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veritable-trash · 5 hours ago

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𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid.

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.”

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.”

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was�� addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

#this fic is all I’ve been thinking about ALL DAY #need to make an old man nervous and blush before I suck the soul out of him #oh my god!!! who said that???? not me no no I’m a woman of the church #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavich x reader

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veritable-trash · 11 hours ago

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when you palm a man’s clothed bulge and he spreads his legs wider for you giving access to his balls too and pushes his hips up against your hand and lets out that throaty little groan ………

#help #someone needs to put me down

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veritable-trash · 2 days ago

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.8k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

“Small world.”

“Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot.”

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

“Thanks for not saying anything,” he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. “Didn’t seem like you needed an audience.”

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. “Most people mean well, but—”

“They hover,” you finish. “Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back.”

“Exactly.”

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

“I was heading to the coffee shop,” you say finally. “Did you want anything?”

Jack tilts his head. “Bribery?”

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Probably had enough caffeine for the day.”

The corner of your lip curls higher. “As if there's such a thing.”

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

“Well,” you say, taking a step backward, “I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot.”

“Good luck,” he says, voice low but steady. “Don’t let the building eat you alive.”

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. “This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know.”

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. “Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses...”

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. “Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive.”

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

“Sure,” you say sweetly. “I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended.”

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how “damn, okay,” and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

“Well handled,” he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. “First years are getting bolder.”

“Bold is one word for it.”

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. “Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again.”

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. “Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant.”

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

“Rough night?” he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. “Oh. No, it’s—nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. Just moves around his apartment quietly, barefoot, the limp less noticeable without the weight of expectation.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café just off campus, one you’ve passed a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

“Pumpkin spice, really?” he teases. “Living the stereotype.”

“It’s autumn,” you shoot back. “Let me have one basic pleasure.”

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor.

“My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means.”

Isaac laughs. “Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice.”

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

“Grading?” he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. “Don’t sound so jealous.”

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: “You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?”

“Only if I bring snacks,” you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. “Then I’ll keep walking.” A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, “Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten,” his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

“Good lecture,” you say.

He hums. “Not bad for a recycled deck.”

You hand him the stack of forms. “You made it your own.”

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. “So did you.”

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. “You alright?”

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

“Shit—Jack.” You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You shake your head, still blinking fast. “No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days.” You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, “Can I—?”

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

He steps back, finally. “Just—don’t stay too late, alright?”

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

“Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here.”

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

“I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question,” Isaac says. “Are you seeing someone else or not?”

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. “No. I’m not.”

Isaac huffs. “Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension.”

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. “I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now.”

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

“I know...” you say, voice tight. “I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working.”

Isaac’s face contorts. “Seriously? That’s it?”

You shake your head. “You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

“I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit',” you continue, each word deliberate. “But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given.”

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

He waits.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… present. Undivided.

“Are you okay?”

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

“You should know better than to lie to a psychologist.”

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. “Guess I need to reassess my baseline.”

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. “You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits.”

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. “Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being.”

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. “Start small,” he says. “We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—“You want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. “No.”

He waits. “I think you do.”

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“I do,” he says. “When it matters.” He pauses. “Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage.”

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

“Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…” You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

“I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t.”

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

“Remember,” you say gently, “we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe.”

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

“Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?” he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. “Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days.”

Jack gestures to your cardigan. “And yet you persist.”

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

“You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?”

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. “Talk and discussion.”

He steps farther in. “If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in.”

You glance up. “You’ve already read the draft.”

Jack smiles. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud.”

You lean back slightly, watching him. “You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?”

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You hum. “Mmhm.”

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. “Subtle,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

“Of course not,” he says, dry. “Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?”

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. “I’m a tactile learner. You know this.”

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. “Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience.”

“Only when R crashes mid-run.” You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. “Dangerous territory.”

“Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?”

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?”

He shrugs. “You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior.”

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. “You wound me.”

You grin. “I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap, I’ll pretend not to know you.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

“Goodnight,” he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

“I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. “I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely.”

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

“I should...” you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. “Goodnight, Jack.”

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

“Goodnight,” he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying “I need to work on my script” more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, “I think I might be fucked.”

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what this is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

“Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis,” you say flatly.

Samira snorts. “So… Tuesday.” You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. “If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you.”

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. “Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity.”

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

“Hey,” Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. “Hey.”

“Come in?”

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. “You sent your methods revisions?”

“Yesterday,” you say. “Just a few small clarifications.”

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. “You look… tired.”

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. “All done?” you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. “Yeah. Looks solid.”

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. “I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great,” you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

“Alright,” he says finally. Even. Quiet. “Feel better.”

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else.And maybe—maybe—you did too.

#to read #oh this look like a whole 12 course meal let’s GOOOOOOOOOOO #the pitt #jack abbot

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veritable-trash · 4 days ago

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#HELP #AIDAN TURNER I NEED YOU #like actually there is no one else only him #just one chance I just need ONE CHANCE #and he would be mine 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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veritable-trash · 4 days ago

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THE WEDDING DATE (2005) dir. Clare Kilner

#this filmmmmmmmm #THIS FILM!!!!!!!#dermot Mulroney you will ALWAYS be my number 1 #they don’t make men like him anymore sorry he’s so pretty I need to keep him in my pocket #the wedding date

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veritable-trash · 4 days ago

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here's a little thought (major spoilers if you haven't watched the pitt):

but langdon and you are close. too close, and have been for a while. you fucked–once, before he and abby became serious. it was the best night of his life and you refuse to talk about it.

today's shift is going as usual. fucked and insane with a handful of new faces but still. the usual, other than the fact that langdon's been staring at you funny since noon. nearly five hours later, robby asks you to meet him at your locker.

the angry, bitter laugh you give robby when you open your locker to let him search cuts short when he pulls out a few doses of librium. you frown at the drugs, eyes immediately watering, and shaking your head.

"robby, that's..." the words die on your tongue, a tear falling. hot anger burns across your skin and all you see is red. "...that's not mine."

red-faced, robby stares back at you. without blinking, he mumbles two devastating words. "go home."

"robby–"

pocketing the meds, he grips your shoulders and holds them tight.

"we will talk later," the man promises, face tight with dread. "i know it's not you. but i need you to go home."

waiting, you swallow. it takes a while but something clicks.

the sweating. the puppy. the calling you at two in the morning because he can't sleep and just wants to talk to his best friend.

"abby's your best friend, francis."

"second best... no one's topping you, babe, you know that–"

"...not supposed not call me that."

he chuckles and your eyes water.

you blink at robby, who ghosts a kiss across your forehead before muttering one last heartbroken go.

you leave. shaking hands clutching your bag, and eyes burning with tears you don't let fall until you make it to your car.

