon got even more sour. âOh please, for the love of god don't bring that one back.â
âWhatever you say, pookie.â You couldn't help but let out a giggle as you walked past and opened the front door, feeling the daggers being glared into your back.
The British Archives were quiet, most people taking the good weather as an excuse to forgo research for the day. Together you and George found a corner table tucked amongst the stacks, right between all the information you needed. You wandered over to the newspaper section and gathered a few. When you returned, George staggered over with a stack of books. Once settled, you drifted into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the rustling of pages and the scratch of pens in your notebooks. After a while, you became aware of George shuffling through the newspapers with a frown.
âDid you manage to find the 1897 article?â He asked.
Oops. âSorry,â you pulled a face, âI think it's in the other section so I forgot. I'll find it, one sec.â With that, you stood and ventured deeper into the section.
This part of the Archives was laid out quite unusually. Some sections were wide and easy to navigate, but it was just your luck that the article you needed was stashed down a narrow corridor of drawers which culminated in a dead end at a concrete wall. The lighting wasn't particularly good either; one of the fluorescent tubes had blown, leaving you to squint as you flicked through the drawer marked â1896-1900â. In fact, you were so focused that you almost didn't hear the approaching footsteps.
âHi there,â a deep voice came from the end of the corridor. You glanced up to see a tall, broad-shouldered boy in a Rotwell uniform leering at you from the end of the corridor. âNeed a hand?â
âNo thank you,â you replied as politely as you could, turning back to the drawer. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him approach. You tensed.
âAre you here alone?â His eyes lit up in anticipation of your answer.
Even if you had been, there's no way you would have told him so. âActually, I'm with someone.â Not technically a lie. Just worded in a way that you hoped would make him leave you to it.
âWell then, he's a fool,â he moved even closer, leaning on the edge of the drawer, his voice as slimy as his expression. You felt for the handle of your rapier, the rapier which you had left at the table. Your blood turned to ice. âLeaving you to do all the hard work by yourself? That's not very chivalrous. Why don't you let me-â
âOh there you are, muffin,â George said loudly and stiffly as he stepped round the corner of the shelves in a rehearsed sort of way, like he was pretending to stroll in but had in fact been standing there just long enough to hear what was going on. You fought back a snort, hiding the noise with your hand as you stared wide-eyed at your friend. He returned the look, cheeks flushing and seeming very much like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole, but he gave a strained smile and a subtle nod over the taller boy's shoulder. You'd both done that same nod often: follow my lead.
You took a shaky step past the other agent, a step closer to safety. âSorry, pumpkin, just got a bit⊠sidetracked,â you replied pointedly. As you got to his side his arm came up and around your waist, fingers hovering just above the fabric of your top, but it was enough to make the Rotwell agent balk.
âSorry man, I didn't know,â he muttered.
âWell, now you do,â George said with his usual dryness. âCome on, sweetheart, let's go.â You leaned into his touch, allowing him to put himself between you and the other boy as he guided you away.
âThank you, George,â you whispered into the space between you as you turned the corner, and you could have sworn he held you a little bit tighter.
The moment you were out of view and earshot he let you go, still keeping close until you were calmer and back at your table.
âWell, that was interesting, muffin.â Despite how grateful you were, you couldn't help but tease him; his cheeks were still tinted with rose, and the colour flared again as you emphasised his spontaneous choice of name.
He grimaced as he gathered up the last of your belongings from the table. âBreathe a word of this to anyone and I'll push you into the Thames.â
âYou hated every second of that, didn't you?â
âMostly because of him, but yes. Pumpkin, really?â
âHey,â you held your hands up in mock surrender, âyou're the one who left the house entirely in orange this morning, that's on you.â
âRemind me to burn this outfit when we get back,â he groaned, but there was a small smirk with it.
You were outside now, squinting into the bright light of the day. Not a cloud was in the sky, people were sitting in the nearby open spaces with books and picnic lunches, and as you watched a woman passed by on a vintage bicycle with a basket full of fresh flowers. You turned to the boy beside you. âDo you want to get ice cream on the way home? I know a great place.â
âSure,â he smiled. âMy treat.â
âAww, thanks sweetheart.â He inhaled deeply, already regretting opening that can of worms, and you ran away laughing as he chased you from the courtyard.
You strolled back to Portland Row with your ice creams, hastily eating before they could be melted by the blazing sun overhead. On the way, you chatted about your research, and while you had plenty to say you noticed that George only chipped in occasionally with his own findings. He was tense; you wondered if he was still thinking about what had just happened. Your suspicions were seemingly confirmed when, upon returning to an empty house (Lockwood and Lucy must be taking advantage of the weather too), he announced that he was going to let off steam in the training area downstairs. You gave an understanding nod, and sat down at the kitchen table to collate your notes. The rhythmic whooshes and thuds from downstairs were surprisingly hypnotic, and you noticed immediately when they stopped for a moment. Your attention wavered. Well, that was as good a time as any to take a break and put the kettle on. You hummed to yourself as the water began to boil, stopping when you heard footsteps.
âPerfect timing, I'm just making tea if you want a cup.â
It sounded like the person behind you was rushing out of the kitchen, his âI'm fine thanksâ a hurried mumble. You turned.
âGeorge, you're bleeding!â
âIt's nothing,â he brushed you off despite the prominent red streak just below the rim of his glasses.
He was already gone and halfway up the stairs by the time you processed what was going on, but you quickly grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard and followed. If he really didn't want you to get involved, he'd have closed his bedroom door behind him, but it stood ajar. Still, you lingered on the threshold. His room was poorly lit; his curtains were still closed from the early start, and he'd only turned on a small lamp on his bedside table which was fighting to pierce through the stack of comics and books that surrounded it. Amongst it all, George was sitting on the edge of the bed, cheek turned away from you and staring at his hands.
âMay I?â you asked, and he shuffled across the edge of his bed to make space in response. You settled down next to him, laying the kit on top of his sheets. âWhat happened?â
âRapier caught on the stupid dummy and I slipped and nicked myself.â
âOh honey, that's more than a nick,â you sighed, unsure whether the grimace that followed was from pain or the name. âCan I take your glasses off?â He gave a resigned nod, and you did so. The cut was a couple of centimetres long, running along his cheekbone, and tiny red dots were pooling along its length. You hesitated for a brief second, not used to having to patch anyone up but yourself, then clicked the latch on the first aid kit and took out an antiseptic wipe.
âCan I ask you something?â you said quietly, dabbing the wipe against his cheek. The cut was in a very awkward position, every time he moved his face it shifted. The dark red line looked almost black in the dim light of his room, and you were perched close on the edge of his bed to get a better look.
He winced. âYou can always ask, it's whether or not Iâll answer that's the issue.â
âWhat do you have against me calling you pet names?â
He paused, and you thought maybe he really wasn't going to answer. He did, though. âIt's complicated.â
âWell yeah, I figured,â you sighed. âHalf the time it seems like you're okay with it, and then suddenly you'll look sort of irritated and I can't tell whether you want me to stop, which of course I will.â
âDon't.â The word came from him very suddenly, and you blinked. You pulled your hand away a little. He seemed to realise what he'd said. âI mean, you can do what you want, I'm not going to stop you.â
âBut if it's annoying I can-â
âI'm not annoyed.â
âThen why do you always look like you are?â
âI'm⊠it's not⊠it's just frustrating, okay?â
You froze. That wasn't what you were expecting at all. You dropped your gaze, focusing intently on the first aid kit and willing yourself to look normal enough to put a plaster on without him seeing the tears in your eyes.
âI'm sorry,â he said softly, unintentionally twisting the imaginary blade you felt in your chest. âI don't mean it like that, it's not you that's frustrating.â You sniffed and risked a glance up. It was a shock to see him so vulnerable, looking almost as much like he was about to cry as you. âI like hearing you use those names, I do, but I always thought I'd get called them by a partner and it's just a reminder that you're⊠not.â
That was a perfectly reasonable boundary, you supposed, so why hadn't he said so from the beginning? And why did he seem almost disappointed? You almost dropped the plaster you were holding. Was he saying what you thought he was? Slowly, you peeled apart the wrapping, trying to keep your voice neutral. âSo, if we were dating then it'd be okay?â
He hesitated as though he hadn't considered it as an option, and for a moment you were terrified that you'd misunderstood. âI suppose so.â
âIn that case,â you bit your lip nervously, âwould you like to go out? With me?â
His dark eyes scanned yours, searching for any hint of mocking or sarcasm. When he found none, he smiled softly, the cut shifting again but thankfully not springing open. âHow about dinner, darling?â
Your jaw dropped. âDid you just-â
âCould I have my glasses please?â he asked suddenly. You realised you'd put them behind you.
âI'm not done,â you protested, gesturing to his cheek.
âI know, it's just I'd quite like to kiss you if that's okay, and I'd prefer to be able to see what I'm doing.â
You picked up his glasses, plaster immediately forgotten, and placed them on his face with a bashful smile. The moment he was able to see you, he leant in. Your hand was still raised so you tangled it into his hair as he placed his lips gently to yours, and his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close.
When you parted, he refused to let go, smiling down at you. Miraculously, his cheek had stayed in one piece. âSo, dinner?â
âThought you'd never ask, darling,â you grinned.
âLead the way, love.â
It seemed he was a fan of those pet names after all.
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we're not gonna be friends



one shot
Warnings: none
Content: not enemies, more like annoyed at each other, to lovers, f!reader x George
Word count: 6.8k
Summary: George and y/n can't stand each other, but Lucy can see through their annoyance. Maybe she should help them out a little bit.
Comment: it took me an embarrassingly long time to write this but i'm so happy it's finally here! It was inspired by the song We're not gonna be friends by PJ Frantz which is attached to this
@neewtmas ; @maraschinomerry ; @oblivious-idiot ; @bella-rose29 ; @bobbys-not-that-small ; @lewkwoodnco ; @clarabowmp3 ; @demigoddess-of-ghosts
The kitchen was silent like it often was before breakfast. Or was it lunchtime already? Despite the number of clocks in the house, y/n couldnât keep track of the day. Unlike Tendyâs where every agent had to keep a tight schedule, Lockwood&Co taught her to be more spontaneous with her day. Sheâd been there three months already, but she still wasnât used to the hours kept by her colleagues. They could eat breakfast at 3am or 11, sometimes had breakfast for dinner or the other way around. The only thing she knew by heart was the quietness before a shared meal. The only noises came from Georgeâs cooking. They would soon be replaced by uninterrupted chatter, the scraping of chairs against the floor and the kettle that was kept on most of the time.
She tried to appreciate the peace before the storm but it was tainted with the heavy stillness of the room. With his back turned to her, George couldnât see her disappointment at the lack of conversation between them. Despite her best efforts, she hadnât managed to find any sort of anchor with him. She had tried her best to be friendly, helpful, grateful for everything he did around the house but nothing had worked. Even the best conversation starters she could find about the Problem would get shut down in two sentences or less. Once, she mentioned the conversation she had overheard between two of her ex-colleagues, theories on the best ways to stop the Problem. His eyes had lit up, eager to respond and keep the debate going. He had only taken part of the conversation to contradict whatever the agents had said, but she was glad of the progress she made. However, she had made the mistake of smiling at him which instantly turned him mute once again before exiting the room without finishing whatever thought he had started.
She had grown frustrated of the situation. Frankly, if it hadnât been for Lockwood and Lucy, she would have given up entirely. But they kept insisting that they could be the best of friends and if she was honest with herself she felt insecure about wrecking the harmony between the three roommates. She already felt guilty enough for making Lucy share her room, no matter how much she insisted that she liked having her here. So, she attempted a new approach: instead of talking to him, she would try to help him out, be of service.
She waited patiently for him to finish whatever step he was on in his recipe to get the plates from behind him. When he rested the spoon he had in hand on the side of the pan, she stood up and went for the plates. He got there first and turned around carrying the four plates. Instead of handing them to her, he avoided her eyes and set them down himself, practically walking through her. She didnât let his rudeness stop her from helping and opened the cupboard where sat the glasses. He was faster once more and slid his fingers inside the glasses to grab two with each hand. Refusing to back down, she took the forks and knives out and set one of each next to the plates. She went next for the napkins but was stopped in her tracks by the sound of metal hitting plates. She turned around to see George rearranging her table setting, visibly sighing as he placed attentively the forks on the left face up and the knives on the right blades in. He once again avoided her gaze and went back to his dish still cooking on the stove.
âShould I bring the napkins or do you have preferences for that too?â She tried to say on a light tone but her annoyance bled through.
âHowever you want is fine.â
âApparently notâŠâ she mumbled.
âTheyâre just napkins, y/n.â
âThey were just forks.â
âThatâs differ-â
She slammed the door behind her before he could finish. She wasnât sure if she was hungry anymore. The front door opened and she came face to face with Lockwood who was coming back from whatever errand he and Lucy had run in the morning.
âHey,â he said as she passed by him. âArenât we about to eat?â he asked, but she was already climbing up the stairs.
He and Lucy exchanged a look before the girl decided to go after her. Even though y/n hadnât said anything, Lucy was pretty sure George had to be involved. She couldnât really blame her. She and George had had a difficult start too. But it hadnât taken this long for the researcher to warm up to her. And y/n was much more polite than she had been. Something was off and he had some explaining to do. She would ask him about it after she made sure y/n was okay. She climbed the stairs up to the attic and found y/n angrily fluffing the pillows on her bed. She didnât have to ask to know whose face she was picturing while violently adjusting the stuffing of a forest green throw pillow.
âSoâŠâ she started carefully, âhow was your morning?â
âHe is the most obnoxious and condescending jerk Iâve ever met.â
âWhat happened now?â she asked cautiously, but she couldnât help the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
âI have tried so hard to be pleasant and helpful. I talk about subjects he is interested in, I help out on chores he does, I do everything to be nice and a good roommate and he still wonât talk to me for more than thirty seconds and he wonât under any circumstances let me help out.â
She threw the innocent pillow on her bed to punctuate her annoyance.
Lucy felt torn by the situation. On the one hand she felt bad for her. Getting used to living with George hadnât been easy for her either, but compared to how he was treating y/n, she had had it easy. He had been irritable lately and he snapped at the slightest inconvenience. On the other hand, she might have an idea of what was really going on.
âWhy donât we go back downstairs and eat something, itâll make you feel better.â
âAnd deal with him? No thanks.â
She resolutely sat on her bed, crossing her arms to mark her words.
âIâll bring up a plate for you.â Lucy said as she made her way back down the stairs.
âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â Lucy said as soon as she entered the kitchen.
âWhere should I start?â The skull countered in that invasive way he had of barging in on her conversations.
She ignored him and tapped George on the shoulder, making him look away from his cooking.
âPlease, Lucy, weâre about to eat.â
âYeah, well y/nâs not coming down because of you.â
âSheâs not?â Lockwood chimed in.
âOur dear friend George annoyed her away.â
Lockwood smiled somewhat fondly. This was classic George.
âI didnât do anything.â He said flatly.
âYou didnât let her help, you keep leaving her out!â
George took a deep breath before affirming decidedly
âI donât like the way she sets the forks and knives.â
She and Lockwood exchanged a look. He couldnât be serious.
âGeorge, please,â Lockwood started, sensing Lucyâs annoyance.
âShe doesnât check if they match and she sets them haphazardly because she canât be bothered to place them on each side of the plate, it drives me nuts!â
She looked across the table to see Lockwood smiling at her, silently acknowledging his friendâs quirks.
âGeorge,â he started, âI canât have two team members unable to work together over forks and knives. Iâm gonna need you to make an effort, try and be friends.â He punctuated his words with one of his charming smiles.
George stood up and grabbed his plate.
âI canât be friends with her.â He declared before going in his room.
Lockwood sighed in defeat.
âDonât worry about it too much.â Lucy told him.
âHow can I not? Theyâre this close to being at each otherâs throat.â
Oh I donât know about throats but something else surely. She didnât want to say anything yet, but she had a hunch. George was rude, more so than he had ever been to her. He claimed he couldnât stand y/n, yet he somehow always managed to be in the same room as her. If he truly couldnât spend a minute in her company, why did she find him researching a case in the library on several occasions with y/n reading nearby instead of going in his room? And why would he spend twice as much time cleaning if not maybe to see her coming in? He may have his preferences when it came to cleaning, but her instincts told her there was something else at play here.
âMaybe we could make them collaborate moreâŠâ She told Lockwood with a grin.
They shared a complicit look.
George was halfway through an article when Lockwood called him down. He wondered what could be more important than being prepared for a case but with Lockwood it could be anything. Without looking up from the newspaper he was reading he went downstairs, only to be greeted with Lucyâs insistent stare. She had that look on her face. It instantly filled him with dread. Whatever they did, it obviously meant more work for him.
âWhat did you do?â he asked.
âNothing!â Lucy answered too quickly. âWe justâŠâ
He left the article on the nearest table to cross his arms. He looked back at Lockwood.
âWe knocked over a few boxes while training.â
âSo? Just clean it up.â
âTheyâre yours. Itâs your records and research on the ProblemâŠâ
George stormed downstairs. Dealing with Lockwoodâs recklessness in the field was already a lot, but carelessness in the house they all lived in, thatâs where he drew the line.
âIâm sorry George,â Lockwood chased after him, âI want to help but I donât know your system.â
âYouâd mess it up anyway. Itâs fine, Iâll take care of it.â He sighed.
âAt least let me get you some help,â Lucy said, already halfway back into the hall.
Before he could protest, she called ây/n! We need your help!â
The girl arrived shortly after, visibly unhappy about the situation.
âWe have errands to run, but have fun you two!â Lucy said cheerfully, quickly exiting through the front door before anyone of them could protest.
George stared at the closed door with round eyes. He wasnât mad about the files anymore. This was worse. So much worse. How was he supposed to get anything done while she was around?
âWhat do you need help with?â y/n asked flatly.
Without sparing her another glance he rushed back downstairs to evaluate how much damage had been done. He didnât want to try and explain his system. Frankly, he wasnât sure he could. He was aware of his quirks and weird habits, and he was aware that it didnât make sense to most people. Lockwood had made that clear. And even though Lucy made efforts, his filing system was where she drew the line. He didnât want to hear the same thing from y/n.
Papers were scattered across the office floor. The filing box labelled âProblemâ was upside down, balanced between two chairs and on the verge of joining its content below it. The tabs he had placed inside to keep everything organized hadnât survived the attack. This would take hours.
âSo, youâre not even going to talk to me now?â y/nâs voice resonated from the kitchen.
His heart started to beat faster. With wild eyes, he started to pick up the papers mechanically while his mind reeled. What was he supposed to say? Her footsteps resonated louder as she stepped further down into the basement. The air grew thicker with tension as she did so. He wished he would break through the window and run away from this awkward situation.
âGeorge?â she started, crossing her arms as she reached the last step.
Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes towards her, silently cursing himself for screwing up their relationship this badly. He blinked, unable to form a coherent sentence.
âFine.â she let out, slightly louder.
The look on her face made him ache. She looked terrifying when she was angry. He froze halfway through collecting the papers at his feet. She frowned at him, probably wondering what was wrong with him. She bent down and picked the papers up for him, organizing them in neat piles on the one desk that Lockwood and Lucy had spared.
âYou know,â she started, âyouâre probably the most confusing person Iâve ever met.â
He still stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed by the coldness of her voice. He stared blankly as she angrily collected the papers and forcefully sorted them, creasing some of them in the process.
âI tried to help around the house, but you never let me. I clean, you clean again after me. I initiate conversation and you find any excuse to leave the room.â
She looked down at the last papers she picked up. They were newspaper cuttings about the most relevant outbreaks of the Problem. She smiled as she read the titles and it sent a chill down his spine. Whatever was coming next was not going to be good.
âI spent hours reading all I could find about the origin of the Problem. Lucy said that was how she got you to open up. I thought we could finally have something to talk about. Instead, you walked out after two minutes.â
George looked back at her, a knot forming in his stomach. Having all his mistakes lined up this way made him realize how badly he had handled the situation.
âAm I really that hard to live with?â she asked. There was a crack in her voice.
He couldnât stay silent. Not this time. But no matter how much he wanted to find the right thing to say, he came up short.
âIâm sorry!â he blurted out.
She looked up, surprised.
âWhat was that?â she said, eager to make him apologize again.
âYou heard meâŠâ he mumbled.
âNo, I donât think I did,â she smiled. âGeorge Karim apologizing? Thatâs more unlikely than seeing a ghost hula hooping.â
He smiled back. They stared at each other for a few seconds, long enough to make the air feel warmer in the basement. The first crumb of complicity gave him enough courage to try to make up for his rudeness. He added the papers in his hand to the pile on the desk in front of him before continuing.
âI never wanted to make you feel unwelcome.â He looked down, ashamed to admit he had badly misread the situation. âIâm just used to Lucy pushing back and when you didnât, I thought⊠that maybe you were faking it? That you were talking about the Problem just to make fun, and you helped out just to annoy me and slow me down-â
âOh, being nice is annoying now?â
âI donât know! Iâm a jerk, I see that now.â
âAt least we can agree on that.â
He looked back up expecting to see her frowning.
âWhy are you smiling?â
âYouâre finally honest with me. I take that as a victory,â she said decidedly as she reached for the upturned cardboard box.
âSo Iâm guessing you have a system to organize your files?â
The question caught him off-guard. Was she really moving on from three months of feud that easily? It felt like a trick. She stared at him expectantly.
âJust⊠chronological.â He said cautiously.
âI donât think youâd use that many tabs if it was just chronological. You must have subcategories, right? Like at least geographical and then maybe by sourceâŠâ
Whatever trick this might be, it was working. He couldnât resist correcting anyone about his filing system.
âI always start with the chronological order and then I file everything according to geography. For each year, I like to organize the records by city then order them by region and finally-â
âAlphabetically?â
âNo,â he said with a smile. âI take the region most located South then move back up East, then North and finish West.â
âWhy?â
âItâs easier to visualize on a map.â
She laughed. âI wouldnât expect any less from you.â
When she and Lockwood came back from their errand, which really consisted of going to the coffeeshop closest to the house to let George and y/n have it out, Lucy was shocked to discover that her plan had actually worked. Well, not that shocked. She knew there was something there. They just needed a little push.
They had to climb down the stairs to the basement to finally find them because none of them answered their calls from the hallway. They were deep in conversation about the Problem. The files and boxes had been entirely cleaned up, everything was back on the shelves and⊠Wait, did George just laugh at something y/n said? How long had they been gone?
Lockwood had a confused look on her face, matching hers. It didnât leave him the entire way to the clientâs house that evening. There was no more tense silence, awkward avoidance or strange atmosphere in the group. The change was radical. Had she known it would have been this effective, she would have locked them up in the basement three months ago. She had been worried they would have ripped each otherâs eyes out in such close quarters. In this moment though, they stared intently at each other more than they looked murderous. She smiled to herself, only making Lockwood more confused. She threw him a look. They are so gone for each other. He looked at her sideways, seemingly in disbelief. She raised her eyebrows. I swear! Youâll see. He seemed unconvinced, but she knew. âI canât be friends with herâ George had said. Yes, quite literally, she thought.
The cab came to a halt in front of their workplace for the night. 11 Hall Road. Lucy would have loved to have an exciting new case that she could add to her journal, but the truth was that most cases were plain. An old person dies, the inheritors need to clear the house before living there or selling it. Those who had become apathetical to the Problem said it was just another expense to plan alongside the funeral. She wasnât in the mood for apathetical. Not when she had two idiotic friends practically holding hands after being at each otherâs throat for the past three months. It comforted her to see them remain focused on their tasks without breaking conversation, and she almost didnât want to tell them to stop to allow her to use her talent. A job was still a job though.
When silence hit them, so did the cold realization of all the sorrow surrounding them. Wailing filled Lucyâs ears and soon the faint outline of the phantasm haunting the place appeared in the corner of her eye. She couldnât perceive it very well, but its screams made it hard for her to think. Lockwood stepped in front of her, rapier drawn and ready for a fight, while George tried to yell over the disembodied screams what the source could be. y/n was running through the house following his directions but to no avail. His last idea was a miniature car in the bedroom at the end of the hall.
âFound it!â y/n called from upstairs.
But Lucy was the one with the silver nets. She drew her own rapier, aiming for the stairs. The phantasm was faster. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the figure floating upstairs, so fast she doubted her mind for a second. y/nâs scream confirmed she hadnât been dreaming. Lucy saw the girl running past her in the opposite direction, only stopped by the chest of drawers stationed on the landing. She hit her side with a definite thump, bringing her down and leaving her paralyzed on the floor of the corridor. Lucy hurried up the stairs and came to stand between y/n and the ghost, drawing intricate patterns she had practiced with Lockwood. When she heard the boys climbing the stairs, she used her other hand to take the silver nets out of her pocket. They got caught in her belt and the second she looked away was enough for the visitor to float closer to y/n, still lying a few feet behind her. Using her remaining strength, y/n threw a salt bomb, winning enough time for Lockwood to join Lucyâs side, covering George while he took care of the source.
None of them really spoke on their way back, still shaken from the close call they avoided. Y/n didnât suffer major injuries, just a few bad bruises, which was a relief. It was enough for Lockwood to tell her to stay home for the next few days. She hadnât protested, probably because she was exhausted from the night and the drive had rocked her to sleep. When they arrived in front of Portland Row, George didnât let Lucy wake her up. Instead he carried her inside and despite the night theyâd had, she smiled.
The rays of light shining on her face hurt her closed eyes, but not as much as the bruises in her side that decided to wake up as soon as she emerged from her heavy sleep. She was sore, thirsty and only managed to groan when trying to move in what was definitely not her bed. She reached over, eyes still closed, and encountered something cold. Her reflexes kicked in, knocking the glass over and effectively pouring its content on her. She jerked up and immediately screamed at the pain stabbing her side.
âAre you okay?â George asked, worried, as he crashed back into his room.
Desperately trying to get away from the cold wet blanket, she pulled herself up, only managing to hurt herself more.
âNo, no, no, slow down. Youâre only going to hurt yourself more if you do that.â
He gently nudged her back down, elevating her head with a pillow and removing the blanket to toss it on the floor. She shivered.
âHow did you sleep?â he asked as he casually laid something else on her.
âTerrible,â she simply said as she managed to open an eye.
âDo you remember last night?â he continued while helping her sit.
âYes⊠I think.â She looked around with half-opened eyes. âWhy am I in your room?â
âLockwood almost passed out after the first flight of stairs.â
She opened her second eye and stared at him dubitatively.
âFine I wasnât doing great either.â
She laughed lightly but it only triggered her injury again.
âHere, drink this,â he handed her a cup of tea, âand today youâre on bed rest. No work, no chores, nothing. Not even laughing.â
âI should keep you around then,â she said, before taking a sip.
He threw her a look, but even with eyes half open she could see the shadow of a smile on his face.