#hollering shrieking howling #goddddddddddd this whole concept?????#please I need like a PhD length dissertation on their relationship dynamics and the way it all crumbles into dust and how not his marriage #failing not him not being able to see his kids anymore but LOOSING YOU?????#that’s what sends him off the deep end and eventually pulls him back into the light #frank Langdon you absolute piece of shit let me HOLD YOU #frank langdon x reader #the pitt fic #frank langdon x you #frank langdon

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veritable-trash · 4 days ago

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tlou & enjoyment vs. conscious enjoyment

im currently in the deepest throes of finals season and looking down having to travel for two back to back residencies so ive been highkey spaced out on here, popping in and out at my own leisure. but im showing up to add to the conversation. reminder that ive studied all of these concepts at the collegiate level for years, have experience running workshops for poc, etc. i know what im saying. blah blah blah im vetty im mexican chilean / nahua & mayan

i do not fault anyone for enjoying tlou. in fact, i encourage them to. it’s one of the most popular medias of the time with a hit hbo show and it’s one of the most successful playstation games of all time. tlou is simply something that is meant to be enjoyed. this is good! finding comfort in these times is important for all of us. but simultaneously, we need to be aware of where this comfort comes from; i.e. is it at the expense of someone else’s discomfort? consuming any storytelling is an act that cannot be apolitical. everything about writing, art, and television is political from a story’s inception to its delivery.

these critiques about tlou are not new! they’ve existed for years. many call into question in the first game the deaths of poc as an engine that powers the white characters’ stories. this is a problem that persists into the second game and the second season. tlou is also inextricable from the zionist mindset of its creator neil druckmann. once you look for these things as an audience member in a critical way, they begin to pop up everywhere.

for example, martyr’s gate. in abbys part you come across a setup where seraphites leave written prayers to their martyred leader. if the player interacts with the environment in a specific way, abby picks up one of the letters that asks for the fighting to stop. she says, offhandedly, “easy. stay on your fucking island.” this is colonizer mindset turned to the highest degree. when layered with the themes of martyring and idealism that neil is clearly critiquing, this is just one example of horrific worldviews that have wedged their way into the storyline. she also announces to her friends that killing children seraphites is acceptable and necessary if they attack first. remind you of anything?

i’ve made a separate post about show joels death, which can be found in my pinned. poc trauma is especially prevalent with abbys character: her entire storyline centers white saviorism. her past sins can be forgiven because she saves two asian kids from their evil religion, whose trauma directly propels the plot. (yaras amputation, lev killing his mom, yaras death). the game never actually considers abby’s past actions. she changes in the course of about two days and we are expected to see this as a well rounded character arc as if she wasn’t the right hand woman of someone who yall watched brutally torture someone on live television last sunday. ive also heard a sound bite from the show: “i don’t care if they’re women kids or fucking babies look what they did! kill them all!” manny — a full blown stereotype of mexican culture — has his eye shot out by tommy. tommy later loses his eye to show consequences. neils pivotal ideology of “an eye for an eye”

and that’s just in abbys part. in ellies part, she tortures and then kills nora. jesse dies at abbys hand.

if i can write 3 entire paragraphs without even scratching the surface of the games intrinsic, racist properties, there’s a problem.

the issue is not engaging with this media. the issue lies in how it is consumed, and how it is addressed in internet spaces. this is not a dogshit take. the torture porn and racism is EMBEDDED into the plot. there is not a tlou without it. this is undeniable. attempting to deny it is to make attempts to save your own skin in lieu of poc begging you to experience this content with some level of consciousness about its origins.

it hurts to see the people we poc share this platform with brushing over our trauma and using it as fodder for their fanfiction and entertainment. it just does. especially when the vast majority of all of us have experienced this trauma firsthand or generationally to a degree that most white people have been lucky enough to be spared from.

denying that tlou is racist is simply a racist take. interacting with tlou is not something that is inherently racist in and of itself. this seems to be where the mix up has occurred. the mix up has also occurred on our end; for thinking that our experiences would be empathized with. or that certain members of the fandom would move forward with a larger degree of awareness. we know better than to think we’ll be taken seriously these days.

ive seen arguments like: the actors knew what they were getting themselves into! other poc disagree with you!

1- acting is an industry. many of the tlou hiring stories happened quickly without the specifics of the storyline being shared. pedro had the first 3 scripts and confirmation that he’d die; likely not HOW he would die.

2- poc are not a monolith. we can also be racist. we can also partake in racist ideology. we can also have differing views on this. i think most of us agree, though, that neil is a piece of shit whose perspective inundates the game.

that’s my piece. im missing some stuff but i typed this on my phone between finals. so 🐛

poc you will always be safe on my blog and with me. we can enjoy parts of tlou while disgracing other parts of it.

#tlou #the last of us #antiracism #racism in fandom

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veritable-trash · 6 days ago

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every like 5 months or so I fall down the hole of watching John Oliver interviews and I don’t know what it is about him but like when I say that’s my MAN I mean it like he’s so for me he is so funny he makes me giggle I’m watching an interview of him dressed as a New Zealand bird and I have NEVER wanted to fuck a man more

#john oliver #don’t even know if this is the tag for him but fuck it #last week with john oliver #last week tonight #like funny men will ALWAYS WIN #when I find a man funnier than me I will settle before that they can all kick rocks

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veritable-trash · 9 days ago

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SHAWN HATOSY as DEPUTY CHIEF CHARLIE REID Chicago P.D. | Season 12

#THE GLASSES??????????#WHAT?????????#ACTUALLY GONNA THROW MYSELF INTO THE VOID #shawn hatosy #charlie reid #chicago pd

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veritable-trash · 13 days ago

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veritable-trash · 18 days ago

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@pscentral event 30: friendship

Now the other players realize. These guys have a relationship. In fact, a criminal one.

#when I say these are MY movies?#I mean it!!!!#I own them! I wrote them! I directed and starred like that’s me in the gifs #these films mean tooooooo much to me please #ocean's eleven #ocean's twelve #ocean's thirteen

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veritable-trash · 19 days ago

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oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!!!!!!!!!

THIS IS EVERYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!

the pacing of this story has just been so phenomenal but this chapter right here has me actually floored

MAX!!! MAKING THE BANANA BREAD!!!!!!! CREATING THEIR MEET CUTE IN THEIR APARTMENT!!!!! THE COFFEE WITH SUNSHINE WRITTEN ON IT!!!!!! I CAN’T HANDLE THIS YEARNING ANYMORE PLEASE FREE ME

i actually couldn’t keep reading for like 5 minutes my heart was in my fucking throat tears in my eyes like i was FREAKING OUT! the yearning and softness max has for reader makes my eyes want to roll into the back of my head like it’s too much i can’t stand it i need it injected directly in my veins or i’ll fucking die like please!

also like obviously we love van poor sweet child like i get it your estranged father died right before you found out he was your estranged father but like back up! this is max’s girl! stay in your lane!!!(affectionately<3) but also i loveeee the way you’re weaving these multiple storylines and characters together sooooooo seemlessly like it’s a masterpiece. like poor van but also i’m kinda like maybe he is also suspicious that reader is a vamp now so was he also about to try and take her out? BUT ALSO HER GETTING SNATCHED AT THE END???? BY SUPPOSED BESTIES EDGAR AND ALAN????? THE BETRAYAL!!!!!! please tell me max rips eleanor to shreds and then miraculously turns back into a human so him and sunshine can live happily ever afte???? please?????? i beg!!!!!!!

anyways i’m gonna shut my piehole now but just know this chapter was fucking everythinggggggg to me and i absolutely devoured you are truly so gifted with your writing and story creation and this series has been such a joy to read! mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah all the kisses and hugs and smooches for writer!!!! <3333333333

The Roommate Agreement Part XV - H A V E

rating: 18+ for smut, gore and vampire shit

words: 16.9k (WTF)

story summary: Facing immediate eviction you needed a roommate and you seem to have found the perfect choice in Max Phillips. He's charming, tidy, works nights at a marketing firm and even fixes things around the apartment. He's the perfect housemate. . . except for those strange scratching noises coming from his room at night...

a/n: This has been a brutal week for many of us. And I know I promised an update so here it is. I am feeling un-ironically 'drained' from the last little bit. But I hope you enjoy the coming chapters.

My ko-fi is here if you feel my work has been meaningful to you.

Please remember to comment and re-blog! Engagement is what keeps a majority of us writers going! For me, without engagement I wouldn't bother posting here!

series masterlist here

PART XV- H A V E

Hey. Gotta cancel tonight. Sorry for the late notice.

You re-read the message from Van several times the following day at work, feeling concerned. He sent it early this morning and you tried calling him three times this morning but he’s not answering. You consider going over to his place but you know he wouldn’t buzz you up.

A tall coffee is placed in front of you, gently shoved in your direction.

"You look tired."

You look up from your paperwork to see Mina and Lucy looking down at you with concern. Lucy sits on the edge of your desk.

“What’s up?”

You know you look exhausted. Dark circles under your bleary eyes, clothes rumpled. And you wish you could explain that it’s because you just fucked, no, made love to a vampire last night, but you can’t.

“I’m stressed about Van,” you admit, not totally lying. Van has been on your mind a lot.

“Me too,” Mina nods. “He’s supposed to be back next week but I don’t know. He hasn’t contacted the office at all.”

The three of you lapse into silence before Lucy slaps her thighs, drawing your attention.

"I think we need to go out for drinks," she announces. “After work today. We are way too hot and young to be this depressing.”

Mina nods, shooting the both of you a questioning look. "The Demeter?"

"Of course."

The two of them look your way and despite everything, you smile.

"Yeah, sounds good," you nod, warmed that things seem to be going back to normal.

"You should invite Max," Lucy offers. Her smile is genuine, but her tone reedy as she stands. She's trying to be cool with everything, even if there's potential for awkwardness. Your heart swells with gratitude.

But it wouldn't be appropriate. And it would be silly! It's not like you and Max are dating. Not as if the two of you are boyfriend and girlfriend. How could you be? He's a fucking vampire! Plus you've missed your friends. You've missed giggles over Lucy's love life and stories about Mina and Johnny (even if they are saccharine).

"Let's keep it a girl's night," you say smiling warmly before glancing at Mina. "Including your bartender boyfriend of course."

"Really?"

"Yeah," you nod, linking your arm with hers. "Otherwise we'd have to pay for drinks."

///

At the Demeter you reunite with a very relieved looking Johnny who pulls you into his arms, embracing you tightly before whispering in your ear.

"About fucking time. These two were lost without you."

And it feels like things truly are going back to normal. As the four of you slide into your favorite booth and accept your drinks you learn you've missed a lot in the time you weren't speaking with them. For example Mina and Johnny are moving in together and Lucy is officially seeing Carmella Kinsey.

"It's, like, casual right now," Lucy informs you in a hush. "She just broke up with her girlfriend so we're taking things slow."

Lucy has never been a take things slow kind of woman, so the change intrigues you.

"Shit, they need me," Johnny says with a pout as a bald man behind the bar motions to him. "We're short staffed tonight."

He presses a kiss to Mina's pinking cheek. She watches him sail away from the table, sighing dreamily.

"Perfect relationship right there," Lucy says with affection. "The only thing they argue about is who makes dinner."

Mina rolls her eyes but nudges the topic in your direction. "Speaking of relationships..."

Mina and Lucy exchange a look, their faces unreadable. Immediately, a sour sensation begins in your stomach as you think back to your weeks of strained silence.

"What is it?"

Mina holds back, her lips pressed tightly together as if she's worried the words will spill out.

"Have you slept with Max yet?"

Of course it is Lucy who blurts out the question, not a care about decorum, her arms folded on the table, her fingertips twirling the half full wine glass. You feel your face burn.

"You guys!"

"You've been locked up with him in your apartment for weeks," Lucy defends.

"And he is incredibly sexy," Mina adds. She frowns as the two of you give her a look of surprise. "What? Just because I have a boyfriend I can't think others guys are hot?"

"Fair point," Lucy says before she nudges your foot under the table. "C'mon, spill."

You know that if you really wanted to, you could shrug off the conversation. Your friends will only push you so far before they back off, knowing your limits. But you’ve missed this sisterhood, this warmth. You bite the bullet.

"I slept with him." You bury your face in your hands, mortified. "Twice. A heat of the moment thing the first time. We were arguing one second and then the next ...We were…well…"

Lucy smirks at Mina over her beer, a small shimmering glint in her light eyes before dual gazes return to you. "And the second time?"

"Last night."

"Another fight?"

You shake your head. "No."

The bar feels too loud, too harsh to talk about something as warm and gentle as your last time with Max. Lucy tries to catch your eyes with hers, confused by your sudden recalcitrance.

"…And?"

Your friend's voice is tender and entreating. The voice of a woman who really wants to know the answer.