He went back downstairs, leaving her to savor her tea, its warmth welcome after having been awakened in such a brutal way. She looked back down and noticed what George had draped over her. His own sweater, the one he wore in October when the days started getting colder, sat gently on her shoulders, smelling faintly of cedarwood. She hadnât realized how soft it was, having only touched it with her eyes. The night after the case was a blur, but she could have sworn that only one person had carried her upstairs. She smiled to herself as she looked around his room. Papers were left scattered on his desk, some fallen on the floor. Trinkets were gathered on every shelf that wasnât already full of books. It was messy, disorganized, but comforting in its own way. She wondered how someone who kept such meticulous files on the Problem could live in a room like this. If she tried to make sense of it, she would probably spend the day here, and she simply refused that. Staying still was out of the question. She carefully sat back up before she tried to get onto her feet. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes. This might not be the brightest idea, she thought to herself, but she was finally making progress with George, they had a semblance of connection and she certainly wouldnât let one wound stand in the way of her friendship with him.
One painful shower and a whole hour later, y/n made her way downstairs and joined George in the kitchen. She hadnât even made it through the door that she could already hear him telling her off for getting out of bed. He chastised her about the dangers of disregarding health and how irresponsible it was of her to push her body to its limit. She just took a seat at the kitchen table and smiled at him. He had been talking to her for five uninterrupted minutes with eye contact and everything. Technically it was to yell at her, but still. progress was progress. He gave up when noticing her smile wouldnât budge.
âWhy did you come down anyway?â
âI was hungry,â she said while grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl in front of her.
âYou couldâve just told me I would have brought something for you.â
âActually, since Iâm on house arrest and youâre finally speaking to me, why donât you let me help you out today? You know like cleaning, cooking⊠everything you do all the time for everyone and never let me help with?â
âNo. Youâre injured. You shouldnât move that much.â
âHow about research then? Thatâs just reading.â
âNo,â he said decisively, punctuating his rejection with a pointed look.
âStubborn idiot.â
âWell, I am not the idiot who tripped and almost shattered my hip on a dresser.â
She scoffed and threw the orange in her hand, aiming for his head. He caught it just in time before it made contact with his cheek. He stared back at her with round eyes.
âWhat the hell was that?â he asked with an edge in his voice. Did she just imagine his voice getting deeper? The slightest grin formed at the corner of his mouth, giving her chills. âYouâre insufferable.â
âYouâre just jealous because even injured I have better aim than you.â She blurted out, hoping the redness of her face wasnât obvious.
When he didnât respond, an idea popped into her head.
âAnd you probably donât want me to help because youâre scared Iâll be better at research than you are too.â
He smiled, set the orange down on the table and turned back to the dishes he had started before she got there.
âYou really think Iâd fall for that? Who do you think I am? Lockwood?â
She took back the fruit and slumped into her chair.
âCan you at least let me help? I canât stay still for so long, Iâll go madâ
She fidgeted with the orange in her hands, planting her short nails into its skin the best she could. She only managed to pull off small pieces each time.
âYouâll slow me down, and I canât allow myself to miss a single element. I donât want last night to happen again.â
She looked up to find him already staring.
âI managed to keep up with your files on the Problem, why would that be any different?â
He didnât have anything to say back. She smiled triumphantly.
âYou have no more arguments, I win the argument! Where should I start?â
He sighed, dried the glass he was holding and sat next to her.
âBy learning how to peel an orange properly.â He retorted, snatching the fruit from her hand.
Methodically, he sunk his finger under the peel, tearing it confidently. The fruitâs sweet perfume filled the air as George dropped the peel on the table in one piece. While she studied his hands attentively, he proceeded to tear the orange apart, setting its pieces on the table in front of her.
âI can do that myself you know.â
âCan you?â
âJerk.â She laughed. Being friends with him wasnât exactly what she had thought it would be, but she had to admit that she liked it.
He got up and snatched a piece from her hand.
âHey, what was that for?â
âCompensation for my efforts.â He smirked.
He disappeared into the living room and came back with piles of materials in his arms. He did a second trip to bring books and case files, then a third to get notebooks from his room. When he got back into the kitchen, he sat next to her and wrote the name of the client on the thinking cloth. He pushed back his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
âLetâs get to work.â
George knew that y/n was too stubborn to rest despite her injury, and she was too clever to be tricked into it. To be fair, he hadnât tried that hard. He really was glad of the company. He gave her some context for their upcoming case and described his usual research methods. He realized he might have been explaining things too fast when he noticed her staring at him with round eyes.
âI lost you, didnât I?â
âSort ofâŠâ she answered, embarrassed. âAm I wasting your time?â
âLike spending time with you could ever be wasted timeâ he wanted to say. Instead, he simply shook his head and started his explanation over, shaking off the thought.
He was right, though. Not only was he greatly enjoying himself, she was also a quick learner. By the second hour spent gathering material, they had already uncovered crucial elements about the history of the place and they had started narrowing in on the type of object that could be a potential source. They made a good team.
The day had gone by without any of them leaving the kitchen. They were enthralled in their work with a comfortable silence between them. They sat side by side, sharing documents and exchanging notes on the Thinking Cloth with an appeasing familiarity. Deep down, George felt guilty that they missed out on moments like these in the past because he was too focused on keeping his new colleague at armâs length. Their knees bumped every once in a while, each moment making his heart skip a beat. Out of surprise, that is, not that he paid it any mind.
In just a day he had learned to read her smile. The soft polite one was how she asked if he wanted more tea. The shy one meant she needed his help but didnât want to ask. His favorite one was her triumphant smile when she finally figured out what the source must be. He held his hand out high for her to high five him back. She did, her touch electric against his. She didnât let go and wrapped her fingers around his, lingering there for another second. He stared at their tangled fingers, oddly captivated. His eyes traveled down her arm and up her face to find her already staring. His breath caught. Suddenly he couldnât care less about the case they had been working on. Nothing mattered except for the way the warm light of the kitchen lit up her eyes. Her lips parted, catching his eye before he could stop it.
âItâs late, I should probably get some sleep,â she quickly said when their eyes met.
âYeah,â he let go of her hand, âgood idea.â
She used his shoulder to stand up and flinched. He didnât know if it was from the contact or the effort.
âGood night,â he said gently, trying to shake off some of the awkwardness he was feeling.
âGood night. Donât stay up too late.â
âI canât promise anything,â he mumbled as he watched her close the door behind her.
He found it ironic that she was giving him advice when she had been blatantly ignoring everything he said about her health all day long. He returned to the newspaper he was reading, every word on the page escaping his attention. What smile had she used when she left the room? He took a pen to keep his eyes from skipping five words at a time. She had touched his shoulder on purpose earlier, hadnât she? This was useless. He gathered up the rest of the papers he hadnât read yet and headed back to his room, conceding defeat to the butterflies settling in his stomach.
y/n woke up around 2 am, her aching body forcing her awake demanding a glass of water. Everything was dark around her, but she could hear Lucyâs steady breathing on the opposite side of the room. She did her best to get to her feet silently, ignoring the pain still twisting her side. The steps creaked lightly underneath her bare feet, the sound resonating loudly in the silent house. She reached the first landing discreetly with the hope that she wouldnât wake anyone up. Instead, she was surprised to see a ray of light coming from under Georgeâs door. It was ajar, so she pushed it lightly to see him hunched over his desk, still reading the newspapers she had left on the table a few hours earlier.
âYouâre really stubborn you know?â
He didnât seem surprised to hear her behind him.
âYouâre one to talk,â he retorted.
She knew there was no point in arguing, especially at this hour.
âIâm getting some water, do you want anything?â
âTea would be fine, thanks.â He turned around. His hair was visibly disheveled. Even though he didnât put that much effort into it at regular hours, it was obvious that he was tired.
When she came back a few moments later, he was still absorbed by whatever article he was reading. He hardly paid attention when she set the steaming cup next to him. She didnât really expect him to, so it really came as a surprise when he reached for her hand without taking his eyes off his notes. The contact of his hand on the bare skin of her arm almost made her spill her water.
âTake a look,â he simply said. He pointed at an annotation he had written in the margin of a newspaper article he was reading.
She sat on the stool next to him to inspect his findings. His scribbling was already hard to read in the daylight, but in the dead hours of the night it was almost impossible. He saw her squint and read aloud. The words evaded her. She blamed the lack of sleep and not the fact that his hand was still resting on her arm, gently swaying back and forth. She stared at it, its slow movements calming her down. It made her feel peaceful, appeased. She wondered however why her heart was beating faster if she was feeling so calm.
ây/n?â
âHmm?â She looked up and was caught off guard by the gentleness in his eyes.
âYou should go back to bed.â
âNo, no, tell me. Iâm listening.â
She could see the cogs turning in his head, weighing his options, whether forcing her to rest would be worth the effort or pointless from the start. He sighed.
âI found another death related to the clientâs house. Iâm trying to see if the haunting is caused by what we found earlier or if itâs something else entirely.â
âThatâs way too much work to do by yourself in one night.â
âSomeone has to do it. You should rest, Iâll tell you what I found in the morning.â
She got up, but she knew fully well she wasnât letting him work all night alone. She took all the papers she could gather in her arms, ignoring his hushed protests, and made herself comfortable in his bed. He looked at her incredulously. She tapped the spot next to her, a large smile lighting up her face.
He sounded defeated when he said âwhy are you like this?â
âYou look out for me, I look out for you.â
It shut him up on the spot. She got under the covers and organized the documents in piles around her while he stared silently, his mouth slightly agape.
âWhat? If weâre here all night we might as well get comfortable.â
His eyes were so round she thought it must hurt him. âWe?â
She tapped the spot next to her again.
âCome on. You canât tell me to rest if youâre not doing it either.â
Reluctantly, he joined her, looking like he was intruding in the sheets of a total stranger. At first, he pushed the cover aside. It was as if he was allergic to comfort. He kept his distance and even hesitated to reach over to grab a newspaper. They read in silence, the only sound coming occasionally from the turning of pages. He seemed to quickly forget about his awkwardness though, as he leaned in whenever he found something. He got closer each time and she took each opportunity to raise the blanket higher over him. He needed to sleep and he would, even if she had to sneak up on him. By the time he finished his mug, they were shoulder to shoulder, speaking in low voices in each otherâs ear. Even in hushed tones, she could sense how enthusiastic he was about what he discovered one newspaper after the other. She could have listened to him talk for hours⊠if she wasnât so exhausted. No matter how hard she tried to keep her eyes open, her head was drawing impossibly close to Georgeâs shoulder. She was too comfortable to resist. When he noticed her dosing off, he spoke lower and lower before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She sunk into a deeper slumber, Georgeâs even breathing rocking her to sleep, until the turning of pages disturbed her ears. He wasnât going to sleep unless she made him. With her eyes still closed, she traced her fingers up his torso to find his neck, his chin, and finally his glasses. She took them off before turning her back on him.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â
âForcing you to get some sleep,â she mumbled.
âGive me back my glasses.â
âCome get them yourself.â
She was certain he would concede defeat after this. What she hadnât expected was George laying down closer against her with his arms draped around her waist. She froze. His hands traced their way down her arms and his hands locked around hers, gently trying to nudge his glasses out of her hands. She held them tighter, unable to keep herself from smiling. He had his head in the crook of her neck and she felt a smile forming on his lips too.
âYouâre impossible. Youâre stubborn, insufferable-â
âYou used that one earlier already.â
He laughed. âYouâre just proving my point.â
A light laugh escaped her too, only it made her bruises act up again. She flinched.
George let go of her hand, his fingers traveling lightly over her side.
âDoes it still hurt?â
âA little bit.â
He sighed in her neck, making her shiver.
âIâm sorry I couldnât figure out sooner what the source was. I could have saved you the injury.â
Something clicked in her mind, clearing all desire to sleep for a moment.
âIs that why youâre staying up so late?â
He didnât say anything back. She rolled back to face him, his hands now resting on her lower back.
âGeorge, youâre not the reason why I couldnât avoid running into a dresser.â
He laughed, but he avoided her eyes.
âIt wasnât your fault. Now please get some sleep.â
He looked back at her with intensity. His eyes looked dark in the dim light, almost black.
âOn one condition.â
Before she could ask what he needed from her, he took it. His lips crashed against hers with a hunger she didnât know he had. She was still in shock when he drew back, looking back at her hesitantly. He didnât seem to know that she loved this unsuspected bold side of him. She tangled her fingers in his hair to pull him back in. He seemed surprised at first, but his hands quickly ran up her back to draw her nearer. She could have expected to feel anything from kissing George. Awkwardness, shyness, a few days ago she would have completely rejected the idea. She certainly wouldnât have expected it to feel so right. His hands seemed to fit the small of her back like puzzle pieces locking perfectly in place. She was surprised at how quickly she had come to wanting more. She needed him, all of him, impossibly closer. She circled his hips with her leg while her hands roamed down his back. He smiled into each kiss, leaving her lips every now and then to trail her cheeks and down her neck. She looked back at him with sparkling eyes.
âSo, one condition?â
âDonât leave. Please.â
Her smile grew bigger.
âIâm not going anywhere.â
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A Year of You
part three of the life we grew series (part one â§ part two)
summary : Jack experiences the life he never thought he could haveâone small moment, one milestone, one quiet act of love at a time. Through first steps, long winter nights, and the ache of watching her grow too fast, he learns that family isnât something you find. Itâs something you makeâand hold onto with everything you have.
word count : 11,658
warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! marriage intimacy including smut, emotional vulnerability, parenting milestones (first words, first steps, first birthday), marriage-coded affection, strong family themes, soft but explicit depiction of married sexual intimacy, very husband-coded and dad-coded Jack Abbot energy.
MONTH ONE
Itâs the first night home from the hospital when Jack realizes no amount of emergency training prepares you for a seven-pound newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m.
Youâre crying, too.
Soft, exhausted tears you wipe away with the heel of your hand while trying to figure out the damn swaddle that looked so easy in the maternity class.
Jack watches you for a second from the nursery doorway, heart caught somewhere in his throat. Then he steps in, limping slightly from the long day and the prosthetic pinching at the socket, and kneels awkwardly next to you on the carpet.
âMove over, honey,â he mutters, hands gentle as he scoops up the babyâyour babyâhis daughterâlike sheâs something sacred.
"Youâre doing good," he says, voice low, rough around the edges. "Weâre just outnumbered, thatâs all."
You let out a low, breathless laugh and lean into his side, drawn in by instinct more than thought. Jack smells like the hospitalâsomething sharp and sterile clinging to his skinâbut beneath it, there's a rougher pull: warm skin, worn leather, the dark, carved scent of mahogany and teakwood.
âCâmon, little bean,â Jack murmurs, voice low and rough with exhaustion. âWeâve made it through worse nights than this.â
You snort under your breath.
âSheâs five days old, Jack. What worse nights?â
He shifts the baby higher onto his shoulder, the motion easy, instinctive, like sheâs already been part of him forever. Without missing a beat, he deadpans, âYou ever been stuck inside a Black Hawk during a sandstorm?â
You smack his arm, half laughing, half crying again, the sound breaking loose before you can catch it. Jack just grunts, the barest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rocks the baby gently, his palm splayed wide over her tiny back like he could shield her from the whole world if he tried hard enough.
âYouâre not in a war anymore, Jack,â you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
He doesnât look at you. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to the soft, downy hair at the crown of your daughterâs head.
âNo,â he says, so quietly you almost miss it. âBut Iâm still fighting for something.â
The first month is a mess.
The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.
You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered firstâan open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing youâll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.
Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.
âField dressing a sucking chest woundâs harder,â he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. Youâre blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. âYou just gotta respect the shrapnel.â
Youâre better at feeding herâat being soft, patient, warm, even when youâre dead on your feet.
Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didnât get this.
How easily it couldâve gone the other way.
And he aches.
God, how he aches.
At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.
Youâre pushing open the door to the pediatricianâs office when it happensâsome old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, âBounced back fast after birth, huh?â His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.
You freeze, the words catching in your throat.
Jack doesnât.
He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesnât ask twice. Itâs instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.
âMove along,â Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.
The guy doesnât argue. He takes one look at Jackâat the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyesâand stumbles off without another word.
Your fingers find Jackâs wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.
He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.
He doesnât say anything.
He doesnât have to.
On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby wonât sleep unless sheâs moving, Jack drives.
He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think sheâs made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.
Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.
Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesnât realize he knows.
You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like sheâs the first sunrise heâs ever seen.
You donât say anything.
You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.
Jack squeezes back.
Always back.
By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.
Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonightâs one of those nights.
Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you thereâboth of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his kneesâhe plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so heâs right there, steady and close.
He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesnât touch.
You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.
"Youâre tired too. Let me take her."
Jack shakes his head.
"No."
Itâs soft. Absolute. Final.
He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.
"Youâve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.
"You both have."
Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say itâhow much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.
The weight of itâthe love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose againâpresses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.
And he lets it.
Finally, finally, he lets it.
MONTH TWO
The second month of her life feels quieterâbut not easier.
The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the babyâany of the above).
And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combatâshouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.
You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.
The babyâs crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living roomâsteady, stubborn, relentless.
You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:
Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when heâs pretending everythingâs fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.
Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jackâs rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.
You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.
Heâs trying so hard.
Heâs carrying all of it.
And youâre not about to let him do it alone.
"Jack," you say softly.
He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.
You cross the room without hesitation.
"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."
Jack opens his mouth to argueâbut youâre already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.
He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.
You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.
"Youâre limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "Youâre running yourself into the ground."
Jack huffs, looking away like heâs embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.
But you donât let him.
You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chinâgently, insistently.
"You donât have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."
He closes his eyes like the words hurtâand healâall at once.
You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jackâs wrist.
Just touching him.
Just reminding him youâre here.
That youâre not going anywhere.
Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.
He just lets himself be touched.
Be loved.
And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.
You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.
In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.
Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.
She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like heâs singing Sinatra.
You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like itâs second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.
âListen, kid, itâs tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.â
You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.
Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he canât fight back.
He wants to remember this.
You both do.
The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.
Itâs stupid.
Itâs exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.
You leave the car seat in the wrong spotâtilted funny, not latched all the way into the baseâand Jackâs voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.
âSheâs tiny, for Christâs sake, you canât justââ
âIâm trying, Jack!â you snap back, tears already stinging because youâve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like youâre screwing up.
âYeah? So am I.â
Youâre both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatredâonly from fear.
Only from love.
You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.
Insteadâhe exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.
You donât fight him.
You crumble.
"Iâm sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "Youâre doinâ good. Better than good."
His mouth presses to your temple.
"Iâm just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But itâs the truth.
You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.
Jack just holds you.
Breathes you in like itâs the only thing keeping him standing.
At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says sheâs perfect.
You hold Jackâs hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.
He doesnât pull away.
He squeezes back.
Hard.
In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.
You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.
That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting youâll handle the night feed if she wakes.
He tries to protest.
You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until heâs dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.
And when he comes back. youâre waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.
Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.
Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.
"Youâre my best thing," you whisper into his skin.
Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.
You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.
"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.
"My only thing."
And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.
Together.
Whole.
MONTH THREE
The first real laugh doesnât come from you.
It doesnât come from the hundreds of stupid faces youâve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.
It comes from Jack.
Of course it does.
Youâre sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear itâa sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughterâs mouth like sheâs just been given the whole damn world.
You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.
Jackâs standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.
Sheâs looking up at him with those big, bright eyesâutterly delighted just to exist in his arms.
And heâs looking at her like sheâs gravity itself.
Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.
Jack grinsâa real one, crooked and wide and rareâand chuckles under his breath.
"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."
You don't realize youâre crying until Jack glances over and sees you.
His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"
You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss himâjust grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.
He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.
Lets you cling.
Because he knows.
Of course he knows.
"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.
"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."
Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
"Youâre doinâ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.
"Youâre doinâ perfect."
Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.
Not full-time.
Not yet.
Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like heâs still the guy who shows up when it counts.
You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.
You shift the baby higher, heart aching.
"You donât have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."Youâre already everything we need."
He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.
Then he shakes his head once â small, stubborn, final.
"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.
No drama. No explanation. Just truth.
You donât argue.
You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck â that vulnerable, familiar spot youâve loved for years â pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.
"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.
Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.
"Always," he promises, voice rough.
You let him go â but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.
A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.
He doesnât find it until hours later â after heâs stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after heâs cleaned puke off his boots, after heâs barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.
Itâs almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.
Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking itâs a scrap of gauze.
But when he unfolds it, itâs your handwriting â messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:
We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.
Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.
He presses the heel of his hand against his face â hard â willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.
Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.
One more patient.
One more hour.
One step closer to home.
The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jackâs dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.
The first time she grabs themâthose worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinetâhe freezes.
She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.
Jack just stands there, staring down at her like sheâs cracked open his chest with one touch.
You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.
"You okay?" you murmur.
Jack swallows.
Nods.
"Yeah," he says roughly.
"Yeah, sheâs just... strong."
You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.
"Youâre allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.
"She's allowed to make you soft."
Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.
Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.
Jack stares at you like heâs forgotten how to speak.
You press the baby into his arms without a word.
Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him inâhospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, loveâuntil he finally melts against you.
Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.
"Missed you" he rasps.
MONTH FOUR
Jack notices it before you do.
The shift.
One morning, while youâre wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.
âSheâs different,â he says quietly.
You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.
âSheâs four months old, Jack. Sheâs not gonna start driving a car yet.â
But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.
âNo. She's holdinâ herself different. Stronger.â
You look downâand sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like sheâs ready to start throwing punches.
Jack steps forward like he canât help himself.
He drops to a crouchâcareful with the stiff pull of his prostheticâand cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.
"Look how tough you are, bean."
You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way sheâs changingâbut the way he is.
Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.
You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.
"I love you," you say simply.
Jack kisses the back of your hand.
"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."
This is the month she starts teething.
You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.
Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.
You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.
You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.
Jack catches you watching. Doesnât say anythingâjust crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.
"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.
You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.
"Youâre the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.
By the end of Month Four, sheâs rolling over.
Youâre standing in the living room when you hear Jackâs startled bark of laughter from the floor.
You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.
Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.
"Baby girl, youâre killin' me!" he groans. "Youâre growinâ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."
You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "Youâre makinâ Daddy emotional."
Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look youâve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.
You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.
"Sheâs perfect," you say softly.
Jack leans down and kisses the babyâs forehead, then yours.
"Yeah," he murmurs.
"Soâs her mom."
You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floorâbaby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.
And for the first time since she was bornâyouâre not scared of time passing. Youâre just grateful for every second you get.
MONTH FIVE
It happens by accident.
The first time she says it.
Jackâs sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.
Youâre curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.
Your daughter is sitting between Jackâs legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.
"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for âem with your drool tax?"
And thenâlike itâs the most natural thing in the worldâshe looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:
âDada!â
The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.
But itâs real.
Clear as day.
Jack freezes.
Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.
You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: âDada!â
Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.
He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.
"You talkinâ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.
"That me?"
You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.
You wrap yourself around both of themâJack and the babyâyour forehead resting against Jackâs stubbled jaw. Heâs shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.
"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.
"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."
Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.
"Youâre my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and herâyouâre it."
You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didnât mean to shed.
And when the baby says it againââDada!ââgiggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.
Laughs like heâs got a whole new heart built from the two of you.
This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.
You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:
Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.
He always kisses you first.
Even if the babyâs squealing for him, even if sheâs kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours firstâhard, desperate, like heâs coming up for air.
Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.
You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs canât contain it.
You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.
Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like sheâs sacred. Like she saved him.
Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.
You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.
Heâs leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.
"She out?" he murmurs.
You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, sheâll start screaming again."
Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at youâsmall, unmistakableâcome here.
You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.
Jackâs arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.
For a few minutes, you just stand there.
Swaying a little.
Breathing in sync.
Letting the world be small and soft for once.
His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.
You pull back just enough to look at himâreally look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when heâs looking at you.
"Iâm right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."
Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.
Slow.
Lingering.
The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.
His fingers flex against your spine, like heâs grounding himself. Like heâs still a little terrified that one day heâll blink and youâll be gone.
You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it doesâyou know heâs tired and soreâbut he doesnât care.)
He kisses you like youâre oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.
When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.
Silent.
Anchored.
You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.
He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion â a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore â and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.
You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesnât hesitateâhe hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.
With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.
You fall asleep like thatâsafe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room
MONTH SIX
The thing about six months isâeverything starts feeling bigger.
Her smiles.
Her babbling.
The way she kicks her legs like sheâs training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.
And your love for herâyour daughterâisnât something neat and quiet anymore. Itâs loud inside your chest. Itâs messy.
Itâs overwhelming in the best way.
You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.
Jackâs still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.
You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.
She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.
You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.
"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the marketâs not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.
She gigglesâfull, wild baby gigglesâand you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.
The house is still and warm and safe.
Itâs just you and her.
When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.
"Youâre my best girl," you whisper.
"My whole heart."
You donât even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the airâthe way the world gets steadier when heâs close.
You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.
"Hey," you murmur.
"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.
He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like heâs starving for it.
"Youâre beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.
Itâs not performative.
Itâs not dramatic.
Itâs just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.
You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.
Even after everythingâeven after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustionâyou still feel beautiful when he says it.
You still believe it.
Because itâs Jack.
And Jack doesnât waste words.
That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.
The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.
You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.
Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.
The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.
The 'Iâd burn the world down for you' smile.
The one he thinks you donât catch.
You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his handâpalm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.
He squeezes once, slow and firm.
"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.
You snort quietly.
"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."
Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. âCause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."
You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.
"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"
Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridgeâone for him, one he opens and hands to you like heâs presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.
"A winâs a win, pretty girl. Donât question the strategy."
You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like heâs just happy youâre standing in the same room breathing.
He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like itâs some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttinâ up with my ass."
"Somebodyâs gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. Youâd live on black coffee and beef jerky."
Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouthâchaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.
The way you always do with him.
Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.
You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.
He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Babyâs asleep. Husbandâs feelinâ reckless."
You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.
"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"
Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkinâ about throwinâ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you youâre still my girl first and her mom second."
You feel itâthe way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.
God, you missed this.
Missed him like thisâteasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.
You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "Youâre all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forgetâI know you."
Jackâs grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"
Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced moveâarms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.
You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.
Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.
"Youâre still my girl," he says, voice dropping.
"Always gonna be."
He kisses you thenâand itâs nothing like polite.
Itâs deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.
Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.
You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.
The kiss goes on and onâlong, slow, greedyâlike heâs trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.
When he finally pulls back, youâre both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.
"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."
You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.
"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."
Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouthâbecause heâs a man who doesnât know how to stop once he starts.
And you let him.
You let him kiss you like heâs starving, let him hold you like youâre the only thing thatâs ever made sense.
Because you are.
You always have been.
MONTH SEVEN
The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.
Jackâs flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, whoâs shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.
"And sheâs on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like itâs second nature now.
Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.
Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookieâs got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think sheâs got a better crawl time than I ever did."
Youâre sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you wouldâve made it further," you tease.
Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.
"You tryinâ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion heâs mastered without fanfare.
"You got the mouth for it."
You arch a brow, playful.
"You wouldn't dare."
Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"
Before you can move, he lungesâslow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.
You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jackâs heavy footfalls thud behind youâthe lighter footstep mixing with the solid stompâand youâre laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.
You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.
"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.
You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.
His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then youâre all mine."
It takes an hour to get her down.
A bottle.
Three lullabies.
Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurtsâthe way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.
When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know youâre done for.
Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. Heâs flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweatsâand heâs the most beautiful man youâve ever seen.
You take his hand silently.
He lets you.
Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.
The second youâre both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.
"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we donât gotta rush. Youâre tired, I knowâ"
You cut him off with a kiss.
Hard.
Needy.
Full of every word you canât fit into your mouth fast enough.
Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.
No rush.
No slam.
Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.
He crawls over you slowly, moving like heâs already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these yearsâbut this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.
Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.
He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when heâs dropping the last of his defenses. When itâs just you and him and nothing else that matters.
Then heâs back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.
Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.
"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.
You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.
Jack smilesâslow, crooked, hungryâand kisses you like a man whoâs got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.
"Youâre so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.
"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasinâ you around the house like a damn fool."
You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.
Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.
Heâs warm and solid and stupidly good at thisâkissing you until youâre panting, until youâre squirming under him, until youâre gasping his name.
"Youâre mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."
When he finally slides inside you, itâs slow.
Deep.
A rhythm he sets without thinkingâsteady, grounded, devastating.
You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.
"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so goodâalways you, only youâ"
You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.
He kisses you like itâs the first time.
Like itâs the last time.
Like itâs the only thing thatâs ever made sense.
You come apart firstâsoft, wrecked, clinging to himâand Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.
He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.
You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so heâs not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.
"Youâre my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."
You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.
"Youâre ours too," you whisper back. "Always."
MONTH EIGHT
The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.
Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to beâbut because he wants to be.
You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.
Sometimes heâs got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.
Sometimes heâs reading aloud from whateverâs nearbyâsports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.
This morning, itâs the latter. Jackâs deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.
You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.
The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing heâs doing it.
This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.
It happens on a Sunday morning.
One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the babyâs shrieking happily in her bouncer.
Jackâs at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.
Youâre sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jackâs hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.
"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.
Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.
"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."
The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.
You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."
The baby claps her hands excitedly.
And thenâclear as a bellâshe looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"
You freeze.
Jack freezes.
The whole house freezes.
Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.
"Did sheâ?" he croaks.
"Did youâ?"
You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.
"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.
And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"
Jackâs standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.
You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.
"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.
"She said it! She really said itâ"
You donât even finish. Jackâs across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.
He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.
"Iâm so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughterâs head.
"So proud of my girls."
You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.
"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughsâlow and broken and full of more joy than youâve ever heard from him.
"Yeah, thatâs right, bean," he whispers. "Thatâs your mama. Best damn one in the world."
You end up on the couch in a heapâJack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.
Itâs messy.
Itâs imperfect.
Itâs everything.
The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.
No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.
The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look youâve come to recognize.
You end up at a small parkâjust woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.
Presses his forehead to hers.
"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.
You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn worldâs on fire when it hits right."
"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Donât trust âem."
You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.
Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect itâdeep, slow, hungryâwith the baby giggling between you.
Like he canât help it.
Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.
MONTH NINE
Jackâs the one who insists on it.
You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like heâs planning a heist.
You smother a laugh into his shoulder.
"You serious about this, Abbot?"
Jack snorts.
"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."
He books it two days laterâdrives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughterâs bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.
When you get there, Jackâs all in.
Wheeling the wagon.
Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.
Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.
At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over himâtugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.
Heâs laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.
It happens when youâre least expecting it. Which, youâre starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.
Youâre doing dishes in the kitchen. Jackâs sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.
The babyâs on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.
You walk into the living roomâand freeze.
Sheâs got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.
But somehowâGod, somehowâshe pulls herself upright.
Your mouth drops open.
"Jackâ"
Jackâs eyes are wide, almost panicked.
Like if he blinks, heâll miss it.
Like itâs the most fragile miracle in the world.
She wobbles, Jack lungesâand catches her gently before she tips.
"Thatâs my girl! Youâre gonna take over the world!"
You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.
He wonât admit it.
But you know.
You both pretend itâs for her.
Itâs not.
Itâs for you and Jack.
Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like heâs designing a battle plan.
Pirates?
Farmers?
Superheroes?
Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the babyâs diaper bag.
You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.
You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.
Jack grumbles, but secretly loves itâyou can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.
At the neighborâs block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.
He lets her chew on his hoodie string.
Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.
Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.
Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chestâboth of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.
MONTH TEN
The front yard was Jackâs idea.
"You canât stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.
"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."
You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. Itâs cold enough that youâre both bundled upâJack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.
Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.
She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.
Then at you.
Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her oneâbig and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.
You laugh quietly.
Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.
And when he turns backâit happens.
She pushes herself upright.
Wobbly.
Determined.
Like the whole worldâs just waiting for her to take it.
Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.
You watch, breathless, from the porchâhands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.
And thenâone step. Another.
Toward him.
Toward Jack.
Jack doesnât move. Doesnât breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.
When she stumbles into himâthree full steps laterâhe scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.
Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when heâs completely undone.
"Thatâs my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, youâre somethinâ else, baby bean."
He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chestâand you see it.
The way his mouth is trembling.
The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.
Jack Abbot, whoâs been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma baysâwrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.
You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.
Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.
"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."
You nod, laughing through tears.
"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."
The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.
Jack makes a production out of itâdragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like youâre preparing for the Arctic.
You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.
The babyâs crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.
Jackâs holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.
"Sheâs gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"
You laugh, sitting down beside him. "Youâre gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"
Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."
He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. Sheâs gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. Itâs a rite of passage."
You didnât plan on getting a tree that day.
Jack says itâs too early. You agree.
But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire stationâwhen you see the tiny white lights strung overheadâyou both say nothing.
Just look at each other.
And turn in without a word.
Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."
You settle on a small, sturdy one.
Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.
You know better than to argueâwatching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.
When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lightsâher squealing laughter echoing off the walls.
Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.
"Weâre makinâ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.
"One hell of a good life."
MONTH ELEVEN
You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.
First Christmas.
She's too young to remember.
That's what you kept telling yourselves.
But Jack...he can't help himself.
You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box thatâs clearly too big for its contents.
The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.
Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.
When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.
"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santaâs gotta show up somehow."
You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.
"Youâre gonna ruin her for real Christmases when sheâs older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothingâs ever gonna top this."
Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.
"I donât want her ever thinkin' sheâs gotta go lookinâ for somethin' better. Sheâs already got everything she needs."
Itâs still dark when you feel him stir.
Jackâs body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.
You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.
You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.
Not saying anything.
Just... being there.
Breathing her in.
He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear itâthe soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.
"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.
"Merry Christmas, baby girl."
You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.
Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesnât say anything, you hear it clear as day:
Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.
It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.
Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.
You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.
Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.
The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jackâs side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.
He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.
"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"
You donât answer.
You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.
The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.
You and Jack stay up late.
Too late.
Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.
You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.
And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think itâd be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"
You know what he means.
Back when the world was a lot harder.
When he never thought heâd make it past thirty.
When you werenât even sure you believed in happy endings.
You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.
"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."
Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.
MONTH TWELVE
The holidays are over. The treeâs gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?
Youâre relieved.
You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?
Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when heâs pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.
"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."
You lift an eyebrow at him.
"And by âsmallâ you mean...?"
Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.
"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"
You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.
"So, basically... the entire Pitt."
Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis sheâs not invited to her honorary nieceâs first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause Iâm not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."
You shake your head, laughing under your breath.
"Youâre impossible."
Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.
"You love me anyway."
The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.
You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby downâsitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. Heâs staring at the crib. Silent. Still.
You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the yearâthe weight of loveâsettles heavy over his broad shoulders.
Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasnât figured out how to say yet.
"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"
You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.
"I didnât know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didnât know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."
You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.
Jack leans into it like he canât help himself.
"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."
He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like youâre the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
And maybe you are.
Maybe you always will be.
The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.
You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.
You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.
"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.
Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but thereâs no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.
"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.
The party is perfect.
Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.
The Pitt crew shows upâDana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks youâre not looking.
Jack never puts her down.
Not really.
He lets her toddle a littleâlets her show off the new steps sheâs so proud ofâbut heâs always within reach. Always there to catch her.
You cut the cake.
She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.
Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.
He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that lookâthe one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.
You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.
Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "Sheâs gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "Youâre makinâ sure of that."
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "Youâre the best thing sheâll ever know."
"Canât believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Canât believe we get to keep doinâ this."
"Best thing we ever did." you whisper.
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.đ„ Ę ËÖŽ àŁȘâ Built for Battle, Never for Me Ę ËÖŽ àŁȘâ âčË
âAnd I will fuck you like nothing matters.â
summary : You loved Jack through four deployments and every version of the man he became, even when he stopped choosing you. Years later, fate shoves you back into his trauma bay, unconscious and bleeding, and everything you buried resurfaces.
content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! long-form emotional trauma, war and military themes, medical trauma, car accident (graphic details), infidelity (emotional & physical), explicit smut with intense emotional undertones, near-death experiences, emotionally unhealthy relationships, and grief over a still-living person
word count : 13,078 ( read on ao3 here if it's too large )
a/n : ok this is long! but bare with me! I got inspired by Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party and I couldn't stop writing. College finals are coming up soon so I thought I'd put this out there now before I am in the trenches but that doesn't mean you guys can't keep sending stuff to my inbox!
You were nineteen the first time Jack Abbot kissed you.
Outside a run-down bar just off base in the thick of Georgia summerâair humid enough to drink, heat clinging to your skin like regret. He had a fresh cut on his knuckle and a dog-eared med school textbook shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, like that wasnât the most Jack thing in the worldâequal parts violence and intellect, always straddling the line between bare-knuckle instinct and something nobler. Half fists, half fire, always on the verge of vanishing into a cause bigger than himself.
You were his long before the letters trailed behind his name. Before he learned to stitch flesh beneath floodlights and call it purpose. Before the trauma became clockwork, and the quiet between you started speaking louder than words ever could. You loved him through every incarnationâevery rough draft of the man he was trying to become. Army medic. Burned-out med student. Warzone doctor with blood on his boots and textbooks in his duffel. The kind of man who took people apart just to understand how to hold them together.
He used to say heâd get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised heâd come backânot just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said heâd pick a city with good light, buy real furniture instead of folding chairs and duffel bags, learn how to sleep through the night like people who hadnât taught themselves to live on adrenaline and loss.
You waited. Through four deployments. Through static-filled phone calls and letters that always said soon. Through nights spent tracing his name like it was a map back to yourself. You clung to that promise like it was gospel. And nowâhe was standing in your bedroom, rolling his shirts with the same clipped, clinical precision he used to pack a field kit. Each fold a quiet betrayal. Each movement a confirmation: he was leaving again. Not called. Choosing.
âIâm not being deployed,â he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. âIâm volunteering.â
Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. âYouâve fulfilled your contract, Jack. Youâre not obligated anymore. Youâre a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.â
âI know,â he said, quiet. Measured. Like heâd practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.
âYou were offered a civilian residency,â you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. âAt one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.â
âI know.â
âAnd you turned it down.â
He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. âThey need trauma-trained docs downrange. Thereâs a shortage.â
You laughedâa bitter, breathless sound. âThereâs always a shortage. Thatâs not new.â
He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldnât stay still. âYou donât get it.â
âI do get it,â you snapped. âThatâs the problem.â
He finally looked up at you then. Just for a second.
Eyes tired. Distant. Fractured in a way that made you want to punch him and hold him at the same time.
âYou think this makes you necessary,â you whispered. âYou think chaos gives you purpose. But itâs just the only place you feel alive.â
He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulationâhe hadnât shaved in days. His face looked older, worn down in that way no one else seemed to notice but you did. You knew every line. Every scar. Every inch of the man who swore heâd come back and choose something softer.
You.
âTell me Iâm wrong,â you whispered. âTell me this isnât just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because youâre scared of standing still.â
Jack didnât say anything else.
Not when your voice broke asking him to stayânot loud, not theatrical, not in the kind of way that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness or written off as heat-of-the-moment desperation. Youâd asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe heâd finally hear you.
And not when you walked away from him, the space between you stretching like a fault line you both knew neither of you would cross again.
Youâd seen him fight for the life of a strangerâbare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didnât fight for this. For you.
You didnât speak for the rest of the day.
He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldnât decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.
You didnât touch him.
Not until night fell, and the house got too quiet, and the space beside you on the couch started to feel like a ghost of something you couldnât bear to name.
The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outsideâcar tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you couldâve had. One that didnât smell like starch and gun oil and choices you never got to make.
Jack was in the kitchen, barefoot, methodically washing a single plate. You sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, half-wrapped in the blanket you kept by the radiator. There was a movie playing on the TV. Something you'd both seen a dozen times. He hadnât looked at it once.
âDo you want tea?â he asked, not turning around.
You stared at his back. The curve of his spine under that navy blue t-shirt. The tension in his neck that never fully left.
âNo.â
He nodded, like he expected that.
You wanted to scream. Or throw the mug he used every morning. Or just⊠shake him until he remembered that thisâyouâwas what he was supposed to be fighting for now.
Instead, you stood up.
Walked into the kitchen.
Pressed your palms flat against the cool tile counter and watched him dry his hands like it was just another Tuesday. Like he hadnât made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.
âI donât think I know how to do this anymore,â you said.
Jack turned, towel still in hand. âWhat?â
âThis,â you gestured between you, âUs. I donât know how to keep pretending weâre okay.â
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.
âI didnât expect you to understand,â he said.
You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. âThatâs the part that kills me, Jack. I do understand. I know exactly why you're going. I know what it does to you to sit still. I know you think youâre only good when youâre bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someoneâs chest.â
He flinched.
âBut I also know you didnât even try to stay.â
âI did,â he snapped. âEvery time I came back to you, I tried.â
âThatâs not the same as choosing me.â
The silence that followed felt like the real goodbye.
You walked past him to the bedroom without a word. The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter tooâlike the walls were holding their breath. You didnât look back. You couldnât.
The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darkerâfamiliar, aching. You crawled beneath the sheets, dragging the comforter up to your chin like armor. Turned your face to the wall. Every muscle in your back coiled tight, waiting for a sound that didnât come.
And for a long time, he didnât follow.
But eventually, the floor creakedâsoft, uncertain. A pause. Then the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, slow and final, like the closing of a chapter neither of you had the courage to write an ending for. The mattress shifted beneath his weightâslow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadnât fully made until now. He settled behind you, quiet as breath. And for a moment, there was only stillness.
No touch. No words. Just the heat of him at your back, close enough to feel the ghost of something youâd almost forgotten.
Then, gentlyâlike he thought you might flinchâhis arm slid across your waist. His hand spread wide over your stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body through fabric and time and everything heâd left behind.
Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks heâd carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please donât go.
âI donât want to lose you,â he breathed into the nape of your neck, voice rough, frayed at the edges.
Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. His lips touched your skinâjust below your ear, then lower. A kiss. Another. His mouth moved with unbearable softness, like he thought he might break you. Or maybe himself.
And when he kissed you like it was the last time, it wasnât frantic or rushed. It was slow. The kind of kiss that undoes a person from the inside out.
His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your ribs as if relearning your shape. You rolled to face him, breath catching when your noses bumped. And then he was kissing you againâdeeper this time. Tongue coaxing, lips parted, breath shared. You gasped when he pressed his thigh between yours. He was already hard. And when he rocked into you, It wasnât franticâit was sacred. Like a ritual. Like a farewell carved into skin.
The lights stayed off, but not out of shame. It was self-preservation. Because if you saw his face, if you saw what was written in his eyesâwhatever soft, shattering thing was thereâit might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragileâcareful, slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. Each layer pulled away with quiet tension, each breath held between fingers and fabric.
His mouth followed close behind, brushing down your chest with aching precision. He kissed every scar like it told a story only he remembered. Mouthed at your skin like it tasted of something he hadnât let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him.Â
Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didnât want to be anywhere else. Like this was the only place he still knew. His pace was languid at first, drawn out. But when your breath hitched and you clung to him tighter, he fucked you deeper. Slower. Harder. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. Your bodies moved like memory. Like grief. Like everything you never said finally found a rhythm in the dark.Â
His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groanedâlow, guttural.
âSay it,â he rasped against your mouth.
âI love you,â you whispered, already crying. âGod, I love you.â
And when you came, it wasnât loud. It was broken. Soft. A tremor beneath his palm as he cradled your jaw. He followed seconds later, gasping your name like a benediction, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking.
After, he didnât speak. Didnât move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.
Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you donât say out loud.
The alarm never went off.
Youâd both woken up before itâsome silent agreement between your bodies that said donât pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesnât feel like today yet, but is no longer yesterday.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows resting on his thighs, spine curled slightly forward like the weight of the choice heâd made was finally catching up to him. He was already dressed in the uniform in his head.
You stayed under the covers, arms wrapped around your own body, watching the muscles in his back tighten every time he exhaled.
You didnât speak.Â
What was there left to say?
He stood, moved through the room with quiet efficiency. Pulling his pants on. Shirt. Socks. He tied his boots slowly, like muscle memory. Like prayer. You wondered if his hands ever shook when he packed for war, or if this was just another morning to him. Another mission. Another place to be.
He finally turned to face you. âYou want coffee?â he asked, voice hoarse.
You shook your head. You didnât trust yourself to speak.
He paused in the doorway, like he might say somethingâsomething honest, something final. Instead, he just looked at you like you were already slipping into memory.
The kitchen was still warm from the radiator kicking on. Jack moved like a ghost through itâmug in one hand, half a slice of dry toast in the other. You sat across from him at the table, knees pulled into your chest, wearing one of his old t-shirts that didnât smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.
âI left a spare,â he said.
You nodded. âI know.â
He took a sip of coffee, made a face. âYou never taught me how to make it right.â
âYou never listened.â
His lips twitchedâalmost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
âWill you write?â you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.
âIf I can.â
And somehow that hurt more.
When the cab pulled up outside, neither of you moved right away. Jack stared at the wall. You stared at him.Â
He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didnât look like a man leaving for war. He looked like a man trying to convince himself he had no other choice.
At the door, he paused again.
âHey,â he said, softer this time. âYouâre everything I ever wanted, you know that?â
You stood too fast. âThen why wasnât this enough?â
He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.
âI love you,â he said.
You swallowed. Hard. âThen stay.â
His hands dropped.Â
âI canât.â
You didnât cry when he left.
You just stood in the hallway until the cab disappeared down the street, teeth sunk into your lip so hard it bled. And then you locked the door behind you. Not because you didnât want him to come back.
But because you didnât want to hope anymore that he would.
PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM
Jack always said he didnât believe in premonitions. That was Robbyâs departmentâgut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like âI donât like this quiet.â Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didnât believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.
But tonight?
Tonight felt wrong.
The kind of wrong that doesnât announce itself. It just settlesâlow and quiet, like a second pulse beneath your skin. Everything was too clean. Too calm. The trauma board was a blank canvas. One transfer to psych. One uncomplicated withdrawal on fluids. A dislocated shoulder in 6 who kept trying to flirt with the nurses despite being dosed with enough ketorolac to sedate a linebacker.
That was it. Four hours. Not a single incoming. Not even a fender-bender.
Jack stood in front of the board with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff, body still in that way that wasnât restfulâjust waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.
The ER didnât breathe like this. Not on a Friday night in Pittsburgh. Not unless something was holding its breath.
He rolled his shoulder, cracked his neck once, then twice. His leg achedânot the prosthetic. The other one. The real one. The one that always overcompensated when he was tense. The one that still carried the habits of a body he didnât fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldnât. He wasnât tired.
But he felt unmoored.
7:39 PM
The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.
Dana was telling someoneâprobably Perlahâabout her granddaughterâs birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didnât absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasnât charting. He was watching the vitals monitor above Bay 2 blink like a metronome. Too steady. Too normal.
His stomach clenched. Something inside him stirred. Restless. Sharp. He didnât even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.
âYouâre doing it again,â she said.
Jack blinked. âDoing what?â
âThat thing. The haunted soldier stare.â
He exhaled slowly through his nose. âDidnât realize I had a brand.â
âYou do.â She leaned against the counter, arms folded. âYou get real still when itâs too quiet in here. Like youâre waiting for the other shoe to drop.â
Jack tilted his head slightly. âIâm always waiting for the other shoe.â
âNo,â she said. âNot like this.â
He didnât respond. Didnât need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.
7:55 PM
The weather was turning.
He could hear itâhow the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. Heâd seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yetâjust gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the springâcold one day, burning the next. The kind of shifts that made people do dumb things. Drive fast. Get careless. Forget their own bodies could break.
His hand flexed unconsciously against the edge of the counter. He didnât know who he was preparing forâjust that someone was coming.Â
8:00 PM
Robbyâs shift was ending. He always left a little lateâhovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didnât look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.
âYou sure you donât wanna switch shifts tomorrow?â Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casualâbut you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.
Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. âWhat, you finally land that hot date with the med student who keeps calling you sir, looks like she still gets carded for cough syrup and thinks youâre someoneâs dad?â
Robby didnât look up from his phone. âClose. She thinks youâre the dad. Like⊠someoneâs brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say heâs doing his best.â
Jack blinked. âIâm forty-nine. Youâre fifty-three.â
âShe thinks youâve lived harder.â
Jack snorted. âShe say that?â
âShe saidâand I quoteââHeâs got that energy. Like heâs seen things. Lost someone he doesnât talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.ââ
Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. âWell. Sheâs not wrong.â
Robby side-eyed him. âYou do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.â
Jackâs smirk twitched into something more wry. âNot a widower.â
âCouldâve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, youâd be her first mistake.â
Jack let out a low whistle. âJesus.â
âI told her youâre just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.â
Jack smiled. Barely. âYouâre such a good friend.â
Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. âYouâre lucky I didnât tell her about the ring. She thinks youâre tragic. Women love that.â
Jack muttered, âTragic isnât a flex.â
Robby shrugged. âIt is when youâre tall and say very little.â
Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. âStill not switching.â
Robby groaned. âCome on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, Iâm walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were âlimiting his dexterity.â I said, âThatâs the point.â He told me I was oppressing his innovation.â
Jack stifled a laugh. âIâm starting to like him.â
âHeâs your favorite. Admit it.â
âYouâre my favorite,â Jack said, deadpan.
âThatâs the saddest thing youâve ever said.â
Jackâs grin tugged wider. âItâs been a long year.â
They stood in silence for a momentâone of those rare ones where the ER wasnât screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.
âYou good?â he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.
Jack didnât look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words wouldâve.
ThenââFine,â Jack said. A beat. âJust tired.â
Robby didnât press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didnât.
âGet some rest,â Jack added, almost an afterthought. âIâll see you tomorrow.â
âYou always do,â Robby said.
And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.
But Jack didnât move for a while.
Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.
8:34 PM
The call hits like a starterâs pistol.
âInbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.â
The kind of call that should feel routine.
Jackâs already in motionâsnapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesnât think. He doesnât feel. He just moves. Itâs what heâs best at. What they built him for.
He doesnât know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.
Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why heâs clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.
He doesnât know. Not yet.
âPerlah, trauma cartâs prepped?â
âYeah.â
âMateo, I want blood drawn the second sheâs in. Jesseâintubation tray. Letâs be ready.â
No one questions him. Not when heâs in this modeâlow voice, high tension. Controlled but wired like something just beneath his skin is ready to snap. He pulls the door to Bay 2 open, nods to the team waiting inside. His hands go to his hips, gloves already on, brain flipping through protocol.
And then he hears itâthe wheels. Gurney. Fast.
Voices echoing through the corridor.
Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.
âUnidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVAâsingle vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en routeâwe lost her once. Got her back, but sheâs still unstable.â
The doors bang open. They wheel her in. Jack steps forward. His eyes fall to the body. Blood-soaked. Covered in debris. Face battered. Left cheek swelling fast. Gash at the temple. Lip split. Clothes shredded. Eyes closed.
He freezes. Everything stops. Because he knows that mouth. That jawline. That scar behind the ear. That body. The last time he saw it, it was beneath his hands. The last time he kissed her, she was whispering his name in the dark. And now sheâs here.
Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.
âJack?â Perlah says, uncertain. âYou good?â
He doesnât respond. Heâs already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.
âGet me vitals now,â he says, voice too low.
âSheâs crashing againââ
âI said get me fucking vitals.â
Everyone jolts. He doesnât care. Heâs pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes. âWhat happened to you?â
Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.
ThenâFlatline.
You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?
Why didnât you come back?
Why hadnât he tried harder to find you?
He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didnât want to be found. That maybe you'd met someone else, maybe moved out of state, maybe started the life he was supposed to give you.
And now you were here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a "maybe someday."
Here.
And dying.
8:36 PM
The monitor flatlines. Sharp. Steady. Shrill.
And Jackâhe doesnât blink. He doesnât curse. He doesnât call out. He just moves. The team reacts firstâshock, noise, adrenaline. Perlahâs already calling it out. Mateo goes for epi. Jesse reaches for the crash cart, his hands a little too fast, knocking a tray off the edge.
It clatters to the floor. Jack doesnât flinch.
He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like itâs instinctâbecause it is. His hands hover for half a beat.
Then press down.
Compression one.
Compression two.
Compression three.
Thirty in all. His mouth is tight. His eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your body beneath his hands. He doesnât say your name. He doesnât let them see him.
He just works.
Like heâs still on deployment.
Like youâre just another body.
Like youâre not the person who made him believe in softness again.
Jack doesnât move from your side.
Doesnât say a thing when the first shock doesnât bring you back. Doesnât speak when the second one stalls again. He just keeps pressing. Keeps watching. Keeps holding on with the one thing left he can control.
His hands.
You twitch under his palms on the third shock.
The line stutters. Then catches. Jack exhales once. But he still doesnât speak. He doesnât check the room. Doesnât acknowledge the tears running down his face. Just rests both hands on the edge of the gurney and leans forward, breathing shallow, like if he stands up fully, something inside him will fall apart for good.
âGet her to CT,â he says quietly.
Perlah hesitates. âJackââ
He shakes his head. âIâll walk with her.â
âJackâŠâ
âI said Iâll go.â
And then he does.
Silent. Soaking in your blood. Following the gurney like he followed field stretchers across combat zones. No one asks questions. Because everyone sees it now.
8:52 PMÂ
The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jackâs body going numb. You were being wheeled in nowâhooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.
You hadnât moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadnât opened. Not even once.
Jack walked beside the gurney in silence. One hand gripping the edge rail. Gloved fingers stained dark. His scrub top was still soaked from chest compressions. His pulse hadnât slowed since the flatline. He didnât speak to the transport tech. Didnât acknowledge the nurse. Didnât register anything except the curve of your arm under the blanket and the smear of blood at your temple no one had cleaned yet.
Outside the scan room, they paused to prep.
âTwo minutes,â someone said.
Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you inâJack looked at you.
Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didnât recognize this version of youânot broken, not bloodied, not dyingâbut fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling.Â
He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.
âStay with me.â He swallowed. Hard. âIâll lie to everyone else. Iâll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know Iâm full of shit.â
He paused. âYouâve always known.â
Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasnât bleeding in real time. The tech came back. âWeâre ready.â
Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didnât follow. Just stood in the hallway, alone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
10:34 PM
Your blood was still on his forearms. Dried at the edge of his glove cuff. There was a fleck of it on the collar of his scrub top, just beneath his badge. He should go change. But he couldnât move. The last time he saw you, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment with your arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set in that way you did when you were about to say something that would ruin him.