"It was really nice."

Lucy looks at the far away gaze you have in your eyes and she smiles like the cat that got the cream. "Oh girl, you've got it bad."

You can't help but sputter a laugh at her. You don't know what you've been expecting from Lucy, considering her past with Max, but her amused reaction puts you at ease.

"He's good right?" She presses. "Like, the best you've ever had?"

She's not mad. If anything Lucy looks amused. You shrug, feeling your cheeks burn. Mina and she give dramatic gasps.

"Oh shit, he was."

Lucy giggles at you, a tinkling thing that makes you giggle back. A sound you've been missing in the weeks since you heard it last.

"I don't blame you," Lucy admits with a sigh. "If I wasn't so obsessed with Carmella I'd ask for a threesome."

"Lucy!" Mina squeaks, her face flushing in embarrassment. The two of them giggle, seeing the faraway look on your face turning to concern. Lucy is the first to speak, her brows arched.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know how to go forward with this,” you say awkwardly, hands gesturing weakly. “I mean, we slept together, I came to work and now this and we haven’t talked about it and I just, what am I supposed to do? Or say?”

“You’re always worried about good things being taken from you,” Mina observes gently. “And hey, knowing what happened with your family it’s no wonder.”

Her words settling into your mind as your fingers absently trace your locket. She’s very right. You pause a moment before you quietly excuse yourself.

You move to the washroom, ignoring the giggling gaggle of drunk college girls as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You look crestfallen, your eyes sorrowful and your lips thinned.

You look at the silver locket in your reflection, feeling that it’s so much heavier than it ever used to be. A constant reminder of all that’s been taken from you. But maybe it’s time you were done with that. After a moment’s hesitation you move to the clasp, undoing it and slipping the necklace into your pocket.

You return to the table to see your friends giggling over something on TikTok. When you take a seat Lucy is sipping her beer before launching into her own perspective about your Max situation.

“So maybe with this whole Max thing you need to just enjoy it,” she enthuses. “Don’t worry about next month or even next week. Just enjoy the now. Have sex, don’t get serious, and enjoy being a single woman!”

The thought is appealing. It’s not as if you have to marry the guy because you slept together. It could be as simple as having a fuck-buddy you live with. That’s convenient.

“But what if Max gets attached?” Mina hedges, ever the empathetic one.

“His own fault,” Lucy shrugs.

You’re quiet, thoughtful as you consider this. It is cruel to do to Max if he’s attached. But then again, aren’t you getting attached as well? A buzzing sounds from your purse and you lift the screen to see a text.

Hey babe, you want me to make dinner?

Lucy peers over the screen, her face contorted into a grin as she reads the message. “Oh shit. He’s already attached. He’s playing house-husband.”

“He is not,” you insist, face so hot it brings tears to your eyes. You slam the phone face-down on the table, embarrassed.

“Would it be so bad to date him?” Mina asks, fingers tracing the rim of her glass absently. The place feels loud, so chaotic and your brain feels even moreso. Images of Max at home making dinner are crowding your mind.

“It would be complicated.”

“Only if you make it complicated,” Lucy says. She surveys you a moment, tapping her nails against her glass and giggling as she takes a sip. You and Mina exchange a confused look, prompting her to lower her glass.

"I think this is the first time we've both sampled from the same buffet."

"Oh gross!" You exclaim, your combined laughter loud and drawing looks from the patrons in the nearby tables.

The relief that floods you is acute, drawing wet to your eyes and a swell of your heart as you look at the faces of your friends. You see the acceptance there, the love. And it's because of Max that they're back. Yes, he was the reason for the strain but he was also the catalyst that brought about your reunion.

"I've missed this," Lucy says, wiping the amused tears from her eyes. Mina is red-faced and nodding in agreement. You look at both of them with a quiet gratitude.

"Me too."

///

Max puts the final garnish on your mushroom risotto with a flourish before plating it and stepping back to admire it from all angles. You're gonna love it. He glances at his phone, seeing no messages from you and he frowns.

"Stop being so fucking codependent," he grunts to himself. "She'll be home soon."

Will you? Or are you avoiding him? It’s almost eight pm, far past dinner time. But maybe you’re working late? Or worse, what if you’re with that fucking donut Van? That annoying lovesick idiot.

Maybe he shouldn’t have made dinner. Maybe he should have just pretended like last night didn’t happen. You sure as hell haven’t made any indication you want to continue. No note, no text, no nothing.

But dinner is a good excuse to talk with you. A great chance to ask you how you’re feeling about things, to see if sex is something you want to continue with.

It’s not just sex he wants, of course. But he can’t tell you that yet. Not so early into everything. He can’t admit to you that he’s been steadily falling in love with you for months and is now so pathetically besotted just the thought of holding you in his arms has him fluttery inside.

His eyes fall shut for a moment, recalling how you looked caged under him last night, the warmth of your eyes and voice as you told him you wanted him. And you weren’t lying; he could see it, feel it, taste it.

Sunshine.

Then like he personally summoned you he can hear your key hit the lock before you're stumbling through the front door and calling out his name.

"Hey," he calls as he exits the kitchen. "How was work?"

When you don't answer he glances over his shoulder. Your purse is dropped but your heels remain on, your skirt swishing around your hips. You make your way towards him and he can smell the light scent of wine. Your eyes are clear, so you're not drunk. Just warm and relaxed.

Max doesn't know what happened tonight, all he knows is that you're looking at him with a hunger he wasn't anticipating. You come to stand in front of him; eyes gliding around his face like you're napping it. He smiles down at you, voice warm.

"Hey ba-"

Max is taken aback when you suddenly tilt forward and your lips connect with his, palms sliding up his torso. The way you kiss him is desperate, teeth clacking, hands tugging his sweater up over his head as he pushes your coat off your shoulders.

Still kissing you shuffle back towards the couch, your hands curling around his cheeks to allow your tongue to swipe his.

Now. You need him now.

You're both shaking as you tumble to the floor, his pants unzipped as you step out of your panties. You push him back onto the hard wood and Max allows it, intrigued.

Your face is bright, your smile crooked as your hands bring him out of his boxers. To no one's surprise he is throbbing and hisses when you slide your fingers up the shaft.

He makes a soft groaning noise as you take his weeping cock and line it up at your entrance. His head tilts back as you sink onto it, your tits spilling out of your low cut dress, your throat exposed.

"Fuuuuck."

His hands find your hips, guiding you forward and thrusting up.