Then stay.
He hadnât.
And now here you were, barely breathing.
God. He wanted to scream. But he didnât. He never did.
Footsteps approached from the leftâlight, careful.
It was Dana.
She didnât say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall beside him with a soft exhale and handed him a plastic water bottle.
He took it with a nod, twisted the cap, but didnât drink.
âSheâs stable,â Dana said quietly. âNeuroâs scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasnât shifted.â
Jack stared straight ahead. âSheâs got a collapsed lung.â
âSheâs alive.â
âShe shouldnât be.â
He could hear Dana shift beside him. âYou knew her?â
Jack swallowed. His throat burned. âYeah.â
There was a beat of silence between them.
âI didnât know,â Dana said, gently. âI mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...â
âYeah.â
Another pause.
âJack,â she said, softer now. âYou shouldnât be the one on this case.â
âIâm already on it.â
âI know, butââ
âShe didnât have anyone else.â
That landed like a punch to the ribs. No emergency contact. No parents listed. No spouse. No one flagged to call. Just the last ID scanned from your phoneâhis name still buried somewhere in your old records, from years ago. Probably forgotten. Probably never updated. But still there. Still his.
Dana reached out, laid a hand on his wrist. âDo you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?â
He shook his head.
âI should be there.â
âJackââ
âI shouldâve been there the first time,â he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: âSo Iâm gonna sit. And Iâm gonna wait. And when she wakes up, Iâm gonna tell her Iâm sorry.â
Dana didnât move. Didnât speak. Just nodded. And walked away.
1:06 AM
Jack sat in the corner of the dimmed recovery room.
You were propped up slightly on the bed now, a tube down your throat, IV lines in both arms. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, temple, thigh. The monitor beeped with painful consistency. It was the only sound in the room.
He hadnât spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, youâd vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.
âJesus,â he whispered. âYou really never changed your emergency contact?â
You didnât get married. You didnât leave the state.You just⊠slipped out of his life and never came back.
And he let you. He let you walk away because he thought you needed distance. Because he thought heâd ruined it. Because he didnât know what to do with love when it wasnât covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here.Â
âPlease wake up,â he whispered. âJust⊠just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I donât care. Justââ
His voice cracked. He bit it back.
âYou were right,â he said, so soft it barely made it out. âI shouldâve stayed.â
You swim toward the surface like somethingâs pulling you back under. Itâs slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstractâlike youâve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. Thereâs pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.
Thenâsound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressureâs holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. Andâ
A chair creaking.
You know that sound.
Youâd recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. Thereâs a rawness in your throat like youâve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:
Jack.
Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.
Heâs hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like heâs ready to stand, like he canât stand. Thereâs a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. Thereâs something smudged on his cheekboneâblood? You donât know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.
But itâs him. And for a secondâjust oneâyou forget the last seven years ever happened.
You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didnât look back. Because right now, heâs here. Breathing. Watching you like heâs afraid youâll vanish.
âHey,â he says, voice hoarse.
You try to swallow. You canât.
âDonâtââ he sits up, suddenly, gently. âDonât try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crashââ He falters. âJesus. Youâre okay. Youâre here.â
You blink, hard. Your eyes sting. Everything is out of focus except him. He leans forward a little more, his hands resting just beside yours on the bed.
âI thought you were dead,â he says. âOr married. Or halfway across the world. I thoughtââ He stops. His throat works around the words. âI never thought Iâd see you again.â
You close your eyes for a second. Itâs too much. His voice. His face. The sound of youâre okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gazeâtry to ground yourself in something solid.
And thatâs when you see it.
His hand.
Resting casually near yours.
Ring finger tilted toward the light.
Gold band.Â
Simple.
Permanent.
You freeze.
Itâs like your lungs forget what to do.
You look at the ring. Then at him. Then at the ring again.
He follows your gaze.
And flinches.
âFuck,â Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didnât just see it.
He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.
âSheâs notââ He pauses. âItâs not what you think.â
Youâre barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: âYouâre married?â
His head snaps up.
âNo.â Beat. âNot yet.â
Yet. That word is worse than a bullet. You stare at him. And what you see floors you.
Guilt.
Exhaustion.
Something that might be grief. But not regret. Heâs not here asking for forgiveness. Heâs here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought heâd never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didnât come back for you.
He moved on.
And you didnât even get to see it happen. You turn your face away. It takes everything you have not to sob, not to scream, not to rip the IV out of your arm just to feel something other than this. Jack leans forward again, like he might try to fix it.
Like he still could.
âI didnât know,â he says. âI didnât know Iâd ever see you again.â
âI didnât know youâd stop waiting,â you rasp.
And thatâs it. Thatâs the one that lands. He goes very still.
âI waited,â he says, softly. âLonger than I shouldâve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thoughtâmaybe. Maybe itâs you.â
Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. âBut you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didnât want to be found.â
âI didnât,â you whisper. âBecause I didnât want to know youâd already replaced me.â
The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.
Dana.Â
She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.
âWeâre moving her to step-down in fifteen,â she says gently. âJust wanted to give you a heads up.â Jack nods. Doesnât look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You donât speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldnât. Finally, he exhalesâlow, shaky.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
Not for leaving. Not for loving someone else. Just for the wreckage of it all. And then he walks out. Leaving you in that bed.Â
Bleeding in places no scan can find.
9:12 AM
The room was smaller than the trauma bay. Cleaner. Quieter.
The lights were soft, filtered through high, narrow windows that let in just enough Pittsburgh morning to remind you the world kept moving, even when yours had slammed into a guardrail at seventy-three miles an hour.
You were propped at a slight angleâenough to breathe without straining the sutures in your side. Your ribs still ached with every inhale. Your left arm was in a sling. There was dried blood in your hairline no one had washed out yet. But you were alive. They told you that three times already.
Alive. Stable. Awake.
As if saying it aloud could undo the fact that Jack Abbot is engaged. You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. He hadn't come back. You didnât ask for him. And stillâevery time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallwayâyou hoped.Â
You hated yourself for it.
You hadnât cried yet.
That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him againâfor the first time in years, after everythingâwould snap something loose in your chest. But it didnât. It just⊠sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didnât know where to go.
There was a soft knock on the frame.
You turned your head slowly, your throat too raw to ask who it was.
It wasnât Jack.
It was a man you didnât recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tiredâbut held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.
âIâm Dr. Robinavitch.â he said gently. You just blinked at him.
âIâm... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.â
He didnât step closer right away. ThenââMind if I sit?â
You didnât answer. But you didnât say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasnât sure how fragile the air was between you. He didnât check your vitals. Didnât chart.
Just sat.
Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you donât have to hold all the weight alone.
âHell of a night,â he said after a while. âYou had everyone rattled.â
You didnât reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.
âJack hasnât looked like that in a long time.â
That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.
You stared at him. âHe talk about me?âÂ
Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. âNo. Not really.â
You looked away.Â
âBut he didnât have to,â he added.
You froze.
âIâve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights offâlike he was waiting for someone who never showed. Never stayed the night anywhere but home. Always looked at the hallway like something might appear if he stared hard enough.â
Your throat burned.
âHe never said your name,â Robby continued, voice low but certain. âBut thereâs a box under his bed. A spare key on his ringâbeen there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesnât match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when theyâre trying not to forget.â
You blinked hard. âThereâs a box?â
Robby nodded, slow. âYeah. Tucked under the bed like he didnât mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Lettersâsome unopened, some worn through like he read them a hundred times. A photo of you, old and creased, like he carried it once and forgot how to let it go. Hospital badge. Bracelet from some field clinic. Even a napkin with your handwriting on itâfaded, but folded like it meant something.â
You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.
âHe compartmentalizes,â Robby said. âItâs how he stays functional. Itâs what heâs good at.â
You whispered it, barely audible: âIt was survival.â
âSure. Until it isnât.â
Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.
ThenââHeâs engaged,â you said, your voice flat.
Robby didnât blink. âYeah. I know.â
âIs sheâŠ?â
âSheâs good,â he said. âSmart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think thatâs why it worked.â
You nodded slowly.
âDoes she know about me?â
Robby looked down. Didnât answer. You nodded again. That was enough.Â
He stood eventually.
Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like heâd forgotten why he even brought it.
âHeâll come back,â he said. âNot today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.â
You didnât look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.
âI donât want him to.â
Robby gave you one last look.
One that said: Yeah. You do.
Then he turned and left.
And this time, when the door clicked shutâyou cried.
DAY FOURâ 11:41 PM
The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.
Youâd finally started walking the length of your room again, IV pole rolling beside you like a loyal dog. The sling was irritating. Your ribs still hurt when you coughed. The staples in your scalp itched every time the air conditioner kicked on.
But you were alive. They said you could go home soon. Problem wasâyou didnât know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. Youâd been drifting near sleep, curled on your side in the too-small hospital bed, one leg drawn up, wires tugging gently against your skin.
Before you could brace, the door opened. And there he was.
Jack didnât speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like heâd fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like heâd washed his face too many times and still didnât feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.
He didnât move.
Didnât smile.
Didnât look like the man who used to make you coffee barefoot in the kitchen, or fold your laundry without being asked, or trace the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.
He looked like a stranger who remembered your body too well.
âI wasnât gonna come,â he said quietly, finally. You didnât respond.
Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.
The room felt too small.
Your throat ached.
âI didnât know what to say,â he continued, voice low. âDidnât know if youâd want to see me. After... everything.â
You sat up straighter. âI didnât.â
That hit.
But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.
Still, he didnât leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasnât sure he was allowed any closer.
âWhy are you here, Jack?â
He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadnât said since he walked out years ago.
âI needed to see you,â he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. âI needed to know you were still real.â
Your heart cracked in two.
âReal,â you repeated. âYou mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?â
His jaw tightened. âThatâs not fair.â
You scoffed. âYou think any of this is fair?â
Jack stepped closer.
âI didnât plan to love you the way I did.â
âYou didnât plan to leave, either. But you did that too.â
âI was trying to save something of myself.â
âAnd I was collateral damage?â
He flinched. Looked down. âYou were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.â
âThen why didnât you?â
He shook his head. âBecause I was scared. Because I didnât know how to come back and be yours forever when all Iâd ever been was temporary.â Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:
âDoes she know you still dream about me?â
That made him look up. Like youâd punched the wind out of him. Like youâd reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and heâd be at your bedside.
âYou have every reason not to forgive me,â he said quietly. âBut the truth isâIâve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.â
You looked up at him, voice raw: âThen why are you marrying her?â
Jackâs mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.
Eyes burning.
Lips trembling.
âI donât want your apologies,â you said. âI want the version of you that stayed.â
He stepped back, like that was the final blow.
But you werenât done.
âI loved you so hard it wrecked me,â you whispered. âAnd all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didnât. And now you want to stand in this room and act like Iâm some kind of unfinished chapterâlike you get to come back and cry at the ending?â
Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasnât going in right.
âI came back,â he said. âI came back because I couldnât breathe without knowing you were okay.â
âAnd now you know.â
You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.
âSo go home to her.â
He didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Didnât do what you asked.
He just stood thereâbleeding in the quietâwhile you looked away.
DAY SEVENâ 5:12 PM
You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didnât bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasnât stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.
You said youâd call.
You wouldnât.
You packed what little you had in silenceâfolded the hospital gown, signed the paperwork with hands that still trembled. No one stopped you. You walked out the front doors like a ghost slipping through traffic.
Alive.
Untethered.
Unhealed.
But gone.
YOUR APARTMENTâ 8:44 PM
It wasnât much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didnât make. You sat cross-legged on top of the blanket in your hospital sweats, ribs bandaged tight beneath your shirt, hair still blood-matted near the scalp.
You hadnât turned on the lights.
You hadnât eaten.
You were staring at the wall when the knock came.
Three short taps.
Then his voice.
âIt's me.â
You didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Then the second knock.
âPlease. Just open the door.â
You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.
âYou left,â he said, breath fogging in the cold.
You leaned against the frame. âI wasnât going to wait around for someone who already left me once.â
âI deserved that.â
âYou deserve worse.â
He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. âCan I come in?â
You hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
He didnât sit. Just stood thereâawkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.
âThis place is...â
âMine.â
He nodded again. âYeah. Yeah, it is.â
Silence.
You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didnât know what was broken.
âWhat do you want, Jack?â
His jaw flexed. âI want to be in your life again.â
You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. âRight. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?â
âNo.â His voice was quiet. âJust... just a friend.â
Your breath caught.
He stepped forward. âI know I donât deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know thisâthis thing between usâit's not what it was. But I still care. And if all I can be is a number in your phone again, then let me.â
You looked down.
Your hands were shaking.
You didnât want this. You wanted him. All of him.
But you knew how this would end.
Youâd sit across from him in cafĂ©s, pretending not to look at his left hand.
Youâd laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.
Youâd let him inâinch by inchâuntil there was nothing left of you that hadnât shaped itself to him again.
And still.
StillââOkay,â you said.
Jack looked at you.
Like he couldnât believe it.
âFriends,â you added.
He nodded slowly. âFriends.â
You looked away.
Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd say something that would shatter you both.
Because this was the next best thing.
And you knew, even as you said it, even as you offered him your heart wrapped in barbed wireâIt was going to break you.
DAY TEN â 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. CafĂ© â Two blocks from The Pitt
You told yourself this wasnât a date.
It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.
But the way your hands wouldnât stop shaking made it feel like you were twenty again, waiting for him to show up at the Greyhound station with his army bag and half a smile.
He walked in ten minutes late. He ordered his drink without looking at the menu. He always knew what he wantedâexcept when it came to you.
âYouâre limping less,â he said, settling across from you like you hadnât been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. âYouâre still observant.â
He smiledâsmall. Quiet. The kind that used to make you forgive him too fast. The first fifteen minutes were surface-level. Traffic. ER chaos. This new intern, Santos, doing something reckless. Robby calling him âDoctor Doomâ under his breath.
It shouldâve been easy.
But the space between you felt alive.
Charged.
Unforgivable.
He leaned forward at one point, arms on the table, and you caught the flick of his handâ
The ring.
You looked away. Pretended not to care.
âYouâre doing okay?â he asked, voice gentle.
You nodded, lying. âMostly.â
He reached across the table thenâjust for a secondâlike he might touch your hand. He didnât. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.
DAY TWELVE â 2:03 PM Your apartment
You couldnât sleep. Again.
The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. Youâd been lying in bed for hours, fully dressed, lights off, scrolling old texts with one hand while your other rubbed slow, nervous circles into the bandages around your ribs.
There was a text from him.
"You okay?"
You stared at it for a full minute before responding.
"No."
You expected silence.
Instead: a knock.
You didnât even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadnât been waiting in his car, like he hadnât been hoping youâd need him just enough.
He looked exhausted.
You stepped back. Let him in.
He sat on the edge of the couch. Hands folded. Knees apart. Staring at the wall like it might break the tension.
âI canât sleep anymore,â you whispered. âI keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.â
Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. âYeah.â
You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with himâthings left unsaid that took up more space than the words ever could. Eventually, he leaned back against the couch cushion, rubbing a hand over his face.
âI think about you all the time,â he said, voice low, wrecked.
You didnât move.
âYouâre in the room when Iâm doing intake. When Iâm changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why itâs not you.â
Your breath hitched.
âBut I made a choice,â he said. âAnd I canât undo it without hurting someone whoâs never hurt me.â
You finally turned toward him. âThen why are you here?â
He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. âBecause the second you came back, I couldnât breathe.â
You kissed him.
You donât remember who moved first. If you leaned forward, or if he cupped your face like he used to. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It wasnât sweet. It wasnât gentle. It was devastated.
His mouth was salt and memory and apology.
Your hands curled in his shirt. He was whispering your name against your lips like it still belonged to him.
You pulled away first.
âGo home,â you said, voice cracking.
âDonât do thisââ
âGo home to her, Jack.â
And he did.
He always did.
DAY THIRTEEN â 7:32 PM
You donât eat.
You donât leave your apartment.
You scrub the counter three times and throw out your tea mug because it smells like him.
You sit on the bathroom floor and press a towel to your ribs until the pain brings you back into your body.
You start a text seven times.
You never send it.
DAY SEVENTEEN â 11:46 PM
The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.
Jackâs gaze hadnât left you all night.
Low. Unreadable. He hadnât smiled once.
âYou never stopped loving me,â you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. âDid you?â
His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.
âSay it.â
âI never stopped,â he rasped.
That was all it took.
You surged forward.
His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like heâd been holding his breath since the last time. Teeth and tongue and broken sounds in the back of his throat.
Your back hit the wall hard.
âFuckââ he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didnât care if he left marks. âI canât believe you still taste like this.â
You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. âDonât stop.â
He didnât.
He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved downâyour throat, your collarbone, between your breasts, tongue hot and slow like he was punishing you for every year he spent wondering if you hated him.
âYou still wear my t-shirt to bed?â he whispered against your breasts voice thick. âYou still get wet thinking about me?â
You whimpered. âJackââ
His name came out like a sin.
He dropped to his knees.
âLet me hear it,â he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. âTell me you still want me.â
Your head dropped back.
âI never stopped.â
And then his mouth was on youâfilthy and brutal.
Tongue everywhere, fingers stroking you open while his other hand gripped your thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.
You were already shaking when he growled, âYou still taste like mine.â
You cried outâhigh and wreckedâand he kept going.
Faster.
Sloppier.
Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who mightâve touched you.
He made you come with your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding helplessly against his face, your thighs quivering around his jaw while you moaned his name like you couldnât stop.
He stood.
His clothes were off in seconds. Nothing left between you but raw air and your shared history. His cock was thick, flushed, angry against his stomachâdripping with need, twitching every time you breathed.
You stared at it.
At him.
At the ring still on his finger.
He saw your eyes.
Slipped it off.
Tossed it across the room without a word.
Then slammed you against the wall again and slid inside.
No teasing.
No waiting.
Just deep.
You gaspedâtoo full, too fastâand he buried his face in your neck.
âIâm sorry,â he groaned. âI shouldnâtâfuckâI shouldnât be doing this.â
But he didnât stop.
He thrust so deep your eyes rolled back.
It was everything at once.
Your name on his lips like an apology. His hands on your waist like heâd never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like heâd never get the chance again. Like he was angry you still had this effect on him. Like he was still in love with you and didnât know how to carry it anymore.
He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.
âLouder,â he snapped, fucking into you hard. âLet the neighbors hear who makes you come.â
You came again.
And again.
Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.
âOpen your eyes,â he panted. âLook at me.â
You did.
He was close.
You could feel it in the way he lost rhythm, the way his grip got desperate, the way he whimpered your name like he was begging.
âInside,â you whispered, legs wrapped around him. âDonât pull out.â
He froze.
Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.
âI love you,â he breathed.
And then he cameâdeep, full, shaking inside you with a broken moan so raw it felt holy.
After, you lay together on the floor. Sweat-slicked. Bruised. Silent.
You didnât speak.
Neither did he.
Because you both knewâ
This changed everything.
And nothing.
DAY EIGHTEEN â 7:34 AM
Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.
Jackâs asleep in your bed. Heâs on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hipâfingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isnât real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped.Â
You donât feel guilty.
Yet.
You stare at the ceiling. You havenât spoken in hours.
Not since he whispered âI love youâ while he was still inside you.
Not since he collapsed onto your chest like it might save him.
Not since he kissed your shoulder and didnât say goodbye.
You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens.Â
Like he knows.
Like he knows.
You stay still. You donât want to be the one to move first. Because if you move, the night ends. If you move, the spell breaks. And Jack Abbot goes back to being someone else's.
Eventually, he stirs.
His breath shifts against your collarbone.
Thenâ
âMorning.â
His voice is low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.
It hurts worse than silence. You force a soft hum, not trusting your throat to form words.
He lifts his head a little.
Looks at you. Hair mussed. Eyes unreadable. Bare skin still flushed from where he touched you hours ago. You expect regret. But all you see is heartbreak.
âShouldnât have stayed,â he says softly.
You close your eyes.
âI know.â
He sits up slowly. Sheets falling around his waist.
You follow the line of his back with your gaze. Every scar. Every knot in his spine. The curve of his shoulder blades you used to trace with your fingers when you were twenty-something and stupid enough to think love was enough.
He doesnât look at you when he says it.
âI told her I was working overnight.â
You feel your breath catch.
âShe called me at midnight,â he adds. âI didnât answer.â
You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.
âIs this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?â
Jack doesnât answer right away.
ThenââNo,â he says. âItâs the part where I tell you I donât know how to go home.â
You both sit there for a long time.
Naked.
Wordless.
Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.
You finally speak.
âDo you love her?â
Silence.
âI respect her,â he says. âSheâs good. Steady. Nothingâs ever hard with her.â
You swallow. âThatâs not an answer.â
Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.
âIâve never stopped loving you.â
It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.
Because you know. You always knew. But now youâve heard it again. And it doesnât fix a goddamn thing.
âI canât do this again,â you whisper.
Jack nods. âI know.â
âBut Iâll keep doing it anyway,â you add. âIf you let me.â
His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.
âI donât want to leave.â
âBut you will.â
You both know he has to.
And he does.
He dresses slowly.
Doesnât kiss you.
Doesnât say goodbye.
He finds his ring.
Puts it back on.
And walks out.
The door closes.
And you break.
Because thisâthis is the cost of almost.
8:52 AM
You donât move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.
You donât cry.
You donât scream.
You just exist.
Your chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. That same spot where he laid his head a few hours ago still feels heavy. You think if you touch it, itâll still be warm.
You donât.
You donât want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isnât just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly youâre going to bruise. Itâs the kind of ache you canât ice. Itâs the kind that lingers in your lungs.
Eventually, you sit up.
Your legs feel unsteady beneath you. Your knees shake as you gather the clothes scattered across the floor. His shirtâthe one you wore while he kissed your throat and said âI love youâ into your skinâgets tossed in the hamper like it doesnât still smell like him. Your hand lingers on it.
You shove it deeper.
Harder.
Like burying it will stop the memory from clawing up your throat.
You make coffee you wonât drink.
You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.
You open your phone.
One new text.
âDid you eat?â
You donât respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone elseâs finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon.Â
You make it as far as the sidewalk.
Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.
You donât sleep that night.
You lie awake with your fingers curled into your sheets, shaking.
Your thighs ache.
Your mouth is dry.
You dream of him onceâhis hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering âdonât let go.â
When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you donât remember crying.
DAY TWENTY TWOâ 4:17 PM Your apartment
It starts slow.
A dull ache in your upper abdomen. Like a pulled muscle or bad cramp. You ignore it. Youâve been ignoring everything. Pain means youâre healing, right?
But by 4:41 p.m., youâre on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. Youâre cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming nowâhot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then youâre on your back, blinking at the ceiling.
And everything goes quiet.
THE PITT â 5:28 PM
Youâre unconscious when the EMTs wheel you in. Vitals unstable. BP crashing. Internal bleeding suspected. It takes Jack ten seconds to recognize you.
One to feel like heâs going to throw up.
âMid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BPâs eighty over forty and falling.â
Jack is already moving.
He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.
Itâs you.
God. Itâs you again.
Worse this time.
âHer name is [Y/N],â he says tightly, voice rough. âWe need OR on standby. Now.â
6:01 PM
Youâre barely conscious as they prep you for CT. Jack is beside you, masked, gloved, sterile. But his voice trembles when he says your name. You blink up at him.
Barely there.
âHurts,â you rasp.
He leans close, ignoring protocol.
âI know. Iâve got you. Stay with me, okay?â
6:27 PM
The scan confirms it.
Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.
Youâre going into surgery.
Fast.
You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.
You look at himââI donât want to die thinking I meant nothing.â
His face breaks. And then they take you away.
Jack doesnât move.
Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.
Because this time, he might actually lose you.
And he doesnât know if heâll survive that twice.
9:12 PM Post-op recovery, ICU step-down
You come back slowly. The drugs are heavy. Your throat is dry. Your ribs feel tighter than before. Thereâs a new weight in your abdomen, dull and throbbing. You try to lift your hand and fail. Your IV pole beeps at you like it's annoyed.
Then thereâs a shadow.
Jack.
You try to say his name.
It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like heâs been underwater.
He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. Heâs still in scrubsâstained, wrinkled, exhausted.
âHey,â he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You donât have the strength to fight.
âYou scared the shit out of me,â he whispers.
You blink at him.
There are tears in your eyes. You donât know if theyâre yours or his.
âWhatâŠ?â you rasp.
âYour spleen ruptured,â he says quietly. âYou were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.â
You blink slowly.
âYou looked empty,â he says, voice cracking. âStill. Your eyes were open, but you werenât there. And I thoughtâfuck, I thoughtââ
He stops. You squeeze his fingers.
Itâs all you can do.
Thereâs a long pause.
Heavy.
ThenââShe called.â
You donât ask who.
You donât have to.
Jack stares at the floor.
âI told her I couldnât talk. That I was... handling a case. That Iâd call her after.â
You close your eyes.
You want to sleep.
You want to scream.
âSheâs starting to ask questions,â he adds softly.
You open your eyes again. âThen lie better.â
He flinches.
âIâm not proud of this,â he says.
You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. âThen leave.â
âI canât.â
âYou did last time.â
Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. âI canât lose you again.â
Youâre quiet for a long time.
Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:
âIf Iâd died... would you have told her?â
His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesnât answer.
Because you already know the truth.
He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. âI should let you sleep,â he adds.
âDonât,â you say, voice raw. âNot yet.â
He freezes. Then nods.
He moves back to the chair, but instead of sitting, he leans over the bed and presses his lips to your foreheadâgently, like heâs scared itâll hurt. Like heâs scared youâll vanish again. You donât close your eyes. You donât let yourself fall into it.
Because kisses are easy.
Staying is not.
DAY TWENTY FOUR â 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jackâs nowhere in sight. Good. You canât decide if you want to see himâor hit him.
âYou got someone picking you up?â Dana asks, handing off the chart.
You nod. âUber.â
She doesnât push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you standâslow, steady.
âBe gentle with yourself,â she says. âYou survived twice.â
DAY THIRTY ONE â 8:07 PM
The knock comes just after sunset.
Youâre barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointmentâa hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. Thereâs a cup of tea on the counter you havenât touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you canât name. Something worse than dread.
You donât move at first. Just stare at the door.
Thenâagain.
Three soft raps.
Like heâs asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldnât be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.
âDonât,â you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.
Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. Heâs holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like heâs a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.
Your voice comes out hoarse. âYou shouldnât be here.â
âI know,â he says, quiet. âBut I think I shouldâve been here a long time ago.â
You donât speak. You step aside.
He walks in like he doesnât expect to stay. Doesnât look around. Doesnât sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what heâs about to say.
âI told her,â he says.
You blink. âWhat?â
He lifts his gaze to yours. âLast night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.â
Your jaw tenses. âAnd what, she just⊠let you walk away?â
He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. Itâs shaking slightly in his grip. âNo. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get outâ
You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physicallyâlike your bodyâs trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. âJesus, Jack.â
âI know.â
âYou donât get to do this. You donât get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.â
âI didnât come expecting anything.â
You whirl back to him, raw. âThen why did you come?â
His voice doesnât rise. But it cuts. âBecause you almost died. Again. Because Iâve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.â
You shake your head. âThat doesnât change the fact that you left me when I needed you. That I begged you to choose peace. And you chose chaos. Every goddamn time.â
He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.