You ride him right there on the floor, too eager to even make it to the couch. Max moans as he takes in the way your body moves against his, the slick of your cunt glossy in the moonlight. You're exquisite, eyes meeting his as you smile down at him.

His fingers slide to find your straining nub, making gentle circles there as you continue to ride him. Your hands slap palm down on either side of his head, fingers curling into the hardwood. You roll your hips, riding him furiously, faces inches apart.

He darts his mouth up, catching you in a full lipped kiss before his head falls back to the floor, groaning your name.

"Max," you groan, eyes shuttering as pleasure builds everywhere.

Max whimpers huskily as you crest, brows saddling and mouth gasping his name. His hands remain on your hips, grinding you harder against him. His teeth are bared, fangs threatening to extend. Your body tenses, ready to release. But you need his raspy voice to get you there. Your eyes open, darting to his face. His eyes are black, shining with lust.

"So fucking sexy," he breathes up at you and that's what does it.

He says something else but you don't hear him, you're already pitching off the edge of your orgasm, your thighs trembling as your sex clamps around him.

"That's it, Sunshine," he growls, thrusting harder up into you. "That's fucking it. Soak me, baby."

You moan his name, doing just that, exploding around him, your thighs squeezing as he follows you into a blinding orgasm, his neck flushing and head falling back onto the hard ground as he groans out your name.

You breathe heavily, chest expanding and constricting as you smile down at him from under heavy lids. He's hazy-eyed and shooting you a drowsy grin.

"Fuck, that was hot."

He chuckles when you let out a tired sounding giggle in response. The two of you stare softly at one another before his fingers snake curl around the back of your neck, dragging your mouth to his in a bruising kiss.

You take your time kissing him, head tilted and eyes closed. Then you collapse next to him, sated and sleepy.

Your arm rests on his bicep, not protesting when he curls it and you into a dual armed embrace right there on the hardwood.

"I didn't wanna push my luck and ask before but, what brought this on?"

"Things are going back to normal because of you," you say with a smile, "and I appreciate it."

"If this is how you show appreciation I'm very happy to report that I made you dinner."

You laugh uproariously at this, your fingers coming to trace along the buttons on his shirt absently.

Is not just gratitude that propelled you into his arms or thanks that made you fuck him in a frenzy. It was this crackling, electric need for him to feel as good as you do.

Eventually the two of you stand, bypassing the kitchen in favor of a shower.

He makes sure the water is warm before you both shrug off your remaining clothing.

You feel strangely exposed in the cramped space, your naked body on full display under the harsh light. You hide yourself, facing away from Max as the water cascades over you both.

But he pulls you back, your spine kissing his front. He tucks his chin over your shoulder, glancing down at your exposed skin.

A groan presses into your neck, low and feral. He likes what he sees. He soaps you both up, a small contented smile on his face when his soapy hands slide over your breasts. He feels your nipples pebble under his touch accompanied by a soft whimper.

You marvel at the way his hands move delicately, rinsing you both before deft fingers move through your hair, the sweet scent of coconut hair products enveloping you both as he massages your scalp.

He watches your eyes closed in bliss and feels a tug below his ribs as he rinses the conditioner from your hair.

"I missed you today," he murmurs.

You turn around, wiping the water from your face and glance up at him, your heart stuttering as the water hits your back. Something about the warmth in his gaze right now makes you melt like ice cream in the summer heat.

"I missed you too."

And there it is, the truth laid bare. Just as that night in his bed, here you are clear minded and honest. You missed him. You really did. The truth of you momentarily overwhelmed you, causing you to tuck your head to the left. But his fingers are reaching slowly out to you and he wears a pleased expression.

He taps the underside of your jaw with a crooked forefinger, your eyes floating to meet his.

"My girl," he breathes before guiding your mouth to his in a sweet and watery kiss.

His. His. His.

Your palm slides down his body, fingers coming slide over the erection you've felt against your abdomen for the last several minutes.

"Take me to bed," you whisper, shocked at the overwhelming weight of already needing to feel him again.

Max's eyes have blown black and at your touch he gives a growl of approval before chasing you naked and squealing with laughter into the bedroom.

///

"Do you think we would have met in another universe?" Max murmurs, fingers stroking along your arm as the two of you snuggle up together under the blankets of your bed. The two of you are dressed once more in your sleep clothes and you cheek rests on his pec.

"You mean if you hadn't been turned?"

"Yeah."

Your lower lip sticks out in thought as you think of such a scenario. It's hard to imagine him alive, going to a nine to five job, going hiking. It feels impossible to imagine Max anywhere but this apartment.

"Have you?"

"Yeah."

You tilt your head his way, eyes bright. "Really?"

Max gives a crooked smirk and then he nods, looking away from you, embarrassed. You can't help but admire how handsome he looks like this in the low firelight. You tug the neckline of his soft T-shirt.

"Tell me."

He's quiet, still not looking at you. He seems to be thinking, blinking slowly before his eyes slide back to yours.

"A coffee shop," Max says quietly.

"A coffee shop?" You peer at him. "Like, Starbucks?"

He nods. "Reaching for the same coffee order. Right out of a rom com."

You can picture it now, Max's long fingers brushing yours as you both reach for the same coffee cup. Him dressed in a suit, backlit by the sunshine of the morning. You would have thought him beautiful.

"Ah, but you don't know my order," you tell him with mock solemnity. Your chin balances on your folded hands over his sternum, head cocked playfully to one side.

"No?" Max side-eyes you. "It's not a lavender oat milk iced latte?"

"Okay, yes, you know the coffee part," you relent, secretly pleased. "But I always get a little treat if I'm at a coffee shop and you don't know my little treat."

Max's mouth twists to one side, his eyes squinting at you.

"Donut?"

"Nope."

"Bagel?"

"Hell no."

"Croissant?"

You shake your head in amusement at Max's dramatic exhale, his eyes narrowed on yours.

"Put me outta my misery, Sunshine."

"Banana bread," you say with a faraway look in your eyes. "My mom made it for me, with chocolate chips. Nan made it for me when my mom passed away, but she always put walnuts in it. I hate walnuts."

"I've never had one."

"A walnut?"

Max shrugs. "I was allergic to peanuts so my parents never let me have any nuts whatsoever."

Your attention snaps into focus, eyes fixed on him. Now he looks a bit distant, even misty-eyed.

"I never thought I'd miss having fucking allergies." He scoffs a small half chuckle in his throat.

You pause to stare at him. All the time that you've known what Max truly is, you've never truly stopped and considered that he might not enjoy all aspects.

"You remember our talk on the roof? About turning me?" You continue on when you see his wince. "You said something up that there I haven't forgotten."

His attention is on you. "Mmm?"

"You said that you'd give it all up. The power, the living forever." Your body shifts in your seat, knees drawing to your chest. "Did you really mean that? Do you really miss being human?"

"Yeah," Max nods at you. "Yeah, I do."

You fall silent, eyes scanning his face for any trace of a lie. Who would want to give up forever? An eternity?

"But look at all you'd be giving up. Immorality, power..."

"Watching everything and everyone I care about fade away is hard," Max tells you flatly. "And decades from now I'm going to have no one I knew from this life."

You swallow, listening in the darkness.

"Then in thousands of years when the world is on fire I'll burn with it, but I'll do it all alone."

You hate the pain you hear in his deep voice. You roll closer to him, arm over his abdomen. Sleep is starting to creep into the corners of your eyes, tiny weights dragging the lids down.

He watches you yawn, snuggling closer to him.

"You won't be alone."

His breathing hitches. "No?"

"Of course not. You're charismatic, Max," you tell him. "You're funny and fun. You're smart. You're handsome. People love being around you."

"Mhm."

"And just think, you'll meet new, exciting people and have all these amazing adventures and you'll forget there was ever a time when you were stuck in some shitty New York apartment."

Max looks at you propped on his shoulder, your eyes shuttering in the darkness.

His voice is tight when he finally replies moments later, but you're already fast asleep.

"I don't want to forget."

///

The coming days are... Bliss.

You take Lucy's advice, allowing yourself to give into the desire you feel around Max, the palpable need to be in his orbit. And he meets you at every turn, wide grin and sparkling eyes, like he can't believe it's finally happening.

He greets you when you walk in the door at night, his voice warm from the kitchen. You always smile to yourself, trying not to look too smitten when you turn the corner.

Some days he has dinner ready and waiting, and he pours you a glass of wine as you both settle in at the table. He wants to hear about your days and you want to hear about his evenings.

You like listening to what council meetings are like for him. You ask questions about Glenn and Sheila, you show genuine interest when he tells you about topics that have come up.

He glosses over the uglier parts, the victims used as buffet fodder, the cruel way vampires view mortals. You seem to sense that, staying away from that topic.

After dinner you do the dishes as Max watches you, trying not to look besotted even though that's exactly what he is. He watches soap clinging to your hand as if just like Max, it doesn't want to be separated from you.

Sometimes you tell him to stop staring at you like a creep, but he never misses the small little smirk you try to hide when you say it.

Sometimes after dinner you read for a bit, curled into one corner of the couch with the blanket over your lap. Max plays on his phone, but in reality he covertly watches you.

He's noticed you play with the blanket edge between your fingers when you read something tense. That you squint at the parts that amuse you. He loves cataloging these moments of the unguarded you.

It's like you've changed, blossomed in front of him. You smile more, laughing often. You're radiant, so much more at ease around him. You don't second guess, you don't hesitate, your open.

Like when he glides his fingers along the small of your back when he walks by; you don't flinch from him. Instead you lean into his touch, smiling to yourself. Or when he catches you glancing over at him as a movie ends, the credit music playing, the screen reflecting in your eyes and he just knows what you want.

"Your place or mine?" He'll rumble in your ear, smiling when you roll your eyes good-naturedly.

You take turns moving from bedroom to bedroom, touching, kissing, making each other come in new and delicious ways. The first time you went down on him, Max genuinely thought he had finally died and been transported to heaven.

Max likes it when you pick his bedroom because then he can watch you fall asleep in his arms. Sometimes he reads or scrolls his phone with you tucked up under his chin. In the early hours of morning he finally feels his own call for slumber. He slips into it peacefully with your face as the last thing he sees.

You always wake up the next morning to find him out cold, body still, full lips parted. You take your time looking at him, memorizing the planes of his face, the pebbled flesh of his neck, the strength of his shoulders. Sometimes you softly kiss that pouty mouth, smiling when he makes a sighing noise in his sleep.

And in those moments you have to wonder: When did you last have this heavy contentment in your muscles? The glittery frisson in your body? The overwhelming comfort found in someone else?

Some mornings you linger in his bed too long, face nuzzled in his neck and he stirs, fighting through sleep to kiss you, sliding between your welcoming thighs and moving slowly, groaning into your mouth.

Those mornings you like the best, clinging to his muscled back as he brings you to a lazy mutual orgasm, whispering that you feel so perfect, that he wants you to stay home from work so you two can fuck all day.

You never take him up on it, though you do daydream about it often. On those days you arrive at work with wild hair and smelling of Max's cologne.

Mina and Lucy always exchange a knowing look. And despite never saying anything out loud, there's no mistaking the pride in their features.

"You seem happier lately," Lucy tells you over lunch with Mina nodding through bites of Cobb salad. You glance her way, not immune to the hickey on her slender neck.

"So do you."

It's true; Lucy and Carmella have been hanging out a lot, often photographed by eager paparazzi. Lucy comes into work some mornings starry eyed and smiling while you and Mina giggle behind your hands.

"It's weird but, I think this might be it for me," Lucy says, leaning forward on her elbows. "I think I'm ready to commit."

Mina jerks up in her chair. "Seriously?"

Lucy's face goes as red as her hair. "Yeah."

You and Mina give quiet squeaks of joy not wanting to disturb the other cafe patrons.

"And you?" Lucy says, turning the attention from her to you.

"What about me?"

Lucy's fingers trail along the side of her drink, shooting an exasperated look that Mina mirrors.

"C'mon. Be real. You and Max?"

"I'm just taking your advice you say, eyes on your plate. "Just having fun."

Like the shadows Max thrives in, your thoughts turn to the inky darkness of how this cannot last. How could it? How could you possibly date a vampire?

"But he makes you happy," Mina counters, blue eyes wide. She's hunched over her salad, her body tense.

"You took care of him when he was sick."

"He sends you iced coffee to the office."

The two of them rapid fire back their opinions as you sink further into your chair.

"And from what I've seen you make Max happy," Lucy adds. I think you guys make a really good couple."

Your stomach jumps, making you wince.

"What? No... It's not like that. This is no strings," you mutter, "this isn't long term. He's moving out soon."

Though mention of his moving has been delayed. In fact, the subject never really comes up anymore. And you don't press it. Because it's too easy to fall into the sweet trap of his presence. To bask in the way he looks at you, to feel his body against yours in the evening as you watch movies or play card games.

You don't want to bring it up for fear of what that will mean. If - no, when- he moves on you tell yourself that you'll be relieved. The albatross around your neck will be removed. You should be happy about that, right?