âYou think I donât live with that?â His voice drops.Â
You falter, tears threatening. âThen why didnât you try harder?â
âI thought youâd moved on.â
âI tried,â you say, voice cracking. âI tried so hard to move on, to let someone else in, to build something new with hands that were still learning how to stop reaching for you. But every man I metâit was like eating soup with a fork. Iâd sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasnât starving, pretending I didnât notice the emptiness. They didnât know me. Not really. Not the version of me that stayed up folding your shirts, tracking your deployment cities like constellations, holding the weight of a future you kept promising but never chose. Not the me that kept the lights on when you disappeared into silence. Not the me that made excuses for your absence until it started sounding like prayer.â
Jackâs face shiftsâsubtle at first, then like a crack running straight through the foundation. His jaw tightens. His mouth opens. Closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges, as if the admission itself costs him something he doesnât have to spare.
âI didnât think I deserved to come back,â he says. âNot after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.â
You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.
âMaybe you didnât,â you say quietly, not to hurt himâbut because itâs true. And it hangs there between you, heavy and undeniable.
The silence that follows is thick. Stretching. Bruising.
Then, just when you think he might finally say something that unravels everything all over again, he gestures to the bag heâs still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.
âI brought soup,â he says, voice low and awkward. âAnd real teaâthe kind you like. Not the grocery store crap. And, um⊠a roll of gauze. The soft kind. I remembered you said the hospital ones made you break out, and I thoughtâŠâ
He trails off, unsure, like heâs realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.
You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.
âYou brought first aid and soup?â
He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. âYeah. I didnât know what else youâd let me give you.â
Thereâs a beat.
A heartbeat.
Then it hits you.
Thatâs what undoes youânot the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way heâs looking at you like heâs seeing a ghost he never believed heâd get to touch again. Itâs the soup. Itâs the gauze. Itâs the goddamn tea. Itâs the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didnât know how to offer himself.
You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body canât hold the weight of all the things youâve swallowed just to stay upright this week.
Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.
Your voice breaks as it comes out:
âWhat am I supposed to do with you?â
Itâs not rhetorical. Itâs not flippant.
Itâs shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love thatâs ever let you down. And he knows it.
And for a long, breathless momentâyou donât move.
Jack walks over. Kneels down. His hands hover, not touching, just there.
You look at him, eyes full of every scar he left you with. âYou said you'd come back once. You didnât.â
âI came back late,â he says. âBut Iâm here now. And Iâm staying.â
Your voice drops to a whisper. âDonât promise me that unless you mean it.â
âI do.â
You shake your head, hard, like youâre trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest.Â
âIâm still mad,â you say, voice cracking.
Jack doesnât flinch. Doesnât try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like heâs rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. âYouâre allowed to be,â he says quietly. âIâll still be here.â
Your throat tightens.
âI donât trust you,â you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouthâlike betrayal and memory and all the nights you cried yourself to sleep because he was halfway across the world and you still loved him anyway.
âI know,â he says. âThen let me earn it.â
You donât speak. You canât. Your whole body is tremblingânot with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified youâll never survive getting it again.
Jack moves slowly. Doesnât close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his handârough and familiarâreaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you donât pull away.
You couldnât if you tried.
His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.
âIâve got nowhere else to be,â he says.
He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.
âI put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That Iâm in love with someone else. That Iâve always been.â
You look up, sharply. âYou told her that?â
He nods. Doesnât blink. âShe said she already knew. That sheâd known for a long time.â
Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.
He goes on. And this partâthis part wrecks him.
âYou know what the worst part is?â he murmurs. âShe didnât deserve that. She didnât deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.â
You donât interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.
âShe was kind,â he says, voice barely above a whisper. âGood. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesnât expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of thatâeven with the life we were buildingâI couldnât stop waiting for the sound of your voice.â
You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.
âIâd check my phone,â he continues. âAt night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. Iâd look out the window like maybe youâd just⊠show up. Like the universe owed me one more shot. One more chance to fix the thing I broke when I walked away from the one person who ever made me feel like home.â
You canât stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when thereâs nothing left to scream.
âI hated you,â you whisper. âI hated you for a long time.â
He nods, eyes on yours. âSo did I.â
And somehow, thatâs what softens you.
Because you canât hate him through this. You canât pretend this version of him isnât bleeding too.
You exhale shakily. âI donât know if I can do this again.â
âIâm not asking you to,â he says, âNot all at once. Just⊠let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I wasâwho I could beâif you let me stay this time.â
And god help youâsome fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.
âIf I say yes... if I let you in again...â
He waits. Doesnât breathe.
âYou donât get to leave next time,â you whisper. âNot without looking me in the eye.â
Jack nods.
âI wonât.â
You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shatteredâYou let yourself believe he might stay.
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Wrong Name
Summary: Reader visits her partner Jack in the ED to drop off his lunch catching the excited attention of all of his colleges much to his chagrin
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Word Count: 2k
Warnings: None! Just super cute fluff
Authorâs Note: My first Pitt Fic! Basically, a short simple grumpy x sunshine reader cause I had the idea. Everyone in the Pitt loves the reader and Jack pretends to hate that, but everyone knows better. Again my first Pitt fic so any and all feedback appreciated and I hope you enjoy!
To say Jack was surprised to see you at Danaâs desk was an understatement.
He had just left you a little over an hour ago, a silent kiss to your temple, a murmured I love you into your hair, a cup of coffee left in his wake on the countertop so it was cooled down by the time you got up, the same as every day. You were still asleep when he left could you have woken up with something? Did he miss something last night?
His head was so full of the hypothetical he didnât take the extra second to acknowledge how at ease your body language was as you leaned against the tall desk, a soft smile on your lips as you nodded along to whatever Dana was saying.
Instead, he immediately crossed the ED in a few steps, sliding a hand to the small of your back to grab your attention, cutting of Danaâs story without a second thought.
âHey whatâre you doing here are you okay?â
Your eyes flickered briefly to his, the corners of your mouth pulling up slightly at his appearance as you grabbed his bicep and gave it a small squeeze. âYeah donât worry Iâm fineâ before immediately refocusing on Dana, silently signaling her to continue.
Dana, however, as she normally does, knew better, a look shared between the two women as she stayed silent and instead focused on Jack, the man himself having not moved his gaze from your form for a second.
Pinching your shirt at the waist softly he gave it a small tug, physically pulling your attention back to him as his eyes scanned your face âis it that headache you had the other night? Is it back? I can bump you up the CT lineâ
âHoneyâ you cut him off with that small laugh that always had his chest warming âI promise Iâm fine I texted you like an hour ago to meet me in the parking lot, you just forgot your lunchâ
He could physically feel the relief hit his system at your words, his shoulders dropping as he finally took a deep breath, his next words tumbling off his tongue before he could put any thought to them âyou didnât have to-â
But just as he knew you would, you cut him off with a shrug and the same words you always used when he tried to dodge being taken care off âI know but I wanted toâ
He couldnât have fought the fond smile off his face if he had tried, something he knew he was going to get shit over from Dana and inevitably Robby later. âWhy didnât anyone tell me you were here have you been waiting long?â
âNo Iâve been talking to Danaâ And it was so entirely you the way you stated it like it was obvious. As if this little act of kindness in going out of your way to get him food hadnât hijacked your entire morning. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to pull you into him, barely registering the way you pivoted back to Dana at the mention of her name.
âA conversation we absolutely will be finishingâ spoken like a threat that had the charge nurse chuckling, âdrinks later? Location and time TBD?â
âSounds good kidâ
And maybe it was a little selfish of him to want you just to himself in that moment, to pull you out of the Pitt to get even just two minutes of you alone. But Jack had found over the past year that he liked being selfish when it came to you âOh and Langdon was looking for you earlier if you havenât seen him yetâ
âYou spoke to Langdon tooâ heâll admit to only faking part of the exasperation in his tone that had you giggling.
âHeâs got a new puppyâ you protested with a grin âwhat was I supposed to do? Not ask to see photosâ
âYouâre right ridiculous questionâ he conceded easily, ânow arenât you supposed to be at workâ
And Jack relished the way he knew what your exact reaction would be seconds before you made it, the way your eyes widened almost comically before you reached for his arm, pulling his watch specifically into your line of sight, Jack using the momentum to press a quick kiss to your temple before he could think any better of it.
âShit Iâm gonna be lateâ You groaned softly, Jack chuckling at the action.
âI mean it, you didnât have to bring my lunch in todayâ
âPlease we both know you wouldnât eat anything if I hadnâtâ you brushed him off thoughtlessly before brightening and exclaiming âoh before I forgetâ. Suddenly you were pulling back from him, reaching deeply into your bag and rummaging slightly before pulling out a fistful of protein bars âgive these to Dennisâ
âTo Dennisâ he repeated with a raised brow as you pushed them into his chest.
âYeah Dennis, well except for the chocolate onesâ
âYou want me to give these to my med studentâ he repeated with another exasperated sigh.
Again you responded exactly like he hoped you would, a giggle and a teasing push against his chest âyes except for the chocolate ones he doesnât like those he likes the fruit ones. He wonât tell you that though, heâll gladly take them all but heâs just being nice about it because he doesnât want to offend youâ
He couldnât help but appreciate how well you seemed to fit into his life. How youâd forged relationships with each member of the Pittâs team that existed wholly outside of him. It was tough now to believe there existed a time when he had been hesitant to introduce you to the chaos of the Pitt given how you now had seemed to adopt each member of his chosen family on your own.
His train of thought was effectively cut off as he watched your gaze suddenly deviate from him to something behind him, the corner of your mouth ticking up as you took one of the bars back from his grasp and yelled across the room âDennisâ
The poor kid looked terrified for a brief moment as he spun around before breaking out into a relieved grin once his eyes landed on you.
That was all the acknowledgement you needed before you were throwing the bar at him, Whittaker to his credit only looking panicked for a brief moment before he was effortlessly catching the bar, grinning down at his new snack appreciatively once he had it âThank you Mrs. Abbotâ
âNot my nameâ you corrected breezily with a wave âbut bug Jack if you want more Iâm giving him the restâ
âGreat now if youâre done upsetting the natural order of my ED donât you have work to get toâ Jack cut in with fake exasperation.
âNatural order of the Pittâ you scoffed âthatâs an oxymoron if Iâve ever heard oneâ
Your comment had Dana snorting as she didnât even bother to try hiding the fact that she had been eavesdropping on your conversation up to this point.
âYeah yeah now get out of hereâ he rolled his eyes with a fond smile âone of us has to make sure our bills our paid this monthâ
âIâm going Iâm goingâ you groaned with a matching eye roll, pushing up slightly onto your toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling away much too quickly for Jackâs liking with a whispered I love you.
Then you were gone, headed back the way you came leaving nothing but the soft scent of your perfume in the air around him as Jack forced his eyes down to the chart in his hands, pointedly ignoring Danaâs gaze.
Just when he thought he was going to be trapped in the inevitable teasing of his charge nurse Dr. King came running up to the station, Jack more than happy to turn his attention to her and ready to distract himself with whatever case had her moving so fast.
Instead, however, Melâs expression with brimming with barely contained excitement, her gaze searching everywhere around Jack but never properly landing on the man himself âWas that Y/N I heard? Is she here?â
With a disbelieving huff, Jack went back to his chart âyou just missed herâ
âNo sheâs by the door with Robbyâ Dana cut in with a smile, enjoying the way Jacks neck nearly snapped as he whipped his gaze across the ED to where you now stood with Robby, talking animatedly about something while the older man listened with a smile on his face and hands in his pockets, looking much more relaxed than the two of them usually saw him within the department.
Mel peeled off without a second word to either of them, the pair watching the way your expression lit up once more as you recognized her as she approached.
âYou gonna correct thatâ Dana nodded vaguely in your direction, her and Jack leaning onto the counter of the nurseâs station from opposite sides watching you give Mel an enthusiastic high five over whatever story she had rushed over to tell you.
âProbably talk to everyone at some pointâ Jack shrugged in response âthe Pitt canât afford to come to a screeching halt every time she so much as walks in the doorsâ
âNo dumbassâ Dana admonishes with a dramatic groan âitâs good the way everyone brightens up when sheâs here. God knows we could use some positivity around here. I mean Whitakerâs comment about the wrong nameâ
âI mean sheâs already told him to call her by her first name but I could talk to him-â
Dana silenced Jack with a glare, the attending turning his attention back to you from across the room as you eagerly talked to Mel and Robby.
âWas thinking about asking Robby to go ring shopping with me this weekendâ he admitted softly âScale of 1-10 how bad of an idea is thatâ
âNot where I thought this story was going but love is love so I support-â now it was Jackâs turn to silence Dana with a glare, the charge nurse enjoying way too much the way the tips of his ears colored at the admission.
âa sevenâ she mused with a shrug, turning her attention back to you as you finally said goodbye to the two doctors âmaybe a sixâ she let the silence settle around them and watched as Jack eyed her with a skeptical glare from her periphery âinvite me along and I can keep it below a threeâ
Jack studied her for a second, crossing his arms over his chest before nodding softly âdoneâ
Dana fought to keep the grin off her face as Robby finally started to make his way towards the two of them, Jack catching him slipping an awfully familiar looking protein bar into the pocket of his sweatshirt âJesus how many of those does she haveâ
Robby shrugged with a chuckle, eyes casting up to the board above the desk as he did so âshe mentioned something about having extra chocolate onesâ
âI saw her slipping Santos bags of trail mix earlier if youâd prefer thatâ Dana chimed in with a smirk as Jack huffed dramatically.
âdid everyone get to talk to her but me this morning?â
âYou get her every day, stop being so selfishâ Robby clasped his shoulder with a smug grin, giving it a soft shake.
 âSelfishâ Jack repeated under his breath with a shake of his head, eyes going up to the board to pick out his next case as he did so âgod forbid I want to spend time with my future wifeâ
He hadnât even realized he said it out loud until the Pitt around him seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Casting his gaze back down he caught Robby and Dana sharing pointed, amused looks before turning their teasing grins back on him.
All he could get out was a simple ânoâ before he was storming off to the closest room, refusing to acknowledge the way Robby yelled out a threat after him âWe will be talking about this laterâ
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all that gleams (18+)
parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader
summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.
warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!
notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!
wc. 4700+
all that glitters
There wasnât a person in your life who hadnât told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of townâpeople loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.
âToo fast,â they said
âToo young.â
 âShe doesnât know what sheâs getting into.â
But they didnât know Jack.
Heâd been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didnât always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didnât forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.
Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.
Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. Youâd grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddyâs dime. Jack grew up fast thoughâboots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them.Â
His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand.Â
Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.
Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love⊠that took work.Â
Especially now.
Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usualâhe always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.
Now? Now he was somewhere elseâlost in his head, behind some wall you couldnât climb no matter how hard you tried.
And you still tried.
 You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayedâbut damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .
He didnât even say âHi,â when you checked in.
Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.
Fine. You had a job to do anyway.
The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.
Thatâs when he showed up.
Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.
âYou always this put-together at 7 p.m.?â he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.
You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. âOnly when thereâs new employees to impress.â
He laughed, nudging your elbow. âWell, consider me thoroughly impressed.â
Across the hall, you didnât see Jack. But he was seeing everything.
You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral visionâhim, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.
You didnât react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally obliviousâbut only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.
Jack didnât say a word.
But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.
He didnât like it. You could feel it.
And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasnât just disappointment.
You felt giddy.
You werenât trying to make him jealous.
But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didnât care?
Good.
Let him remember.
The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitorsâIVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didnât notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.
Not close enough to talk.
Just⊠there.
Lingering near the nurseâs station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.
There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that youâd been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.
Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.
Typical.
You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied âAhaâ. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.
Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didnât seem particularly interested in eating.
âThat looks suspiciously healthy,â he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.
You grinned. âItâs delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometimeâmaybe it will lower your blood pressure.â
Leo let out a low whistle. âOof. Sheâs cute and judgmental.â
You wiggled your spoon at him. âIâm not judgmental. Iâm just stating a fact,â
âSame difference,â
You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.
âOkay, real talk. How many cups do you own?â
âOh at least ten,â you said proudly. âAnd yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.â
He chuckled. âOf course they do.â
You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoctionâsomething with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrupâwhen the door creaked open.
Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.
You looked up and smiled, just a little.
He didnât smile back.
He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the worldâs saddest cup of caffeine.
âYou good?â you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.
Jack shrugged. âFine.â
Leo gave him a nod. âRough night, man?â
âSame as every night,â Jack said coolly.
There was a pause.
You went back to your oats.
Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, âIs it true you color-code your vitamins?â
You lit up. âOh my god, yes! You have to! Itâs so satisfying.â
Jack let out a breathânot quite a sigh. Not quite anything.
Just something.
Leo turned to him. âSheâs kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.â
Jack didnât answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.
âI mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?â Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. âShe comes in glowing while Iâm running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.â
You grinned again. âYou say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.â
Jack finally looked up. Right at you.
âI liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.â
Your breath caught a littleânot because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.
You raised a brow. âYou never let me finish the boxes.â
Jackâs gaze didnât move.
âMaybe I liked the distraction.â
The room went quiet again.
Leo cleared his throat and stood. âOkay, Iâm gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?â
âNo,â Jack said, a little too quickly.
You shook your head. âIâm good, thanks.â
When Leo left, the silence stretched.
You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jackâs stare.
âYou didnât answer my text,â he said finally.
You blinked. âWhich one?â
âThe one about locking the side door this morning.â
âOh.â You smiled faintly. âSorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.â
Jack nodded, jaw tight. âYouâre supposed to text me back.â
You raised a brow again, but this time softer. âJack. It was about a door.â
âIt was about you being safe.â
That landed somewhere in your chest.
You didnât say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.
âI was fine,â you said gently. âI promise.â
Jack didnât reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You stared. âThat has lemon in it.â
He grimaced. âTastes like a scented candle.â
You laughed.
He didnât.
But the corners of his mouth twitchedâjust a little.
He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.
You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. âYou're drinking lemon water,â you said, voice lilting. âShould I be worried?â
Jack didnât look at you. âI was thirsty.â
You smiled. âAnd yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didnât do it for you?â
He shrugged.
âGrumpy,â you said under your breath, just loud enough.
His eyes finally flicked to yours. âIâm not grumpy.â
âYou kind of are.â
âIâm tired.â
âYou always say that when youâre being grumpy.â
Jack gave you a slow lookâflat, dry, and just a little amused. âYou finished?â
âNot even close,â you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. âYouâre cranky, youâre overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someoneâs nice to me.â
That got his attention.
âIâm not possessive,â he said.
You smirked. âJack, you nearly snapped Leoâs neck when he said I had good handwriting.â
âThatâs not what he said, and you know that.â
You blinked, then laughed. âOkay, fine. âPrettiest charting Iâve ever seen,â and he winked. So what?â
Jackâs jaw tightenedâjust slightly.
You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.
You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. âI like that you care about this,â you said, softer now. âItâs kind of hot, actually.â
He looked at youâreally looked at youâfor the first time all night.
âYou drive me crazy, kid.â he muttered.
You beamed. âSo you are jealous.â
Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale heâd been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.
âI know youâre mine,â he said quietly. âI just⊠sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesnât always know it.â
Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, youâre here with me again kind of way.
You reached for his hand and squeezed. âWell, they do. But if you ever forget again, Iâll tattoo your name on my assâ
That earned you a snortâlow and surprised.
âIâm serious,â you teased, squeezing his fingers. âRight across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think itâd go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?â
His lips twitched. âYouâre insane.â
âMm. And youâre stuck with me.â
âI know,â he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss, âWouldnât change it.â
And there it was.
The part of him no one else got to seeâthe softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.
Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:
âTrauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.â
Jackâs head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.
He didnât pull, didnât squeezeâjust held.
âBe careful,â he said.
You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. âAlways.â
Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you bothâhe leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.
The trauma had come in hard and fastâtwisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.
But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.
The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.
Youâd just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patientâmid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.
You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.
âAlright, sir. Letâs get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?â
He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. âSure thing, sweetheart. For you, Iâll be real good.â
You kept it professional. âThank you.â
But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.
âYou married?â he slurred.
You didnât answer.
âBet your husbandâs not half as pretty as you.â
You offered a tight smile. âTry to stay still. This part stings a little.â
He didnât even flinch. âYou ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.â
You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.
âIâm flattered, really, but I already have a boat,â you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. âAnd youâre gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.â
He grinned, crooked and gross. âNot if you give me your number.â
And then he reached outâhis hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.
You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.
âThatâs enough sir,â you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calmâbut colder now. âIâm going to step out for a minute, since Iâve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.â
You didnât wait for a reply.
You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like youâd just run a sprint. Your hands were shakingâmore with anger than fearâbut still. It clung to your skin.
The door creaked open a minute later.
âHey.â
Jack.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. âOne of the other nurses said he got grabby.â
You looked up at him, throat tight. âIâm fine.â
He didnât answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.
âYou sure?â he asked, quieter now.
You nodded. âJust⊠gross. Not the first, wonât be the last.â
His jaw flexed. âIt shouldnât be happening at all.â
You leaned into his hand. âItâs okay. I handled it.â
âYou shouldnât have to handle it.â
You looked up at him. âJackââ
He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.
âI should be the only one touching you,â he said, voice low.
âWeâll get written upâŠâ
âI donât care.â
But Jack wasnât hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadnât cleared yet.
âHey.â You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. âWe donât have to do this hereâŠâ
His hands squeezed your waist. âYouâre mine.â
âI know.â
âYou donât flirt like that with anyone else, right?â
You blinked, caught off-guard. âFlirt like what?â
âLike you did with that prick.â
You frowned a abit. âI was being nice. He asked if I wanted something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.â
Jack didnât budge. His grip didnât loosen.
You tried again. Softer this time.
âI steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and Iâm your wife. I chose you.â
His eyes searched yoursâtired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.
You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. âIâm yours, Jack.â
And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.
You didnât hear him lock the door.
You felt it.
That soft, decisive click behind youâlike a promise.
âDid you just lock the door?â
Jackâs answer was a lookâslow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasnât spontaneous. No, heâd decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high.Â
The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight.Â
Jack hadnât liked that.
He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm isâonly right before it breaks.
He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didnât ask permission. It remembered.
âYou keep smiling like that,â he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, âand Iâll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.â
Your breath caughtâsomewhere between outrage and arousal. âJackââ
But you didnât get the rest out.
He kissed you.
Not sweet. Not careful.
Claiming.
His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for thisâbuilt for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.
âLocked the door for a reason,â he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. âTired of pretending I didnât want you every second weâre here.â
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. âYouâre sooo jealous.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. âDamn right Iâm jealous.â
His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. âYouâre mineâI canât fucking stand it when they look at you like youâre not.â
âAnd what are you going to do about it?â you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.
His answer was a growl.
Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above youâgloves, gauze, sterile wrapsâbut it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.
His hands roamedâunder your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.
âYou wanna be flirted with?â he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. âFine. But I get to remind you who makes you cumâ
You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. âJackâŠâ
âYou knew,â he said again, almost reverent now.Â
And god help you, you did.
Because youâd walked in here to take a second, needing thisâneeding him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed momentsâthe fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.
His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.
âYouâre mine,â he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. âSay it.â
You turned your head just enough to whisper, âIâm yours, Jack. Always.â
And that was all it took.
He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. âYeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?âÂ
The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. âI asked you a question, baby.âÂ
You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. âMhm! Jack-â
He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, âGotta make this quick and quiet, or theyâll all know what a bad girl youâve been.âÂ
Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass.Â
You wouldâve felt embarressed if this hadnât felt so right.Â
Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like youâre back in some college frat house at UPenn.Â
Jack doesnât waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzyâlegs already beginning to shake, as if you havenât been working for ten hours already.Â
Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat.Â
âFuck, youâre soaked.â he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.Â
Then he just pulls away.
Not entirely, still so close that youâve basically become one. Itâs enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping heâll start again.Â
âWhyâd you stop?â Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone.Â
âSorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and Iâd much rather make you cum on my cock.â He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants.Â
Heâs aching, heâs so hard.Â
He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt.Â
Jack wasnât going to make love to you.Â
He was going to fuck you like you needed it.Â
Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.
âShit- youâre so fucking tight, baby.â you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time.Â
Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state.Â
âFuck Jack-â you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. âAh- ah, youâre so deep.âÂ
He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard.Â
You can tell youâre making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how youâre leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you donât expect, but Jack doesnât let up and you donât want him to.Â
âToo m-much,â his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second.Â
âYeah? Itâs too much for you, Sweetheart?â Itâs almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokesâthe ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air.Â
âYouâre just so big,â you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello.Â
Jack gives you a light scoff, âGood thing youâre being a good girl, and takinâ me so well, huh?â He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him.Â
âMhm!â You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. âFuck- fuck Iâm gonna cum-â
Itâs like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist.Â
âYeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?â He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears whatâs left of your lip gloss.Â
You feel like youâre about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and youâd never want it to be different.Â
He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release.Â
âFuck- you ruin me baby,â He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs.Â
Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, âYou with me, Baby?â
His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public.Â
You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark⊠right? Youâd change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could
âEveryoneâs totally gonna know⊠UghâŠâ you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes.Â
âYou look fine, besides who cares?â He questioned, âDo you know how many times Iâve heard the same story from other departments,âÂ
âYeah but this is us,â you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you.Â
He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. âYou ready to go get âem tiger?â
âYouâre so dead whe we get home, itâs not even funny Jack Abbot!âÂ
âWe still have about two more hours, so I think Iâm safe, Princess.âÂ
mercvry-glow 2025
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no but sending jack nude pictures of yourself while heâs on shift?? him literally having to rub one out in the hospital bathrooms cause his wife keeps sending him the most outrageous pictures of herself
you're toast.
you suspect it the second you send the photo, and you know for certain after seeing the read receipt pop up on your phone. no response. not even an annoyed scold through text for you to cut it out.
just a read 5:46 am, answering the question of whether he's seen them or not. the three pictures you sent him... the second of the bunch a shot of you hugging your chest and just barely covering where your nipples sit pebbled at attention.
you only feel a little bad hitting send but being off tonight means missing him. and missing him means dealing with the ache between your legs he's usually there to take care of. to make matters worse, your fingers don't do anything, even when you close your eyes and pretend they're his.
the third picture is the meanest, you'll admit. a capture of said fingers, slick and shining with the mess of juice gathering along your slit. but you're wet and desperate and searing with something only jack can expel.
you wake a few hours after the sleep hijacks your attempt of waiting up for your husband to open-mouthed kisses across your chest. it's particularly the tugging of one of your nipples between two sharp rolls of teeth that have you gasping back into consciousness.
blinking open your eyes, you find jack already staring back at you. he growls into your tit, giving it one more suck before yanking his mouth away.
he stares at you for a long second, gaze dark with something that makes your heart skip a beat.