So how come the thought makes you sick?

///

Max is on cloud nine.

No, fuck it, cloud 9999999999999999999999999.

He can't remember the last time he woke up happy, excited to greet his dark "morning". Even if you're not in his arms when he wakes up, he can still catch the scent of your shampoo or perfume on his sheets.

He goes about his nights with focus, passively scanning for apartments with roommates. But his heart isn't really into it. If he moves out, then he can't see you all the time. He won't see your sleepy face, he won't hear that soft groaning sigh you give when you're about to come, won't be able to run his fingers through your hair.

But if he moves out, he can romantically pursue you without the assumption that he's only doing it for blood access.

But would you want that?

He paces in his room for a while, thoughts cloudy with memories of how your mouth felt, how you look at him some nights.

Then his phone pings, an alert from some sports subreddit. He pauses to sit on the edge of his bed, inspired. He pulls up a popular subreddit. /Vampires

He scans the threads, hoping to find something that he needs to know. He finds it after only a bit of scrolling, his dark eyes landing on the title.

I (45/mortal) and my bf (155/undead) are thinking about committing to one another.

Max opens up the thread, reading the remainder of the OP's message.

I love him so much. We've been together for ten years but I don't want to be turned. But I'd love to be his wife and he has expressed the desire to be my husband. Are there any others like us out there and has it worked for you?

Max reads the replies voraciously.

B.March: Fuck no. That's so selfish of him to even ask!!!!!!

Batboy13: Good deal for you. You get some hottie the rest of your life, he's gonna end up with a raisin.

Fangs6643: How will that work!?? He's awake at night, you're awake during the day? What kind of marriage is that???

Anon_pumpkin_grapes: Why not just get turned? If you loved him you would.

Lilac_gurl: Don't turn just for him! Relationships end, even vampire ones! And then you're stuck for an eternity watching him with someone else.

Fdst33: I offer a different perspective. My spouse and I met when he was 29 and I was 233. He was meant to be my victim but there was something about him that just clicked and I found he felt the same way. We are celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary this year. Yes, I still look 25 and he is approaching eighty, but I don't care. I still see the eyes of that young man I fell in love with. Our marriage has challenges just as any mortal one would, but we have built a beautiful life together.

Max rereads this last one several times, heart swelling each time. We have built a beautiful life together.

"I brought pizza!"

He hears your voice through the other side of the bedroom door and he jumps up immediately. He's like an eager puppy, smiling and excited. He frowns when he realizes it.

"Chill the fuck out," he mutters to himself, shaking out his sudden nerves. He's never felt like this for a woman before, not even un-dead. This strange anxious elation.

He'd been quick to fuck and chuck as several of his old friends would say. Get them in the sack and then move on. Transactional. He never really built connections with a woman, too worried it would distract him from the things he was passionate about; money and power.

But he loves spending time with you, eager to learn more about you, fascinated by the little pieces you share with him. The rituals the two of you have created in this home.

He runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing down his sweater.

You're at the table two pieces deep into a deep dish pizza when he exists. Grease shines at the corner of your mouth as you look at him.

"M'sorry if you made dinner, I just had such a craving," you explain through a mouthful of cheese, your free hand shielding Max from the sight of it.

"No dinner," Max says with a gentle look shot your way. He takes a seat next to you at the table, watching your shiny mouth chew, cheeks puffy.

"You know Carmella Kinsey?" You ask through a mouthful, washing down the latest bite with a tall beer bottle. This is the tradition you have during some meals, the sharing of your days, gossip you hear, things you’ve read.

He watches your throat bob and for a moment he really misses pizza and beer. The perfect combo when he was in college.

"The actress?"

"Mhmm, guess who's dating her?"

Max thinks about your circle of friends. "Van?"

You sputter a laugh at the thought. "No. He hasn't even been into work for almost three weeks. He's using up all his vacation time."

Your smile dims slightly as you think of him, his sparse text messages, his long absence. You're responsible for all of it. Max can see this and so he makes sure his voice is punchy, dragging your attention back his way.

"Lucy?"

"Yep. They've been dating for a bit and she's crazy about her. Says that she wants to commit already!"

Max thinks about Lucy and her desire to just have fun. Without the influence of his bite he would have been just another conquest to her. The thought that she might have found someone to match her, makes him feel joyful.

After dinner it's decided that a scary movie is in order. Max gets to pick this evening, feeling you snuggle into his side before the credits have even started to roll. He glances over as the scene begins, watching you absently scratch your neck.

Max notices that you've stopped wearing your silver locket and he doesn't know how long it's been. He's reminded of it fifteen minutes later when movie night has quickly devolved into making out.

Your back is pressed against the cushion; Max's hips nestled between your pajama-clad thighs. Despite how hard he is in his jeans there's no hurry in Max's movements. He grinds slowly against your core as you whimper and nip at his lower lip.

His mouth dips to your jaw, nibbling as you giggle at the tickling sensation. His lip catches on the side of your neck, finding your warm flesh bare of jewelry.

"Max," you whine as his tongue traces along the side of your throat.

In that moment he truly wishes that you'd continued to wear the necklace. Having your neck bare with its pulse ticking makes him feel desperate. When he kisses over your jugular, his fangs throb as he fights to keep them retracted.

You haven't asked to be bit since that first night against the wall, which surprises him. He assumed you'd be chasing that blissful high.

But when he watches you writhing under him in his bed later that night, your forehead damp with sweat and hair stuck to your cheeks as you moan his name, Max knows he must be doing something right.

Sometimes when he's inside you he just watches in awe, amazed at the way you just seem so alive. Your eyes are so bright before they roll back in your head, your skin so deliciously warm.

He touches and tastes and worships every inch of you, and his joy is multiplied when he sees you smile his way, murmuring his name. And this feels natural, this feels like home. Two people in sync, bodies made for each other, hearts open.

For the first time in so long, Max is truly happy.

///

Taking the subway home one evening after drinks with the girls you scroll your phone, your mind dizzy. You've been so wrapped up in the cocoon with Max that you've been distracted.

You scroll through your feed, stopping upon an article and a familiar face.

Murder of young woman at local club sparks ongoing debate about nightclub safety.

The picture accompanying the article is of Danielle, clearly from her college graduation. She looks so different with her bright smile and minimal makeup. Nothing like the sultry vixen you met.

Memories of Danielle come back to you. The way she danced with Max, the jealousy you felt. You believe Max when he says he didn't do kill her. But then what happened?

The article seems to think it was a knife that did her in, but you have a bad feeling it was something more sinister.