"...hi," you rasp out, voice slightly weak from sleep but also because of the way jack shifts to rest on his elbows and hang over you with a clenched jaw. "how was work?"
a gulp bobs your throat when you count at least seven seconds go by before he finally answers.
"do you have... any idea what you fucking do to me?"
your ability to answer is completely snatched away by the depths of his voice. low yet steady as he asks you, lowering to cage you in further. he's so close that his breath fans across your chin, and you don't dare look away from him.
"you know..." the words pepper out of jack through a grin-less chuckle, and pairs with a nudging of the head into the heat of your slit. he's already naked, you finally realize, and there's a lethargy to the way he pushes himself inside you that forces your eyes lids to flutter. "i think you do, actually. i think there is not one doubt in your mind that sending shit like that to me while i'm at work fucks me up so bad that I can't remember one of the nurses' names."
"'m sorry," you whine, legs moving to wrap around when his hips meet yours. a shiver ripples throughout your body when he nudges deeper, sinking so deeply that he's pinning you against the mattress now. "i justâfuckâi just missed you."
jack lets his weight hang heavy, and you pant at how full you feel. his cock sits thick and snug inside you, throbbing better than you imagined during the hours prior. he shifts purposefully, his eyes still cemented to the way your face contorts as the veins across his shaft ripple against your walls.
"i missed you, too, gorgeous," jack coos, moving the hands you don't realize you've planted on his chest to pin them at the sides of your head. his hips rear back barely before rutting hard to plunge himself back into you as deep as you'll let him.
you cry out out a choked moan, entire body jolting at the force behind the thrust.
"but i also gotta make you pay for getting me all chubbed up during my shift. had me fucking aching for five goddamn hours. you're lucky it was an easy night, too. gave me a chance to sneak away for a bathroom break," jack whispers, voice edging with more anticipation than irritation.
tightening his grip around your wrists, jack starts to fuck you at a furious pace. he bucks, channeling all the energy he pent up while trying not to come in his scrubs during the drive home behind every thrusts of his hips. he huffs out a breath with every rut, grunting at the way you squeezing around him.
he only lets go of your wrist so he can fully collapse against you, one of his hands grabbing at your chin so the only thing you can see is him.
"you come, and i stop," he states roughly, and you whine in protest.
"butâ" you try, and jack shushes you with a sloppy kiss. his tongue bullies into your mouth, lapping against yours with a fever you just barely match.
"but nothing," he declares between the deep snog, hips pausing so he can take a breath. "you sent me, what? three pictures? so that means i get to edge you three times."
"jackâ"
"might make it four" he thinks. "cause that last one was just rude, baby."
© đŹđźđ©đđ«đĄđšđđŻđ
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One of me is cute, but two though?
Dr. Michael âRobbyâ Robinavitch x fem!reader
Word Count: 2.7k (not proofread)
Warnings: NSFW (18+ ONLY) age gap, swearing, fluff, established relationship, poorly written explicit smut, p in v, the slightest bit somnophilia, breeding kink, cockwarming?, female anatomy, male anatomy, unsafe sex, (let me know if I missed anything) MDNI 18+
Notes: pls be gentle with me this is my first time writing smut like this and Im so inexperienced itâs not funny. Enjoy the Sarah Paulson meme I put in there. Also Iâve been blown away by the love my work has recent gotten and I truly appreciate it. Anyways enjoy <3
Gif cred: @xxdrixx
âââââââââââââââââââ
You donât exactly remember how you and Dr. Robinavitch got together. It started out with stolen glances and innocent touches at work and a kiss outside your apartment when he walked you home one night.
Today was busy and you were ready to go home. Except it wasnât even noon yet.
You sit down at a computer with a huff. Your feet silently thanking you for a break. The sounds of the ED ringing in your ears as you try to focus on the screen in front of you. Your leg begins to bounce out of habit and your eyes look around the busy hospital.
Santos takes a seat at the computer across from you. She gives you a small smile. You return the gesture before your eyes look back at the computer and stare at the time. All you wanted to do was go back to Robbyâs apartment and cuddle on the couch with your sweats on. With how this day was going the dream of your Friday night plans were beginning to fade away. Is an easy day so hard to ask for?
Collins catches your eye as she tries to soothe a crying baby. Robby tells her something before she carefully hands the child to him. Your eyes immediately gravitate seeing your boyfriend gently rocking the fussy infant. You perk up, now sitting up straight. If this wasnât the hottest thing youâve ever seen you donât know what was. The two of you havenât brought up the conversation of kids just yet.
You knew he was getting older and while you were still young, you werenât sure of motherhood just yet. Youâve seen the horrors and heartbreak of childbirth in this hospital but youâve also seen the light it brought to people. When the tears of pain turn into tears of joy. Youâve always imagined having a family but you never had a timeline. That was until you saw your man holding a baby right then.
You feel yourself grow hot and your pulse quickens. Suddenly, images of a future as a family with him flash through your mind. Being pregnant with Robby by your side, gently rocking your child to sleep, getting them ready school in the morning. You want it. All of it. God you wanted to climb like a tree right here.
The attending can feel someoneâs eyes on him. His eyes search the room before they land on yours. His gently shushing comes to a stop. He gives you a confused look, not able to read your expression. Your lustful eyes soften as your face flushes from enamorment. You love him. You shake your head silently telling him itâs nothing.
He gives you a smile that says âI love youâ but a look that says youâll be talking later. He continues to softly shush the infant in his arms before going to find the mother.
You donât hear Collins approach the desk. She follows your gaze and lets out a laugh, âYou okay there, Doc?â
Santos doesnât look up from her computer, âSheâs been like this for 5 minutes. Making bedroom eyes at Dr. Robby.â
âI think my body just had a physical reaction.â you joke.
Santos grimaced, âI donât need to know about that. You keep that to yourself.â Collins lets out a snort as you scoff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You let out a yelp as a hand pulls you into an unused room. The person pulls you into them. Out of reflex you start resisting. Which ends up to be you sadly hitting their chest.
âItâs just meâ stop hitting me. Hey!â Robby grabs your hands, stopping you from hitting him more.
Your eyes widen in shock, âAre you trying to give me a heart attack?â Surprised turns to annoyance. You glare at him, âWhy didnât you just leave me a note like you normally do?â
He lets go of your hands and lets out a laugh. You try to fight turning your scowl into a stupid grin at his laugh.
His hands slither around your waist, pulling you flushed against him, âIs it so wrong for me to want a spontaneous moment alone with my beautiful girlfriend.â You roll your eyes as your hands reach up to rest on his chest.
He leans down and his lips meet yours for a gentle kiss.
He slowly pulls away after a few seconds, âWe really need to get you trained on self defense because whatever that was earlierâ was sad.â
You hit him again.
âOw!â
You shut him up with a quick kiss, âDonât be a wimp. I didnât hit you that hard.â He grins.
His thumb sneaks under your scrub top and grazes the bare skin. Subconsciously, you feel your body shiver at his cold touch and lean into him closer. He smirks down at you. âWhat was with that look you gave me earlier?â
Your eyes look up at him with innocence, âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
A pinch causes your hips to jerk. His fingers caress the area. You sigh and nervously play with his stethoscope around his neck. âItâs dumb.â You mumble.
He gives you a displeased look, âTrust me itâs not.â
You purse your lips and can feel your heart beating faster, âWhen you were holding that baby,â the image pops into your mind, âIt made me realize I want that with you. Like really, really badly.â
Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow at you, not expecting that.
His face softens, âYou want a baby with me?â
You nod.
âI want a family with you too.â
Your hands reach up and pull him down for a searing kiss. He kisses you back immediately.
The two of you slowly pull away to catch your breath.
Robby placed a kiss on your forehead, âI love you.â
Your face turns red at the thought of earlier. You laugh and hide your face in his chest. âMichael, I wanted to fuck you right then and there. It was so embarrassing.â
His laugh rumbles his chest. âSo thatâs what that look was.â
Your groan comes out muffled from his chest.
âWell, how about tonight when we get home,â his thumbs start tracing your skin again, âWe can work on that. Plus, youâre ovulatingâŠâ
You pull away with a scoff, slightly amazed. âHow the hell do you even know that?â
He shrugs, giving you a sheepish grin, âItâs the doctor in meâŠand the boyfriend in me.â
A knock interrupts you two. Danaâs voice rings out, âRobby! We got a teen. Respiratory arrest. ETA 2 minutes.â
You both pull away from each other. Robby runs his hands down his face before they drop to his side. He sighs.
You lift your hand to his cheek and bring his face to yours.You press a kiss to his other cheek. âI love you.â
He gives your hand a squeeze before walking out to prepare for the coming case. You pull out your phone for a minute, not wanting to make it obvious you were in the room with your attending alone.
You walk out of the room, mentally trying to prepare yourself for whatâs to come for the rest of the shift. A body waiting outside the door scares you. Dana.
You greet her with a shy smile, âHi, Dana.â
The charge nurse gives you a knowing smirk, âHi, kid.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Robby waits outside the hospital by the bike rack with one AirPod in. He focuses on McVieâs bass while âThe Chainâ plays in his ear, blocking out the thoughts of his shift. His eyes follow the headlights of the cars passing the building.
You see Robby standing with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. As if he could feel you coming, he looks up to meet your tired eyes. He greets you with a faint smile.
âSorry, Collins stopped me on my way out about one of my patients.â
You didnât want to tell him that the actual conversation was. It was just Collins leaning into you in passing with a âI hope it sticks tonightâ ,a cheeky grin, and thumbs up for luck. All while you gaped at her.
You reach for his hand as you begin the walk to his place. Like most days when you and Robby share the same shift, the two of you walk to his apartment in comfortable silence. Robby normally listened to music to clear his head as you paid attention to the night life of the city.
Robby opens the door to his apartment and walks in after you. After dropping your bag at the table, you walk over to the door and take off your shoes. Out of the corner of your eye you see Robby walking over to you with a smolder.
He goes to reach for you but your hand stops him, âWe are not doing anything until I am out of these scrubs and we have food in our stomachs because I know you didnât eat anything today but a granola bar.â
Robby sighs in disappointment and you let out a snicker. He opens the fridge and pulls out leftovers as you grab two plates out of the cabinet.
The two of you eat while sharing conversations about positive things about your shifts. He brings up working with Whittaker as you share how your cases with Santos went well.
After you both finish, Robby picks up both of your plates as you start putting away the food you didnât eat, âDo you mind if I take a quick shower?â
You wave him off and he gives you a quick peck on the lips before you start working on the dishes. After a bit, the kitchen is now clean. It had been a mess since this morning when the two of you left in a rush for work. You finish washing your hands before throwing the paper towel in the trash. The water had stopped a while ago and figured Robby had gotten ready for bed.
You make your way to the bedroom and find Robby sitting against the headboard in his boxers with a book in his hands. He glances up at you, his readers resting on his nose,âThank you for cleaning, honey.â
He reaches his arm out to you. Walking over, you lean down and give him a quick kiss. âIâm going to shower. Iâll be quick.â
You come out of the bathroom feeling refreshed, wearing Robbyâs bathrobe and some spare panties you had in the apartment. Rummaging through his dresser for a shirt, you feel Robbyâs eyes on you. You laugh, âStop looking at me like a teenage boy.â
âI canât help it.â You glance down at the bulge growing in his boxers.
He motions you over and you immediately follow. You climb over him with ease, now straddling him. He notices your dilated pupils and how your breathing deepens. His calloused fingers trail from your thighs up to your hips.
Your eyes move from his eyes to his lips once more before leaning down and capturing his lips with yours. He kisses you back feverishly.
His fingers quickly untie the robe. He slips it off you and tosses it across the room. You let out a whimper as his hands immediately grasp at your breasts. Your kiss gets interrupted by your phone ringing from the other room.
You shake your head, âIgnore it.â
He leaves kisses down your neck. His teeth scraping, leaving you out of breath. You subconsciously begin to grind your hips. He lets out a groan before gently biting down on your pulse point.
His fingers push aside your panties. âFuck,â He choked a groan feeling how wet you were.
You let out a whimper as his fingers collected your wetness. His thumb gently brushes against your clit. You fall into him with a gasp.
Your ringtone interrupts you again. You pull away with a sigh.
Robbyâs hands rest on your hips. âGo get it. It could be important. Besides, Iâm not going anywhere. â you nod before he gives your hips a squeeze as you get off him.
You quickly grab an old junky shirt from his dresser. Your footsteps pad against the hardwood to the kitchen and you pick up your phone. You see two missed calls and a message from your mom. Call me.
What you thought was an important call ended up being 15 minutes of your mom trying to catch up and you repeating you would call her tomorrow. The âcall meâ was just to tell you that she and dad got a new dog. You wanted to slam your head against the wall.
You come back into the bedroom with a snort, ready to tell your boyfriend what happened. You stop to find him asleep leaning against the headboard with his mouth slightly open. Soft snores fill the room. You let out a quiet laugh.
You turn the light off by his bedside and carefully take off his reading glasses before crawling into bed with him. You aimlessly scroll on your phone, looking at social media.
You donât feel him shift, his head finally sinking into his pillow, âIâm sorry,â he mumbles.
You roll onto your side and face him.
âFor being tired after a long shift?â
He grumbles and you snuggle into him with your head laying on his bare chest. âItâs okay, Iâm tired too,â you reassure him while stifling a yawn. He lays a gentle kiss on the top of your head. You both fall asleep within minutes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When you woke up in the morning you were expecting it to be the smell of coffee and not your boyfriend copping a feel. Your eyes flutter open to see Robbyâs fingers carefully massaging your breasts under your shirt, gently pinching your nipples. All while pressing kisses down your neck.
His hardened cock rubs against you. You let out a tired laugh before turning to face him, âWell, good morning to you.â
He gives you a boyish grin. He watches as you climb on top of him. In the same position as last night. âGood morning, hon.â
Your fingers graze his bulge before giving it a squeeze, âYou werenât joking about trying for a baby right away.â
Robby shakes his head while biting his lip trying not to moan. Noticing the damp spot on your panties, his rough fingers brush against your clothed clit, âNot wasting any time.â
You let out a whimper. âP-Perfect.â
He slides your panties down and you awkwardly take them off before he takes his boxers off. His cock springs against his stomach. You lower your hips. Robby grips your hips once more and you gently begin to move. Your slickness now coating his thick member as your pussy slowly rubs up and down. Your hand covers your mouth as you let out a muffled moan when your clit brushes against his tip.
Robby throws his head back, âFuck, sweetheart,â he groans, âif you keep this up. I-I canât cum in you.â
You nod. You donât think you can form a sentence right now. Your body was on fire. Your hips lift as Robby guides himself to your entrance. You let out a whine at the same time Robby lets out a breathy moan as you slowly sink down on him. Every inch stretching you as if itâs your first time together again.
You slowly begin to move your hips up and down as you ride him. After a few seconds you feel yourself grow tired and slow down. Robby lets out a chuckle.
âDonât laugh. Iâm doing all the work, old man.â His fingers find your clit and gives it a soft pinch. You let out a shaky gasp. âDonât be mean.â You warn.
Your hands scratch at his chest as his hips begin to thrust up meeting yours. The sounds coming from his mouth edge you closer to finishing.
âFuck, Iâm close,â Robby warns with a grunt. His hooded eyes staring at your blissful face. His thumb rubs small circles on your clit.
âOh fuck, Michael- baby,â you whine as he speeds up his thumb motion.
After a few more thrusts, Robby cums inside you with a guttural moan. Your release follows shortly after, loudly moaning as you feel him cum. Your hips continue to grind, riding out your bliss.
Suddenly, you feel heavy as your orgasm bliss wears off. Your muscles screaming at you. Panting, you tiredly slump on top of Robby. He gently rubs your back still inside you. The two of you even your breathing.
You lay in comfortable silence as you listen to his heartbeat. Robby draws shapes on your back. The sun peaks through a crevice of the blackout curtains.
âI feel good about that one,â you joke, âHaving two of me will be a handful for you.â
Getting a second wind, Robby flips you both over. Now smirking down at you on your back, âWe should keep tryingâŠjust to be safe.â
#dr robby x reader#dr. robby x reader#michael robinavitch x reader#smut#fluff#fics recommendations#fics recs
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Hands On




Dr Michael âRobbyâ Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader
Summary: when innocent flirting and longing looks turn into hiding in the on call room. Porn with a lil plot
Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, fingering, little bit of exhibitionism if you squint, fucking in the hospital, he talks her through it, age gap (yk the drill, reader is 35+, robby is 50), established relationship, brief mentions of reader having hair long enough to braid, mentions of Robby being taller
WC: 4.2k
A/N: yay! Finally some more Robby smutties! This was mostly just me being horny and too tired to write convoluted plot. I did get some requests so Iâll work on them as soon as I finish the semester. But for now I wanted to feed yall so you wouldnât forget me. Enjoy :)
i want to note that this was inspired by this post by @abbotjack so some dialogue bits are inspired by their post. Also thank you to @wittyjasontodd for putting up with my insanity and for encouraging having a quickie with this old man in the middle of a shift <3

This was so agonizing. You didnât know what demon possessed your soul or why you were so flustered and bothered. All fucking day, from the moment you woke up. In his bed, tangled up underneath his sheets. You didn't know if he was the cuddling type, but you woke up in his arms, on his chest, every time. And this time? You wanted to fucking stay there. All over him. You could feel it, crawling in your skin, perpetually warm even after you shrugged your hoodie off your shoulders like it had offended you. You were hyper aware of his presence at any given moment. If you heard his voice, your head was snapping in that direction. He came in to assist with a patient? You gravitated toward the side he was on to be as close to him as possible. You even got lucky a few times when he was hovering over you, standing behind you to look over your shoulder. It was subtle, always professional, but he would never stand this close to another resident unless he was doing the procedure himself. He could watch from a distance, but he didnât, because he could tell.Â
You were on hour five of your twelve hour shift when you managed to sneak into the doctors lounge to munch on a granola bar and attempt to down your lukewarm coffee. You sat for a collective two minutes when Robby came through the door. Suddenly your pulse spiked and you nearly choked at the sight of him. He was on his phone, typing something, black framed glasses sitting on his pretty nose. Your eye nearly twitched. Why you were having such visceral reactions to seeing your boyfriend today, you didnât know. You offered him a smile nonetheless, slightly nudging your head at the empty chair next to you. The lounge was empty aside from you, anyway.Â
âYou hiding?â He shot you a look, a tiny eyebrow raise making you smile a bit. Yes, from you, you thought. You nodded slowly as you chewed on your bar.Â
âMaybe.â You mumbled quietly, eyeing him as he leaned back on the chair, casually sliding down it until his knee was touching yours under the table. You jolted the slightest bit, blinking at him, but you otherwise didnât comment.Â
Robby was a very observant man. Call it age, call it wisdom, call it whatever, but it didnât take him long to be able to read your body language like an open book he read for the sole purpose of his amusement. Your fluttering eyelashes, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, your opposite leg bouncing incessantly. The way you damn near shuddered every time he barely touched you. Whether it was a subtle hand on your lower back when he walked away from assisting with your patient, or your shoulder just barely touching his arm as you talked to him in the hallway. Or how you nearly kneed the table just now. You were aching for something you couldnât have, and it was driving you to madness.Â
âMe too, I saw Gloria in the hallway.â He shuddered, shaking his head aggressively, which made you let out a giggle. God, he loved all your sounds, every one.Â
âWant it?â You offered the last bit of your granola bar as you sat in that familiar silence that was often shared between people who had already said everything needed to be said. You sat in silence a lot, you didnât need to fill it with small talk, but today you were painfully aware of his presence, his warm brown eyes lingering on you every once in a while, his knee touching yours. A subtle act, nothing more than a gesture of affection. But today, god, it would be your breaking point. You quickly realized turning your head to look at him would be a mistake.Â
âUh-huh. Thank you.â He happily and graciously accepted your offering, one hand lifting his glasses off his face and set down on the table as he grabbed your bar with the other. It was the most normal thing he could ever do, he did it all the time, it wasnât like he wore his glasses for everything. But the simple act as he so unbothered munched on your leftovers made you dig your nails into your palm. âYou did really good on that car crash patient, by the way. Readjusting a hip dislocation and a sternum fracture is pretty damn impressive.âÂ
You nibbled on your bottom lip, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. It always took you aback when he so casually praised you, it always left you a flustered fucking mess. âMmm, really?âÂ
âMhmm, yeah.â He replied, nonchalant. He blinked at you slowly, big brown eyes swallowing you whole. You could hear your breath as he slowly leaned in, stopping when your shoulders touched.Â
âAre you gonna kiss me right now?â You dared to ask, which made him slip the tiniest grin.Â
âNo. But you want me to, donât you?â He was toying with your sanity, a straight face meeting your fragile demeanor. You knew he would never display such affections so openly where you could be seen. Yes, everyone in the ER was well aware of your relationship, but that didn't mean he would shove it in their faces. But that didnât mean you didn't wish he would just grab you by your hair and kiss you silly. âIf you want something, you ask for it.â
âYou are so evil for that, I hope you know that.â You sighed out, a little unevenly, not amused in the slightest. He let out a dry chuckle, head tilted at you.
âI'm not doing anything.â He shrugged, the slightest bit of amusement lacing his tongue, but his expression remained stoic, probably to tease you even more. You found no humor in this, and you kicked his knee with your own under the table. âOkay, ow.â
You rolled your eyes, opening your mouth to berate him a little about the torture you have been enduring all day and that would continue to endure until you got home because how dare he not stay in bed with you like you begged him to that morning, but just as you were, the door of the lounge opened and Dana peaked her head inside. She shot you a suspicious look, but neither of you said anything.Â
âAlright break timeâs over. Langdon needs you in trauma one,â she shot Robby a knowing look, to which he simply sighed, choosing not to comment. And then she looked at you, âand you, you can take the auto versus pedestrian thatâs coming.âÂ
So much for your little coffee break. You shot Robby a look that was a reminder that this conversation was not over and he would be hearing from you for the rest of your shift.Â
~~~~~~~~~~~
You managed to compose yourself for the most part. Sure, you were a little amped up, a bit hot and bothered, your cheeks were a little flushed and your heart raced every time Robby was in the same room as you, but, you promised yourself you would finish your shift before you actually jumped his bones. And your plan has been working so far.
You were just leaving a patientâs room when you saw Robby, annoyance and a little irritation written all over his face.
âWhat happened to you?â You chuckled a little as he shot you a pointed look. You definitely noticed that his hoodie was gone and his scrubs were suspiciously a size too small for him. This was definitely not helping your issues today.
âBleeding ulcer, apparently they failed to mention they had a cough when I was doing the exam. I had to change scrubs and now I have to try and get that blood off my hoodie.â He sighed out a groan, rubbing the back of his hair a little exasperated. You held in your laugh and simply gave him a sympathetic look.Â
âI can try to wash it off when we get home.â You offered, knowing he hated throwing away hoodies when they got stained. He shot you a half smile and nodded. But you still couldn't overlook the way the sleeves were tight on his biceps, riding up more than normal, which revealed the slightest bit of his tattoos. And you definitely noticed the way they fit a little too short on his torso. âCouldn't find scrubs your size?â
âNo, actually. All they had was medium. And of course, I didnât bring a fucking spare today.â you could see how this predicament would be quite annoying, you, too, would be annoyed if your scrubs were too tight. But you were definitely enjoying this a little too much. Teasing him back was also a bonus.
âDonât let Myrna catch you looking like this.â You snorted, bringing the back of your hand to cover your mouth. You had to bite down your lip to muffle your laugh at the glare he shot you. He tilted his head at you, eyes narrowed the slightest bit like he was plotting.Â
âDon't start.â He warned you, voice low and leveled. You leaned your chin on your hand and shrugged.Â
âNo, really, it's a good look. Definitely one way to bring up your patient satisfaction scores. Whore yourself out a little bit. Youâre definitely popular among a certain demographic.â You truly wanted to keep a straight face but the way he looked at you the more you teased him made you swallow a bit. Like he was considering whether or not to drag you by your arm somewhere. He found it so rich that you said that, like you weren't damn near fifteen years younger than him.
âDonât you have patients? Thereâs plenty of people in the waiting room if youâre bored.â He said blankly, arms folded over his chest. You caught him subtly trying to fix his sleeve on his bicep and your eye nearly twitched, your lips curled up into the tiniest grin.
âOkay fine, Jesus. You're such a grumpy old man. You need a vacation or something.â You gave him one last jab as you started to walk away, but not before he shot you the sharpest glare, his jaw so tight you thought he would dislocate it.
âI swear to gââ you shrugged at him, blowing him a kiss over your shoulder as you all but ran away from his wrath. He chuckled dryly, shaking his head at himself as he plotted just how he was going to get back at you. It didn't take him long to devise a plan. With the one thing you were choosing to tease him about.
You balanced the ipad on one hand as you motioned around different points on the screen with each word you spoke. Mel stood beside you, she helped assist on your auto versus pedestrian case. She was always so sweet, so polite, she didn't mind your racing mouth or your chaotic explanations.Â
âThereâs a pretty substantial cranial fracture right here,â you pointed at the results from the head CT and X-ray you ordered. Your eyes sometimes wandered as you waited a few seconds for whoever it was you were on a case with to match your racing mind. Your eyes ultimately found your boyfriend sitting at his workstation, glasses sitting on his nose as he typed. Thank the lord you could multitask as well as you could. âI also saw some rib fractures on the left side, we should keep an eye out for pneumothorax and possible hemothorax.âÂ
Robby always noticed when you entered a room, he wasn't sure what it was, but he always knew where to look for you in a crowd. When he looked up from his computer, he saw you with Mel. You made brief eye contact as you spoke to Mel. it wasn't fully conscious, not entirely malicious, but it did work in his favor, perhaps.Â
âWhat do we look for if thereâs a possible pneumothorax?â You knew that she knew perfectly, but Robby always encouraged active teaching. You were listening, you truly were, until your eyes wandered again and you caught a glimpse of Robby stretching. Nothing strange about that, other than the fact that you caught in perfect view the way his scrubs rid up his stomach. You don't think anyone else cared nor noticed, but you went absolutely mental. Catching a glimpse of his thick happy trail was definitely the last straw holding your sanity together.
âDoctorâŠ?â You heard Melâsweet soulâsay your name with a bit of concern. You swallowed a bit, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your cheeks and the racing of your stupid heart. You felt like a horny teenager. Is this what it has come to? Getting horny at the sight of your boyfriend's happy trail? Or was it the way he held his arms behind his head, further testing the strength of those scrubs? Fuck. You looked at her and gave her a strained smile.Â
âYeah, perfect. I have to go check on a patient, Iâll come get you in a bit to check on our patient, âkay? âKay.â
An hour hadn't gone by when you realized you couldnât take it anymore. You were hot and bothered, face flushed and warm to the touch. You were thanking the Gods that it seemed to have slowed down for now, nobody was grabbing you to assist on bleeding patients. You were waiting on some lab results. Which gave you even more time to think about how horny you were, as juvenile as it was. You were praying he would have mercy on you. You caught him walking out of a patientâs room, unbothered, blissfully unaware of your torment. Or maybe it was entirely conscious. You didn't know, or frankly, cared. You aggressively typed into your phone. He was pretty quick about answering, he almost never answered immediately.
Come. Here.Â
Robby looked up from his phone, searching around the crowds of patients and staff, until his eyes landed on you. He tilted his head at you, curiosity in his eyes. He had the tiniest grin on his lips as he met you in the middle. He read your face with curiosity, amusement, even. Wide-eyes, fluttering eyelashes, bottom lip pulled between your teeth, god you looked a mess and he hadn't even touched you.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetie?â He tilted his head at you, leaning down a bit to your level. The pet name was definitely adding insult to injury. He never addressed you by anything other than your name at work. He truly wanted to drive you mad. And he had the audacity to even ask. You oughta beat him up just for that.Â
âShut up, just come.â You spoke in a hush, tone sharp and laced with frustration. You grabbed his wrist without saying another word, making sure that nobody was actually paying attention to what was happening. Robby said nothing as he allowed you to drag him, realizing where you were going where you turned the corner next to the lockers.Â
You dragged him inside the empty on-call room. You let out the loudest, most exasperated sigh as soon as he shut the door behind him.
âDo you have any fucking idea the day Iâve had? I justââ You stopped in the middle of the room, a short breath leaving your heavy chest, your eyes all but pleading. âI just want you, please?â
âHoney,â his voice was low, steady, almost like a warning, with a head tilt as you heard the soft click of the lock. âYou know we donât do that.â Quickies were absolutely not Robbyâs thing. A quickie in the ER? Recipe for disaster.
âI know!ââ You gritted your teeth at your volume, immediately biting down on your lip. God, you felt so pathetic. Robby met you in the middle, crowding your space, and for a second your brain short circuited at the way he looked down at you. âI know, I just need you right now. I need you inside me and I donât think I can wait another six hours.â
Who was he to ever deny his sweet girlfriend anything when she asked so nicely?
âHmm, yeah?â His voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and baritone in your ear. You were this close to fainting. You felt dizzy, flustered and bothered, all at once. âYouâre just needy today, hm?â You completely lost it when he grabbed your jaw, long fingers sprawled across your neck as he forced your head back to meet his lips. The moan that left your throat was so pathetic as he made you back up against the closest wall.Â
His mouth just felt so good against yours, almost as good as his free hand finally touching your flushed skin. He didnât waste any time, much to his dismay, but he had you at home anyway. This was about pure and raw release. He could make love to you in the warm embrace of your own bed, right now, he was okay with just fucking you.Â
âYou really want it, right here?â He spoke with the slightest bit of amusement laced with anticipation, he knew the answer, but he just wanted to hear it out of your pretty lips. Anticipation sat heavy on your chest, your breath heavy as he slipped his hand into your scrubs.
âYes, yes, I want you to take me right here, please, please,â shame? You didn't know her. You would do and say anything to get what you so desperately needed. Robby was always so calculated, observant, with everything he did. He watched for your microexpressions, your little sighs and whimpers. They were always so gratifying to him. He took in the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his long fingers brushed your sensitive clit and easily slipped inside you.
âFuck, you are so wet. Have you been like this all day?â There was a bit of humor in his tone, teasing as he fucked you with his fingers. You bit down on your lip, keeping your noises to a minimum as you bunched up the front of his scrubs around your hand.Â
âMichael, please.â Words left you in a halt, breathless as your head fell forward against his chest. You wanted to hide how pathetic you looked, jaw hanging wide open, face flushed and glowing with a thin layer of sweat. But Robby loved looking at you, he loved memorizing the ruined fucking mess he made of you. His free hand found the back of your hair to force you to meet his eyes.
âLook at me just like that,â he wanted to focus you, ground you, remind you that it was him making you feel this way. His fingers left you empty, pulsing and throbbing.Â
Out of breath, you watched as he dragged your scrubs down until they pooled by your feet, you unconsciously stepped out of one leg, but your panties were still on. You held your breath in your chest as he slowly pulled the soaked fabric to the side and a groan rumbled in his chest at the sight of your swollen clit and glistening thighs. Oh, that was all for him, and he was going to make good on that. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his scrubs fast, and while still keeping eye contact, you braced for what was about to come your way. Without a word, and still holding your panties to the side, he slides into you in one thrust that has you sliding up the wall. There was no, take it slow, or adjust to it. It was so sudden you gasped so loud you swore whoever walked by heard it.
âUh-uh, quiet. I need you quiet, baby.â His hand was on your mouth, stifling your sweet little sounds as he drove into you. His other hand found your thigh and he was lifting your knee as high as it could go until only your heel was touching his shoulder. You wanted to fucking scream. âYou wanted this, so now you take it, but you take it quietly.âÂ
His weight was pinning you against the wall as he drilled into you, his hand still covering your mouth. He could hear your little gasps, your high pitched moans each time his cock brushed up that one spot inside your walls that made your thighs shudder. His small sighs of exhaustion were right in your ear, a reminder that he, too, was trying desperately to hold himself together, and was failing by the second.Â
âYou were just so desperate for it. Wanted this so bad? Hm?â His conceding words were in your ear, raspy and out of breath. Your brain has completely turned off, there wasn't a single thought in that head of yours other than the feeling of his cock filling you exactly how you wanted. Deep strokes that have completely ruined you, broken your mind. Just how he liked it. His hand left your mouth just to make you answer him. âYou can use your words.â
âYes, god, yes, I couldnât think about anything else.â Your voice was broken, desperate, completely overwhelmed with how good he was making you feel. This was the one thing in this world you didn't have to think about, he thought for you, he could take over and make you forget about the world around you and that drove you mental.
âYou just wanted to be fucked like you deserved, trust me I know.â His words were sharp, like the way he drove into you. It wasnât fast, but it was deep, intense and with purpose. He had no need to run in circles, he knew what he needed to do, and like with everything else he was infuriatingly good at, he did it with purpose. You, fucked. That was it. âI want you to feel me for the rest of your fucking shift. Remember what it feels to be just mine.âÂ
Just mine, he repeated, like a mantra. A reminder that he had to share you with everyone else in this fucking place. But when it was just the two of you? He could take over every little intricate part of your mind, of your body, all of it was just for him. And you let him. You begged him to. And for that? He would fuck you stupid every single time.
It felt like an eternity, it truly did. Every agonizing minute one closer to being caught or heard. Though you had to admit that only added to your purely animalistic arousal. Your trembling hands grabbed and pulled at whatever you could. You dug your nails into his torso under scrubs with one, holding him each time he rutted his hips against yours. Your forehead was leaning on his collarbone, and he didn't even bother to redirect you this time. You clutched his shoulder like vice and you were sobbing into his scrubs as your orgasm hit you way too soon for your liking. It was absolutely delirious, left you sputtering and absolutely wrecked. You were hoping your sounds didn't pass the door.
âJust like that, breathe through it.â His words only added to your delirium. His voice, his rough hands, his authoritative presence, it fucking wrecked you and you were afraid you would never be able to come back from it. You were ruined and only he could have you now. âFuck, youâre going to kill me. Youâre so fucking perfect, you know that?â
His words grounded you. His voice. His hands cradling the back of your head as he fucked you through it. And he didnât stop until he filled you, and when he did, it was with a breathy moan that got lost in your hair. He held you there until he felt your body collapse over his chest. Without saying a word he carried you to the makeshift bed everyone slept on when they were on call. He sat you down, amusement circling in his pretty brown eyes at the sight of you so cock-drunk. You half assed lifted your scrubs up your thighs but stopped when Robby grabbed your hand.
âLet me clean you first at least.â He chuckled quietly, to which you replied with a quiet oh. The neat braid your hair had stayed in for the past six hours was completely fucked, hairs sticking out everywhere. It was a lost cause. He was always so gentle when he cleaned you, so delicate and tender, a true juxtaposition of the predicament that led you here. âNext time? Wait until the end of our shift.â He wasnât scolding you. It was more of a, we did something we weren't supposed to, tone.
âI know.. Iâm sorry, I donât know what was wrong with me today.â You were a bit sheepish, shifting and grimacing each time he touched you. As your eyes were down, you caught a glimpse of the angry red marks forming just underneath his scrubs. Wide-eyed, you reached to lift his scrubs and winced at the red nail marks that covered his side and stomach. âOhhh, wow, my nails aren't that long, are they?â
âUh, yes, yes they are hun.â He replied, mostly unbothered. You should see the ones you left on his back when he didn't have a shirt, he thought. âI hope no one asks.â He finished his thought with an awkward smile and raised eyebrows. âOh, and by the way, maybe get yourself together before going back out? You looked like you got fucked.â
The next six hours of your life were going to be the longest of your fucking life, for sure.
#dr robby x reader#michael robinavitch x reader#dr. robby x reader#the pitt x reader#smut#fics recommendations#fics recs
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Hello! If your request are open may I request Robby Robinavitch smut where he finds out that you get turned on when he curses?
Curses | one shot
Dr. Michael âRobbyâ Robinavitch x f!reader
Requested
Summary: Robby figures out just what gets you all hot and bothered.
[ My Masterlist ]
Note: smut is still new territory, so I hope you like it @happyfox43 !
Word Count: 1k
Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.
Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), afab!reader, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, an absurd amount of cursing, Robby being a menace, slight dom!Robby (all consensual), written with an age gap in mind, pet names (sweetheart, baby)
not beta read
You were not exactly sure how it manifested, or how he figured it out, but you felt like a deer in the headlights when he brought it up. About how you clenched just a bit tighter when he cursed, or how you got hot and bothered when the word fuck slipped passed his lips over something mundane, how you seemed to want his attention in the moments after.
It felt embarrassing, him knowing how much it affected you â and you were flustering more than normal. Despite the fact that you lived together, you still felt like his experience far outmatched yours.
He was in your space, breath on your neck, skin brushing yours just enough to make you flush.
âI know you like that, sweetheart.â His hot mouth was on your pulse point and you squirmed, fisting his shirt. âFuck, I know you like it.â
Warmth pooled low and your head got hazy. His hand slipped lower, moving to the waist of your panties, soft enough to be teasing but deliberate enough to know he wasnât messing with you. His fingers brushed past your folds to find you already wet.
âMikeââ Your voice was strangled.
He hushed you, circling your clit a few times. You felt his bulge hardening against your thigh and you whined. He kissed up your neck, stopping to run his tongue along your skin, his breath in your ear.
You attempted to get under his skin by moving your hand to his length, rubbing him over the fabric of his pants. You wanted him to be equally as flustered, to lose the smug edge at knowing your secret.
He groaned against the column of your throat and you squeezed your thighs together, pulsing under his deft fingers.
Gripping his shoulders to try to keep your knees from buckling, you brought your lips to his. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you sighed. He broke the kiss long enough to push you gently down onto the bed.
âSpread those legs for me, sweetheart, show me how fuckinâ pretty you are.â
Your cheeks were ablaze, but you obliged him without a thought to do otherwise. He was on you in the next moment, fingers kneading the flesh of your thighs, kissing up your skin. He stopped on his way up to graze his teeth along your thigh, and a coil tightened in your belly.
âLook at you already so wet for me. Fuck. Is that for me, sweetheart? Does it turn you on to hear me curse?â
You shifted your hips to try to get some friction, but he pushed them back down on the bed.
He tsked, âUse your words, baby. Come on.â
You whined, âYes. Yes, itâs so hot. Please.â
He rewarded you with his mouth on your clit, tongue hot and sending a jolt through your system. The pleasure hummed low, and heat licked up your insides at the pressure of his tongue. He ate you out like he had come home to a hot meal after not eating all day â slow, deliberate, but starving. The way he enjoyed it made you clench around nothing.
âMikeâMikeâohmygodââ You dragged your fingers along his scalp, trying to find purchase.
He hummed, and the vibration had you rolling your eyes into the back of your head. His tongue circled expertly, and he moved two fingers to tease your entrance.
âYou taste so goddamn good,â he told you, face wet with your slick, as he moved his fingers inside you. He curled them upwards deliciously and you keened, raising your hips in search of his mouth.
He kept moving his fingers, kissing along your hip before moving back to your heat. The warmth swelled, and the coil tightened, and just when your breathing turned ragged, he was pulling away.
âNoâno, please.â You cried, reaching out for him.
You were met with a low chuckle, as he kissed up your abdomen. âYouâre doing so fuckinâ good for me, baby. But you know you feel so good when you come on my cock, hmm?â
âFuck,â you breathed out, staring into his eyes. âFuck, please.â
He grinned, âIsnât that my line?â
You pulled him down to kiss you, feeling his wet chin against yours from your slick. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you were invaded by the taste of yourself. You groaned, curling your fingers into his hair, wrapping your legs around his hips. You felt desperate to feel him inside you.
He swirled his length around your clit before moving down to your entrance. The low curse in the back of his throat sent sparks down your spine, lighting your desire on fire.
âFuck, you feel so good.â
You moaned, feeling the stretch of him until he was at the hilt. Your head buzzed as his hand slipped down to your clit to circle quickly. You squeezed around him, and his breath hitched.
âShit, yeah, you like that?â
âYes.â You moaned out, eyes screwing shut as the white-hot pleasure approached. âPlease, Iâm so close.â
You felt his smile against the skin of your throat, his hips keeping pace. Each thrust brushed against the divine spot inside you, and you clenched tighter around him, approaching the edge.
âYouâre fuckinâ mine, sweetheart. You know that? Goddamn. Câmon, say it.â
You mewled, tears gathering in your eyes at the overwhelming feeling in your belly, âYours. Yours.â
âThatâs it. Come on, I can feel it. Let go fâme. Fucking hell.â
The tight rubber band snapped, overloading your senses with scorching heat and you moaned out his name like a mantra. You fluttered around him, and he let out a few unintelligible curses, hips beginning to stutter as he fucked you through it.
His mouth enveloped yours in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. You swallowed his grunts, feeling like you might float away.
âFuck, sweetheart. So good.â
His release came quickly after, losing the pace until it slowed to a stop. He panted above you, head buried in your neck and a long sigh of contentment left your lungs.
He kissed along your jaw, leaving a final kiss to your lips before he smiled at you.
Perhaps Michael knowing your little secret wasnât so bad after all.
want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!
Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse
The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69
All content taglist: @nixandtonic
#dr. robby x reader#dr robby x reader#michael robinavitch x reader#smut#fics recommendations#fics recs
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first thing
jack abbot x female reader
summary: lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations or jack topping you from the bottom while you ride him first thing in the morning!
content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, literally nothing but smut, established relationship of some sort (let your imaginations run wild), p in v sex, dirty talk bc of course, excessive use of the nickname baby, jack being a veryyy lowkey pleasure dom
word count: 1.1k
authorâs note: iâm a firm believer that our dear dr. abbot has a filthy mouth, so of course i had to write something nasty for him. the lack of smut for that smug son of a bitch is criminal. also i am convinced that he would call you baby in bed, but only in bed. i dont think heâd be one for pet names, but something about him being all pussy drunk and calling you baby through low raspy groans. yeah. that is all⊠enjoy!
âYou havinâ fun up there?â Jackâs voice was peppered with self-righteous teasing. His words melted into the air through a lazy drawl as you straddled his lap, his dick buried deep between your legs.
Fifteen minutes ago, you were both fast asleep, bodies intertwined under his linen sheets.
You stirred awake in each other's arms, a tangled mess of limbs in the soft yellow hues of morning light that fought through the blinds. Slow sensual touches on bare skin led to your body on top of his. Feeling the familiar stretch as you sunk down on him, you took your time rolling your hips and coaxing quiet grunts from the man below you before either of you could even think about getting out of bed for the day.
It was rare for you to have an upper hand in the bedroom. When it came to Jack, dominance was his territory, the power associated with it fed his ego. It was uncommon to catch him in a moment of vulnerability, but sometimes you found him trading his strong willed attitude for a more docile demeanor. It often appeared when he was preoccupied or overcome with the need for relief, giving into the soft comfort of your hands on his body. He had to be just needy enough to willingly let take the lead, and even then, he could never fully submit.
He used his words in retaliation.
Maybe his rigid frame would melt under your touch, or his inhibitions would fall to the side at the sound of your pathetic little moans, but he would always rely on his words to remind you who was really in charge.Â
âNice and slow just like that.â The deep rasp of his voice echoed between your bodies; his instruction still laced with sleep.Â
A smirk peeked through his slumber worn expression, fingertips resting at the flesh of your waist as your body pressed into his.
His head fell back into the pillow, eyes threatening to close, and you could feel his fingers hug harder into your skin with each rock of your hips. Â
âThere you go.â He held you, trying his best to let you set the pace, but desperately wanting to tighten his grip and drag you along his bodyâ rough and impulsive.Â
Your fucked-out stare scanning him from above was the only thing keeping him in check.
Your pleading eyes begged for control. They practically oozed with desperation as you rode him. It was enough to make his grasp soften as he surrendered to your desire, watching as you used him to please yourself. Used him. His dick pulsed at the notion.Â
Jack was addicted to you, mind numbingly obsessed with the soft gasps that fell from your lips every time you came. He swore those sounds alone could give him a buzz unlike any drug. Some nights, heâd make you finish on his fingers so many times heâd lose count. He needed to make you feel goodâ wanted to watch the way your body reacted to his touch. It held a different kind of control, witnessing you give yourself over to him with your back arched and your head thrown back.
âShow me how you want it baby.â His voice was attentive as he fed into your delusion of power.Â
You were grinding into him. Your movements bordering on pitiful with your palm flat against his chest as you held yourself upright. Little whimpers of surrender made their way from your chest with each pass of your hips over his, angling yourself just right so that his tip brushed against the perfect spot with every movement.Â
Fluttering shut in the inevitable anticipation of release; your eyes left his. You were basking in the warmth of his hands on your bare body; one of them trailing up your torso, the pads of his fingertips tracing into your skin, higher and higher until,
âEyes on me.â Delicately, he held the nape of your neck, forcing your stare back on his as he pulled you closer to him.Â
You dumbly nodded your head. Handing him back an ounce of authority as you followed his command through a hooded gaze.
âLook at you. So goddamn pretty for me.âÂ
Your jaw went slack at his words, mouth slightly open and brows knit together as the pressure building in your abdomen threatened its release.Â
He could feel each greedy response of your bodyâ could sense your impending orgasm with every clench of your thighs, and he was done letting you take the reins.
His hips snapped up to meet yours. Thrusts moving in tandem with each grind of your hips.
âShit- you feel too fuckinâ good.â Profanities spilled from his throat at the satisfaction of having full control.
He was holding onto your hips and fucking into you from below. The tensing of your body and the sweet moans dripping from your tongue only adding to his pleasure. You were his. He needed itâ craved the promise of your devotion in the breathless praise of his name on your lips.
âCome on baby let me have it.â Growling out in a low moan, he all but begged you to finish for himâ finish on him. Pushing you right over the edge with just a few simple words and the persuasive quality of his voice.Â
Your walls hugged tight in obedience, a string of whines leaving your throat as you came undone around him.
âThere she is.â His statement of recognition seeped with affection while his grip on your hips remained unrelenting.
The high of your release persisted as Jackâs thrusts kept purpose, his hands on your body holding you steady.Â
âGot another one for me?â A sadistic warmth took over his voice, and he drove into you harder. The question obviously rhetorical as he made sure to hit the spot that made you clench around him.
The day began around you as gentle sunlight filled the room, but neither of you had a single thought of getting out of bed anytime soon.
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weather the storm
dr. jack abbot x female!wife!reader
wc: 1.8k
summary: you take you and jack's son to the er in the middle of the night when he's sick, but your marriage happens to be on the rocks atm
warnings: reader and jack have 11 year old son, medical inaccuracies, mentions of marital differences/separation, mentions of surgery/medical procedures, established relationship, light angst but happy ending, not canonically accurate, reader has her dogs out
a/n: i don't know why i'm struggling so bad to characterize/write for abbot but i hope this does him justice. i def think he's more goofy in the show but this is a more sensitive situation so idk? i hope you like it okay!!! ugh!!!! i want to write sm more for him so maybe it will come easier to me
You were deep in sleep when you felt a familiar small hand grasp your shoulder. Your eyes shot open and you inhaled sharply as you sat up on your elbow. Your sonâs face came into your weary vision. He was grasping your arm and bent over the bed, a distressed look on his face.Â
âMom.â He spoke in a pained whisper.Â
âBenjamin?â You blink and clear your eyes, anxiety skyrocketing at the sight of Jack and your sonâs form. You grab onto his arm thatâs gripping your shoulder and squeeze. âWhatâs wrong? Are you hurt?â
His voice is soft and broken, âMy side. My side really hurts.â
You sit up immediately and push the covers back. âYour side?âÂ
You run your hands over his arms and move the one thatâs covering his midsection, lifting his pajama top. It looks normal to the eye.
âHere?â You place a gentle hand on him.
He nods, grimacing.Â
You curse under your breath and stand, guiding Ben to sit on the edge of your mattress. Itâs definitely his appendix and youâre praying to yourself it hasnât ruptured.
You grab your phone off the nightstand. âYouâre okay, baby.â You reassure him as you dial Jackâs number.Â
You know itâs a shot in the dark. Jack was working an overnight shift again and you had been separated for two months now. Your marriage was one full of love and a deep connection to each other, but lately youâd been struggling. Heâd been working nights full time and barely saw you. He tried to make time for Ben, which you appreciated, but it was a different story for you.Â
You started spending more time at work in his absence and found yourself desperate for his attention, and when you reached a breaking point you pushed him away. You two fought like youâd never fought before and things buried deep inside came to the surface. After the two of you cooled down, you spoke with a marriage counselor and a brief separation was suggested.
So, here you were. At home in the house you used to share, the bed that you still kept to your side of. Jack had gotten a small townhouse closer to the hospital and stopped by for the occasional dinner and to pick up Ben. But, as the phone rang you internally begged him to pick up, all drama aside.Â
You get his voicemail. Realistically, you know the ER can get chaotic at night, but you canât help the curse that escapes again. You toss the phone down and grab your shoes near the closet, the ones you swore youâd pick up days ago.Â
You help Ben move to the car, holding his groaning form up. You hide your fear and anxiety and whisper reassurances to him.Â
The dashboard reads 2:38 am as you drive the fastest and safest way you can to the hospital. You park and help your son to the familiar EDâs waiting room. Itâs less busy than you would have thought, the night shift seeming to usually catch the weirdest cases.Â
The receptionist is one you recognize thankfully, and her eyes shoot up when she sees you and Ben.
âI think itâs his appendix.â Your voice shakes.Â
Ben leans into you, his eyes tearing. âMom-â
âItâs okay. Youâre okay. Weâre here now.â You repeat.Â
The receptionist pages back and Dr. Ellis exits the locked doors with a nurse not a moment later.Â
âAbbot?â She uses your last name as she rushes over and assesses Benâs state. The nurse follows with a wheelchair and she helps you sit Ben in it.Â
âI think itâs his appendix. Jack didnât pick up and I have no idea if itâs ruptured-âÂ
Ellis cuts off your rambling, âDonât worry, we got him.â
You follow her as they put Ben in a room and start an IV. You step forward and run a hand over your sonâs hair, trying to comfort him.Â
âIs Dad here?â He groans.Â
âHeâs in Trauma 1.â Ellis answers, giving you a look as she pulls the ultrasound over.Â
âHeâll be here in a little, baby.âÂ
Ben nods but drops his head back defeatedly.Â
Ellis moves closer to her bossâs son and speaks gently. âIâm going to lift your shirt and check out whatâs going on, okay, kid?âÂ
Ben nods and she puts the soft gel on the wand, moving it over his abdomen. She watches the screen and Ben holds onto your hand, wincing softly.Â
Ellis hums to herself, before placing the wand back and wiping your sonâs side. âGood news is itâs not ruptured yet. Iâm going to admit him to General Surgery and theyâll get him in pre-op.â
âHe needs surgery?â You thought youâd heard of doctors being able to reverse appendicitis with medication.Â
She nods. âItâs pretty inflamed, Iâm not sure the antibiotics would work in time to stop a rupture.â
âOkay, yeah, yeah. Thank you. Can- can you just get Jack when you have a chance?â You know heâs working and youâre not in the best place but you want him here.Â
âOf course.â She takes a moment to explain whatâs going on to Ben before exiting. You sit on the edge of the mattress and squeeze Benâs hand, trying to soothe him.Â
Jack had been in Trauma 1 when you had entered the ER. A GSW had come in through the ambulance bay and the patient was critical. He had spent the first 10 minutes coding him, then working to stabilize him enough to send him up to the OR.Â
When he finally exited and shoved off his gown, exhaling a deep sigh, he wasnât in the mood to find out why Ellis was moving towards him in such a grim way.Â
He went to glance up at the board but Ellisâ tone caught him off guard.Â
âDr. Abbot,â Her inhale was shaky, âYour son is in South 15.â
His world stopped. His years of training and education abandoned him in that singular moment. âWhat?â His voice was barely audible.Â
âYour wife brought him in, looks like appendicitis. Itâs inflamed and I donât think thereâs time for antibiotic treatment. Heâs getting prepped for General Surgery-â He didnât stay to hear her finish. His movements were controlled but hurried as he moved to the curtain he would find you behind.Â
He shoved the curtain back and took in the scene before him. You were sitting on the small hospital bed, still in your tank top, striped pajama pants, and familiar worn flip-flops youâd had since before Ben was even born. You were whispering soft words to your son. Your son, whose face was scrunched up and who was lying back in a hospital gown, IV dripping into his arm.Â
You turned at the curtainâs movement and sighed deeply in relief. Ben glanced up.Â
âDad.â
Jack was by his side in an instant. âYou okay, buddy? What happened?âÂ
You stood and watched Jack run his hand over Benâs hair, pushing the curls heâd inherited from the man back.Â
Ben spoke softly, âMy side started hurting, it woke me up. I woke Mom up and she brought me here.â
âI tried to call. I got here as quick as I could-â You continued.Â
âYou did everything right.â Jack nodded, his voice soft and eyes firm.Â
He grabbed a pair of gloves from the box on the wall and pulled the ultrasound machine back over.Â
You knew he trusted Ellis and her professional opinion, but he also wanted to make sure his son was okay for himself.Â
Ben laid back as his dad examined his abdomen. You ran a hand over your bedhead and watched Jack shift into the all too familiar doctor he was. His expression unreadable, his movements precise.Â
He wiped the machine and his sonâs stomach before speaking, âYouâll be okay, kid. One less appendix for you.â He smirked, winking at the young boy. Â
Ben smiled weakly at his dad and you let out the breath youâd been holding. Hearing that everything would be okay from Jack was the most reassurance you could get at that moment.Â
A few more nurses came in, giving Jack sympathetic glances and prepping Ben to head to the OR. When Ellis came back in and gave the all good, you pressed a long kiss to your sonâs head. Jack squeezed his hand and whispered âI love yousâ in his ear. You watched as they wheeled him towards the elevator.Â
You knew he would be okay and that he was in the best hands, but your eyes watered. The night was catching up with you. A sob wracked through you and Jack watched your shoulders shake.Â
He stepped close behind you, his hands finding your shoulders.Â
âItâs okay.â His voice was quiet and that was all you needed to let the tears fall.Â
Turning in his arms, you fell into his chest. His familiar hands, rough and calloused, wrapped around your crying form and his head came to rest on yours.Â
It was overwhelming. Ben needing surgery in the middle of the night and Jack not being there next to you to know or help. You let yourself cry for a while, before pulling back. You said nothing as you let Jack lead you to the elevator.Â
He kept his arm around you as you moved to the surgical floor. He sat with you in the waiting room, even finding a PTMC hoodie to wrap around your shoulders. He didnât push you. He let you lean on him and intertwine your fingers with his.Â
âDo you need to go back down to the ER?â You sniffle, head on his shoulder.Â
âShen can manage. I told him to page me only if thereâs an emergency. Iâm not going anywhere.â He squeezed your hand.Â
You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, serious and soft.Â
âIâm sorry,â you start, âabout everything. Tonight- the whole night, I just kept wishing you were there with me. That I didnât have to worry about calling or you being across town if something happened.âÂ
A tear escapes as you continue, âI donât like this. Not knowing where we stand. Itâs killing me. I miss you, Jack. All the time.â
His face contorts in emotion and he swallows before responding in that soft tone of his. âI miss you too. All the time. Iâm sorry, baby. I thought- I thought this would help. That youâd feel better away from me.â
Your head shakes and a few more tears fall. âI donât, I donât. I want you to come home.â
His jaw visibly clenches and his nod is firm, but it carries the emotion you know heâs feeling. âI want that, too. I want you, Ben, all of us together.â
âTogether.â You repeat and clutch his hand tighter.Â
He pulls you into his arms and you let him. You fall into him for the first time in months with no second guesses. No imaginary lines being crossed.Â
You feel his lips graze your hairline and you pull back slightly, hands cupping his face. His lips find yours easily and it feels brand new again. Your heart full and your mind at ease.Â
âWeâll be okay.â His words wrap around you like his arms and you know in all certainty theyâre true.
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Mercy Made Flesh
one-shot
Remmick x fem!reader
summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmickâunaging, unholy, unforgettableâreturns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.
wc: 13.1k
a/n: Listen. I didnât mean to simp for Vampire Jack OâConnellâbut here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!
warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally
tags: @xhoneymoonx134
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938
The heat hadnât broken in days.
Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkierâsoil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.
Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modestâtwo rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.
The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find youâŠif they were patient enough.
You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.
And beneath itâbeneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirdsâyou felt something shift.
A quiet. Too quiet.
You turned your head. Listened harder.
Nothing.
Not even the frogs.
Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasnât like you to be spooked by the dark. Youâd grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.
But this?
This was different.
It was as if the night was holding its breath.
And thenâ
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not loud. Not frantic. But final.
Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.
No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one butâ
You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.
No.
He was gone. That part of your life was buried.
You made sure of it.
Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they werenât yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.
Another knock. This time, softer. Almost...polite.
Your hand rested on the knob.
The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldnât see who was waiting on the other side. But the airâsomething in the airâtold you.
It was him.
You didnât answer. Not right away.
You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it tooâeyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didnât stir like it shouldâve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.
And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadnât let yourself feel in years.
You didnât know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyesâgold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.
And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didnât come from any map youâd ever seenâolder than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:
"Youâll know when itâs time."
You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didnât back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.
The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.
You turned it.
The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctivelyâjust one stepâand then he was there.
Remmick.
Still tall, still lean in that devastating wayâlike his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like heâd been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.
But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.
Still young. Still wrong.
Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadnât aged a day.
And his eyesâoh, God, his eyes.
They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.
"Hello, dove."
His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didnât answer. You couldnât.
You hated how your body reacted.
Hated that you could still feel itâlike something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat youâd felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.
He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.
"You remember, donât you?" he asked.
"I came to collect."
And your voiceâwhen it finally cameâwas little more than a whisper.
"You canât be real."
That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.
"You promised."
You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didnât move.
Remmick didnât step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something oldâolder than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.
He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.
"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ainât it?"
Your stomach clenched. That dress hadnât seen a neighborâs eye all week.
"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.
"Iâve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."
You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of somethingâdried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.
Not fresh. Not violent. JustâŠpresent. Like it lived in him.
"I paid my debt," you whispered.
"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didnât creak beneath his weight. "And thatâs only half the bargain."
He still hadnât crossed the threshold.
The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorwaysâvampires couldnât enter unless invited. But you hadnât invited him, not this time.
"You donât have permission," you said.
He smiled, eyes flashing red again.
"You gave it, seven years ago."
Your breath hitched.
"I was a girl," you said.
"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they canât be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didnât understand it. Your promise had teeth."
The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.
Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate nowâdragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.
"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now Iâm here for whatâs mine."
Your heart thudded violently in your chest.
"I didnât think youâd come."
"Thatâs the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."
And thenâ
He stepped back.
The wind stopped.
The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what youâd do next.
"Iâll wait out here till youâre ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But donât make me knock twice. Wouldnât be polite."
The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.
Youâd made a promise.
And he was here to keep it.
The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.
You didnât move.
Your body stood still but your mind wanderedâback to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brotherâs lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didnât breathe, didnât blink, didnât make promises the way mortals did.
It came in the shape of him.
You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dreamâhot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.
You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.
The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didnât speak again. Didnât call for you.
He didnât have to.
You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though youâd already read it twice. You tried to pretend you werenât thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.
You could feel him out there. Not just physicallyâbut in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.
You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.
Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeperâlike something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.
No bite.
Not yet.
But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.
You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.
He hadnât moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like heâd always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit youârich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.
He didnât look at you right away.
Then, slowly, he did.
Red eyes caught yours.
He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you heâd already memorized.
"Thought youâd shut the door by now," he said.
"I should have," you answered.
"But you didnât."
His voice curled into the quiet.
You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didnât move to greet you. He didnât rise. He just watched you walk toward him like heâd been watching in dreams you never remembered having.
The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.
His shoulder brushed yours.
You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.
Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.
"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.
"Since before you knew to look."
"Why now?"
He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.
"Because nowâŠyouâre ripe for the pickinâ.â
You didnât remember falling asleep.
One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.
The house was too quiet.
No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.
Just stillness.
And scent.
It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.
You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.
Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming wayâthough you couldnât say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.
But something had changed.
You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.
The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didnât dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.
You opened the front door.
The porch was empty.
The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.
A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.
You picked it up with trembling hands.
Come.
That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.
You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. Youâd never dared follow it. That road didnât belong to you.
It belonged to him.
And nowâŠso did you.
You didnât bring anything with you.
Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.
Just yourself.
And the road.
The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feetâfresh from last nightâs storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.
The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each otherâs leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacredâor something doomed.
A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didnât flinch.
There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.
And then you saw it.
The house.
Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautifulâwhite columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.
You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.
Heâd brought you here.
Or maybe heâd always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment youâd return to him without even knowing it.
A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.
You didnât run.
Your bare foot found the first step.
It groaned like it recognized you.
The door was already open.
Not wideâjust enough for you to know it had been waiting.
And you stepped inside.
The air inside was colder.
Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shadeâbut from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.
Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural senseâthere was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.
But it had been kept.
The air didnât smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.
He hadnât lit any lamps.
Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.
You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.
Your voice didnât carry. It didnât even try.
Remmick was nowhere in sight.
But he was here.
You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.
You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.
You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.
A whisper of air moved behind you.
Thenâ
A hand.
Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.
You froze.
He was behind you.
So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not coldâjust present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.
His voice was low, close to your ear.
"You came."
You didnât answer.
"You always would have."
You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.
Maybe that was why he smiled.
He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.
He looked at you like he was already undressing you.
Not your clothesâyour will.
And it was already unraveling.
Youâd suspected he wasnât born of this soil.
Not just because of the way he movedâlike he didnât quite belong to gravityâbut because of the way he spoke. Like time hadnât worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.
He didnât speak like a man from the Delta.
He spoke like something older than it.
Older than the country. Maybe older than God.
Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.
His eyes had dulled from red to something deeperâlike old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.
He studied you for a long time.
You werenât sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldnât hide.
"You look just like your mother," he said finally.
Your breath caught.
"You knew her?"
A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Iâve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."
You didnât ask what he meant. Not yet.
There was something heavy in his toneâsomething laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.
Youâd read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.
Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.
Others said they didnât age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.
You didnât know how old Remmick was.
But something in your bones told you the truth.
Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.
A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.
And youâd given him both.
He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.
"Yer heartâs gallopinâ like it thinks Iâm here to take it."
You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.
"You said you didnât want my blood," you whispered.
"I donât." He tilted his head. "Not yet."
"Then what do you want?"
His smile didnât reach his eyes.
"You."
He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.
You swallowed hard.
"Why me?"
His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting heâd stolen once and hidden from the world.
"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargainâs ever tasted so sweet."
Your throat tightened.
"I didnât know what I was agreeing to."
"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didnât catch up."
You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certaintyâ
But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.
"And youâve been thinkinâ about me ever since," he said.
Not a question. A statement.
You didnât answer.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.
"You dream of me, donât you?"
Your hands trembled at your sides.
"I donâtâ"
"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You donât know why. But I do."
You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.
"Fuckinâ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.â
His hand didnât move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasnât the roughness that undid youâit was the restraint.
He couldâve taken.
He didnât.
Not yet.
His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.
"Say it," he murmured.
Your lips parted, but nothing came.
"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. Youâve been livinâ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."
You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.
"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what Iâm feeling?"
His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.
"Because I do."
"Thatâs not fair."
He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.
"No, dove. It ainât."
You hated him.
You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.
He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.
Remmick moved closer. You didnât retreat.
His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.
"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "Iâm only here to collect the rest."
"You saved my brother."
"I saved you. You just didnât know it yet."
A shiver rippled down your spine.
His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didnât radiate warmth the way a manâs shouldâbut something older. Wilder. Like the earthâs own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.
"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.
His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.
"Iâll wait."
You werenât expecting that.
He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.
"Iâve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that donât mean I wonât keep my hands on you âtil you change your mind."
"You think I will?"
"You already have."
Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.
"You think this is love?"
He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.
"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."
Then his mouth brushed your jawânot a kiss, just the graze of lips against skinâand every nerve in your body arched to meet it.
Your knees buckled, barely.
He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.
"Iâm gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But Iâll be so gentle the first time youâll beg me to do it again."
And God help youâ
You wanted him to.
The house didnât sleep.
Not the way houses were meant to.
It breathed.
The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.
Youâd spent the rest of the nightâif you could call it thatâin a room that wasnât yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadnât asked for anything. He hadnât offered.
The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugsâor the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didnât recognize.
Him.
You didnât undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.
Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.
But he never came.
And somehow, that was worse.
Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didnât quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.
When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.
There was a scent in the airâcoffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.
You followed it.
The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.
Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didnât hear you enter.
You knew he had.
He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.
"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ainât got much else."
You didnât speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost heâd conjured and forgotten about.
He turned.
God help you.
Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just timeâhe looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldnât quite forget.
"Sleep alright?" he asked.
You gave a small nod.
He looked at you a moment longer. Thenâ
"Sit down, dove."
You moved toward the table.
His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.
"Thatâs the wrong chair."
You paused.
He nodded to one at the head of the tableâold, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didnât recognize.
"That oneâs yours now."
You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.
He brought the plate to you himself.
Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.
He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.
"You ainât gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchinâ you do it."
You picked up the fork.
His eyes stayed on your mouth.
The cornbread was still warm.
Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.
You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.
Remmick didnât speak. He didnât need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone elseâs feast.
The bite landed soft on your tongueâgolden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this shouldâve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.
But you swallowed.
And he smiled.
"Good girl," he murmured.
You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.
"You donât get to say things like that," you whispered.
"Why not?"
Your fingers tightened around the handle.
"Because it sounds like you earned it."
He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.
"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckinâ word after dragginâ you out that night and lettinâ you walk away without layinâ a hand on you."
You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.
"You shouldnât have touched me."
"I didnât," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."
Your breath caught.
His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.
"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.
You pushed the plate away.
He didnât flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadnât moved it at all.
"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."
You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.
"You talk about it like itâs alive."
He gave a slow nod.
"It is. In a way."
"How?"
He looked down at your plate, then back at you.
"Youâll see."
You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didnât know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.
When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.
Not hard. Not even firm. JustâŠinevitable.
"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.
You nodded.
His eyes darkened.
"Then Iâll have my taste next."
Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.
He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eyeâred barely flickering now, but still thereâand it told you everything.
He was done pretending.
You didnât move. Not right away.
His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.
You swallowed hard.
"You said you didnât want blood."
"I donât."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.
And what terrified you was thisâ
You didnât want to run.
You wanted to know how it would feel.
To give something he couldnât take without permission.
To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.
Remmickâs other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.
"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.
"You do."
"What do you smell like?"
He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.
"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that donât die right."
You shivered.
"And still I want you," you breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
"Thatâs the worst part, ainât it?"
You didnât answer.
Because he was right.
His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.
He guided you up from the chair.
Didnât yank. Didnât drag.
Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Somewhere I can kneel."
Your heart stuttered.
He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the homeâs belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.
The door at the end of the hall was already open.
Inside, the room was dark.
Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.
A ritual.
Not violent.
Intimate.
Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.
"Sit," he said.
You sat.
He knelt.
And then his hands found your knees.
His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.
The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didnât look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelightâhalf-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.
His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.
"Yer too quiet," he murmured.
"I donât know what to say," you whispered back.
His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.
"Ya ainât gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I donât want yer blood."
Your lips parted, but no sound came.
He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.
You didnât realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.
Your lungs stuttered.
His lips trailed higher.
Another kiss.
Then another.
Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasnât just undressing youâhe was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.
"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.
You shook your head.
He smiled like he already knew the answer.
"Good. Let me be the first."
He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasnât just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.
The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.
He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and saidâ
"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."
And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.
His mouth touched you like heâd been dreaming of it for years. Like heâd earned it.
No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skinâand the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.
He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.
"Sweet as I fuckinâ knew youâd be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.
Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
He didnât stop.
He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legsâeach flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.
And all the while, he watched you.
When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.
"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."
Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.
"Thatâs it, dove," he murmured. "Donât run from it. Give it to me."
He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.
You whined. Desperate.
He smirked against your cunt.
"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."
Your lips barely formed the wordâ"Please."
He hummed in approval.
Then he devoured you.
No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.
You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.
"Thatâs it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum fâr me, girl. Let me taste whatâs mine."
And when it hitâ
It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.
You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.
He didnât stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.
Then, finallyâfinallyâhe pulled back.
His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man whoâd just fed.
"Youâre fuckinâ divine," he whispered. "And I ainât even started ruininâ you yet."
The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.
Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhereâin your wrists, your throat, between your legs where heâd buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You werenât sure how long it had been since youâd spoken. Since youâd breathed without shaking.
Remmick still knelt.
His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldnât bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on youâwatchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.
He looked drunk on you.
You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.
He beat you to it.
"Reckon you know whatâs cominâ next," he murmured.
You didnât answer.
He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of itâthen licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.
You watched, breath held tight in your chest.
He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didnât fix it. Didnât move at all. The heat between your legs hadnât faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.
He stopped in front of you.
Tilted his head slightly.
"Howâs yer heart?"
You blinked.
"ItâsâŠfast," you whispered.
He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.
"Good. I want it fast."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.
"âCause I want yer blood screaminâ for me when I take it."
Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
He didnât touch you yetâdidnât need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places heâd worshiped with his mouth not moments before.
You swallowed.
"You said youâd wait," you whispered.
He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I did. And I have. But yer bodyâs already begginâ for me. Ainât it?"
You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closerâbut that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.
You lifted your chin, barely.
"Iâm not scared."
He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.
"Good. But I donât need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."
He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghostâs touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.
"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. Thatâs where I wanna taste ya."
You shivered.
He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.
"I ainât gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."
Your fingers twisted in your lap.
"Will itâ" you started, but the question got tangled.
He smiled against your skin.
"Will it feel good?"
You said nothing.
"You already know."
You did.
Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasnât right. It wasnât holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.
You nodded once.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.
"Thatâs my girl," he breathed.
And then he bit.
It wasnât pain.
It was pressure, first.
A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and thenâsharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.
You gasped.
Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.
Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something elseâsomething otherworldly.
The pull came next.
A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedyâjustâŠintimate. Like giving. Like surrender.
He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.
"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythinâ warm I thought Iâd forgotten."
Your head tipped further, offering him more.
You didnât know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.
Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.
Your moan was breathless.
"Remmickâ"
He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.
"Donât speak, dove. Just feel."
And you did.
You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.
It was too much. It was not enough.
And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.
Like he hadnât fed on you.
Like heâd prayed.
The room was quiet, but your body wasnât.
You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered thereâglowing, aching, changed.
Remmickâs breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.
He looked undone.
And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didnât touch you just right.
"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.
You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.
"I feelâŠ" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "âŠwarm."
He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.
"You should. Youâre inside me now. Every drop of you."
The words rooted somewhere deep. You didnât flinch. Didnât pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasnât just lust. It wasnât just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.
"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.
He looked at you like youâd asked the wrong question.
"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, itâs ecstasy."
You stared at him.
"You mean for you?"
He shook his head once.
"For us."
Then he pulled back just enough to look at youâreally look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.
"Youâll bruise here," he said. "Wonât fade for a while."
"Will it heal?"
"Eventually."
"Do you want it to?"
His mouth curved, slow and wicked.
"No," he said. "I want the world to see whatâs mine."
And before you could replyâbefore the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itselfâhe kissed you.
Not soft.
Not careful.
His mouth claimed you like heâd already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature whoâd gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasnât letting go.
You tasted your own blood on his tongue.
And it tasted like forever.
The house knew.
It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeatâas though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.
As a belonging.
Remmick hadnât let you go.
Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like heâd been waiting for it. Like heâd never let you fall anywhere but into him.
He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.
"Donât reckon youâre walkinâ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.
You didnât argue. You couldnât.
Your head rested against the place where his heart shouldâve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifelessâjust other.
He carried you past rooms you hadnât seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.
You didnât ask.
He didnât explain.
The room he took you to was nothing like the others.
It wasnât grand.
It was personal.
The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboardâbut it had been turned upside down.
He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.
"Yâever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.
Your breath stilled.
"I thought it was the blood."
He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.
"Nah, dove. Bloodâs blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ainât why I chose."
He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.
"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.
You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where heâd fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the treesâbranches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the landâbut in here, it was only the two of you.
Only his voice.
Only your blood between his teeth.
"WhatâŠwhat was she like?" you asked.
His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocusedâjust distant. Remembering.
"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didnât know when to shut it. Always speakinâ when she shouldâve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ainât feared me even when she shouldâve."
He exhaled through his nose, slow.
"But she didnât get to finish beinâ mine."
Your brows pulled.
"What happened to her?"
He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returnedânot hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.
"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on accountâa what Iâd given her."
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
"Remmickâ"
"She didnât scream," he said, voice rough. "Didnât cry. Just looked at me like she knew Iâd find her again. And I have."
You froze.
His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.
"I donât believe in fate. Not really. But youâ" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ainât allowed to have."
You whispered against the curl of his mouth.
"And what do you think I am?"
He kissed the hinge of your jaw.
"My penance," he said. "And my reward."
You shivered.
"You said you saved me."
He nodded.
"I did."
"Why?"
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.
"âCause I ainât lettinâ another thing I love burn."
You didnât realize you were crying until he touched your face.
Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like heâd been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.
"You ainât her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."
His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.
You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didnât want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.
"I donât know what Iâm becoming," you said.
He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.
"Youâre becominâ mine."
Then he kissed you againânot like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.
When he pulled back, your breath followed him.
The room shifted.
You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.
"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."
You obeyed.
You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.
And when he climbed over you, it wasnât to take.
It was to be taken.
Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.
Youâre mine, he whispered, but didnât say it aloud.
He didnât have to.
His body said it.
His mouth said it.
And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inchâyour soul said it too.
His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didnât quite understandâuntil you looked into his eyes.
That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.
Not hunger.
Not lust.
Not even possession.
Devotion.
The kind that didnât speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.
His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.
"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.
"Youâre heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.
"Ainât even layinâ on you yet."
You didnât laugh. Couldnât. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.
He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.
"Youâre shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.
"So are you."
A pause.
Then softerâtruthfully,
"Yeah."
He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower stillâhis lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.
"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.
You didnât speak.
"Didnât think so," he muttered. "Shame."
His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you againânot rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew heâd already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.
"Tell me if itâs too much," he said.
"It already is."
He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.
"Good."
His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.
He groaned deep.
"Fuck, you feel like sin."
You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.
"Then sin with me."
He didnât hesitate.
He began to press inâslow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.
He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.
"Shitâya takinâ me so good, dove. Just like that."
You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.
"Remmickâ"
"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ainât gonna let you break."
But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.
He filled you like heâd been made for the task.
No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.
You clung to himâhands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadnât even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, tooâthe way he kept his shirt on like this wasnât about bareness, it was about belonging.
"Thatâs it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."
Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.
He buried himself to the hilt.
And stillâhe didnât move.
His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like youâd never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"
You nodded. Couldnât find your voice.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
"Ainât no leavinâ now. Iâll always be in ya. Even when I ainât."
You whimpered.
Not from pain. From how true it felt.
He moved thenâbarely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.
"Thatâs right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."
You didnât even know what it was anymore.
Your body?
Your blood?
Your soul?
Youâd already given them all.
And still, he took more.
But not cruelly.
Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.
He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.
Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.
"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.
"Please," you whispered, though you didnât know what you were asking for.
He did.
"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite heâd left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."
"Remmickâ"
"Say it."
You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.
"Make me come," you breathed. "PleaseâGod, pleaseâ"
His smile was sinful.
And then he fucked you.
His rhythm shiftedâno longer slow, no longer sacred.
It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.
Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the roomâthe gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.
He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.
"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.
You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.
"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.
"Yesâyes, I feel you, Remmick, Iâ"
"You gonna come fâr me like a good girl?"
"Yes."
"Say my fuckinâ name when you do."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like heâd owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.
Your body seized around him.
The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.
He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man whoâd waited centuries for the perfect fit.
And then he broke.
With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.
For a long, suspended moment, he didnât move.
Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.
Your sweat mixing.
Your bodies still joined.
"Thatâs it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "Thatâs how I know youâre mine."
The house exhaled around you.
The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groanedâsettling. Sighing. Accepting.
You didnât move. Couldnât.
Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadnât figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.
Remmick stayed inside you.
His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place heâd bitten, the same place heâd worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.
"Donât move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."
You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.
He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.
"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.
You nodded.
"Good," he murmured. "Didnât mean to fuck the soul outta ya. JustâŠcouldnât help it."
You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.
His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.
"Yâknow what you feel like?" he whispered.
"What?"
"Home."
The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.
He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richerâgarnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.
"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.
You blinked at him, dazed.
"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."
The silence between you was warm now.
Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the stormâs rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.
You felt it in your limbsâheavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didnât have language for.
Remmick hadnât moved far.
He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what heâd given you.
And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.
You turned your head to look at him.
His gaze was already on you.
"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
He didnât answer right away.
Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.
"You askinâ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"
You blinked slowly. "Both."
He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.
"Tonight, Iâll hold you. Long as youâll let me. Wonât leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookinâ at me like that."
You flushed, and he smiled.
"As for afterâŠ"
He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.
"Ainât never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."
"But not with me."
His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.
"No, dove. Not with you."
You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
"Why?"
His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.
"âCause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythinâ that didnât bleed beneath me."
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghostâs sigh.
"But youâyou made me want somethinâ tender. Somethinâ breakable."
"That doesnât make sense."
"Donât gotta. Nothinâ about you ever has. And yet here you are."
You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.
"So I stay?"
He didnât hesitate.
"You stay."
The candle had burned low.
Its glow flickered long shadows across the wallsâyour bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.
Neither of you spoke for a while. You didnât need to.
Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmickâs chestâover his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like heâd stolen it back just for you.
He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.
"You still ainât askinâ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.
You paused.
"What question is that?"
He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.
"You wanna know if I turned you."
Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"And did you?"
He shook his head.
"Nah. Not yet."
"Why not?"
His fingers stilled. Then resumed.
"âCause you ainât asked me to."
You looked up at him sharply.
"Would you?"
A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.
"If it was you askinâ. If it was real."
Your breath caught.
"And if I donât?"
His gaze didnât waver.
"Then Iâll stay with you. âTil youâre old. âTil your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookinâ at me like Iâm the only thing that ever made you feel alive."
Your throat tightened.
"That sounds awful."
He smiled, slow and aching.
"It sounds human."
You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of youâbody and soulâand still asked nothing unless you gave it.
"Would it hurt?"
His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.
"Itâd hurt," he said. "But not more than beinâ without you would."
The quiet stretched long and low.
His words hung in the space between your mouths like smokeâsomething sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.
Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.
And beneath it allâ
You heard memory.
It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didnât recognize as your own. Your brotherâs blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.
You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.
Just up.
Because you knew Heâd stopped listening.
And thenâ
He came.
Out of nothing. Out of dark.
You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.
"You want him to live?"
You didnât answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldnât breathe. And heâd kneltâright there in the bloodâand laid his hand flat against your brotherâs chest.
You never saw what he did. Only saw your brotherâs eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.
And then he looked at you.
Not your brother.
Remmick.
He looked at you like heâd already taken something.
And he had.
Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.
You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.
"Iâve already given you everything."
He shook his head.
"Not this."
He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.
"This is still yours."
"And you want it?"
He didnât smile. Didnât look away.
"I want it to keep beatinâ. Forever. With mine."
You stared at him.
You thought about that alley. About your brotherâs eyes opening again.
About how no one else came.
And you made your choice.
"Then take it."
Remmick stilled.
"Donât say it unless you mean it, dove."
"I do."
His voice was barely more than a breath.
"You sure?"
You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"Iâve never been more sure of anything in my life."
His eyes shimmeredâdeep red now, alive with something wild and tender.
"Then Iâll make you eternal," he whispered. "And Iâll never let the world take you from me."
He didnât rush.
Not now. Not with this.
Remmick looked at you like you were something rareâsomething holyâlike he couldnât believe youâd said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.
Then he moved.
Not with hunger. Not with heat.
With purpose.
He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner whoâd finally been granted absolution.
"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.
You nodded, throat tight.
"I want forever."
His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like heâd heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.
He leaned down.
His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.
"Close your eyes, dove."
You did.
And thenâ
You felt him.
His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didnât bite.
Not yet.
He kissed the mark heâd already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.
And thenâ
A whisper against your skin.
"Iâll be gentle. But youâll remember this forever."
And he sank his fangs in.
It wasnât like the first time.
It wasnât lust.
It wasnât climax.
It was rebirth.
Pain bloomed sharp and brightâbut only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything youâd ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.
He held you as it happened.
Cradled you like something delicate.
His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.
You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.
And thenâ
It stopped.
Silence.
Stillness.
And in the space where your heart had once beatâŠ
You heard his.
Thenâ
Your eyes opened.
The world looked different.
Sharper.
Brighter.
Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked youâsmoke, soil, blood, him.
Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like heâd just returned from war.
And when he looked at youâ
You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.
He smiled.
"Welcome home, darlinâ."
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