Max mentioned that there's a council all over different cities. Then it stands to reason that there are other vampires as well. The thought unsettles you as you glance around at the faces of you fellow passengers. You imagine them with long fangs and threatening eyes.

Stop it.

You've never seen Max turn like that. Never seen what his victims must have seen. What Mister Morris must have seen right before he died. The thought chills you.

But he doesn't want to do that anymore, you remind yourself. It's why he's getting fed from the blood bank. He's not like the rest of them. He's...special.

You've got several glasses of wine in you and you're feeling emotional. It's getting harder and harder not to imagine what will happen when Max leaves. How he's going to be alone forever in the coming decades.

Is there any possibility of him becoming human again? Could it happen? The wine is addling your brain, making coherent thought a bit of a challenge.

Alan what if you hate being a vampire?

What do you mean?

Like. Is there any way for you to go back to being human?

????

I mean so say you're turned. Then say you absolutely hate it and want to go back to being a human. Can you ever do that?

In your slightly inebriated mind you wonder if there's some kind of ritual that could do it. Some old bones and hair of a virgin or something weird.

You see three dots bouncing and you wait, hoping that somehow he'll give you a magic answer.

But then they cease, gone.

He doesn't reply.

///

You step into the apartment that evening with that lingering upset at the back of your mind. Something that's been nagging you since that club night with Max. Max seemed to be hiding something. His concern verging into fear. It had you on edge all day.

All of that disappears the second you round the corner to see Max at the counter of the kitchen. Normally you come home to see him in jeans and a sweater or (your favorite) a T-shirt that clings to his biceps.

But tonight he dressed in his work suit, the dark navy one he used to wear when he went "to work". His buttery leather shoes are on his feet; his hair styled to look casually tousled. Under one arm is a newspaper you recognize from the communal recycling bin downstairs.

Max is looking at his wristwatch, looking agitated. When he sees you he gives a polite smile, the kind he would give if you were strangers passing in the street. Then he pulls out his phone, scrolling away.

You walk over to him confused at the shift in energy. This isn't what you'd been expecting when you got home.

You come to stand across from him, eyes searching his distant expression, his focus on the phone in his large hand. You wait for him to speak, unsure of what's going on.

Max finally tilts his eyes to you, brows rising.

"Oh, excuse me," he says feigning confusion as he points to the counter. "That's my order."

You blink over at him totally lost until you glance down to see a Starbucks cup. On the side of the cup in felt is one word. Sunshine.

Suddenly it all clicks onto place and you can't help but swallow a giggle, relieved and delighted all at once. You immediately straighten, pulling your purse strap over your shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir," you say adopting a dismissive tone and schooling you features into that of a woman in a rush. "But my name is on it."

Max looks comically exaggerated at the cup, his brow turning quizzical as his lower lip juts out.

"So it is," he says in awe. "My mistake."

"It's fine," you say taking the cup with an airy toss of your hair. "Mistakes happen."

Max's mouth twists as does yours, struggling to keep the act going without laughing.

"I have to make it up to you," he insists motioning to the bar stool next to you. "Can I get you something to go with your coffee?"

You giggle behind your cup before giving what you hope is an alluring smirk. "Sure."

He looks at the invisible cashier, raising a hand.

"Yes, could I get an order of banana bread?"

Your heart leaps. "You didn't."

"I did," Max grins and he goes around into the kitchen, pulling the fragrant loaf from the stove.

You watch him slice through the bread before popping a thick piece on one of your plates. He pushes it your way, sliding a fork alongside it.

"Did you have butter with it?" He asks with a wrinkle of concern between his brows. "The recipe online said some people like butter."

You shake your head and your eyes fill with tears at the sweetness of the action. You glance down at the bread until your eyes blur.

A warm, heavy hand makes its way onto your shoulder, fingers curling gently.

"Hey, you okay?"

You give a watery laugh, nodding as Max comes to stand closer to you, peering into your face.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, this just..." You trail off. "It's just..."

You fight to find the words that will explain how much this simple act has meant to you, but your voice keeps cracking.

Max grunts in surprise when you suddenly fling your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly to you. He feels you sniffle against his shirt, swallowing when he realizes you're silently crying.

His arms circle you, embracing you tenderly and just holding you. You take a moment like this, bodies against one another, your eyes shut, forehead against his shoulder.

"I didn't want to make you sad," he whispers, his chest rumbling under your cheek.

"You didn't," you say, your voice thick as you wipe your tears on the back of your hand. "I promise."

And it's true, he didn't. He made you remember something pure and good. Of a time when you were so happy to be in the presence of your parents love. Of the endless care your grandparents showed you. Things forgotten in favor of bad memories, their deaths instead of their beautifully exquisite lives.

Max made you remember the beauty of living, the privilege of being able to taste food and walk in the sunlight and inhale the sweet air of the morning. That through the darkness there is a remarkably vivid and jubilant life in store for those able to take it.

You pull back from him, gazing into his dark brown eyes.

It's been there in the background, those three words wrapping themselves around every heartfelt conversation and thoughtful gesture. The sentiment that scares you with is power.

The words are there now, tantalizingly close to being said, full of the deepest desire. As if he senses this Max presses the softest kiss to your lips, his voice a whisper.

"My girl."

Your phone shrieks from your pocket, startling the two of you into breaking apart momentarily. You turn from him.

"Ignore it," Max murmurs, his hands coming from behind to rest loosely around your waist.

But you're already fumbling for the device in your pocket, squinting at the name as you pull out your phone.

"It's Van."

"Ignore it," Max repeats as he nuzzles his nose against the side of your neck, kissing gently. The resulting shivers that run up your body have nothing to do with the cold. You almost give in to his request until the phone screams at you again, reminding you of the sad orphan across town.

"I can't ignore it," you say as you answer it. "Hello?"

"Hey." Vans voice is low and raspy.

Max's mouth continues pressing soft kisses to the side column of your throat, making your body go gooey as you try to focus on the voice at the other end of the line.

"H-hey."

"You free to talk?"

Max's hands are sliding up underneath your blouse, kissing your shoulder gently. He knows exactly that he's doing. You extricate yourself, shrugging off his plump mouth.

"Of course," you say breathlessly, attempting to ignore the vampire scowling and shaking his head at you as you push him off. "What's up?"

"I uh... I just needed to talk to someone."

Not wishing to be further ignored, Max comes to kneel in front of you, deft fingers bringing down the zipper of your pants. You're shaking your head but he's nodding his, pressing a kiss below your navel. It's making it hard to focus on Van's sad voice.

Max drags your pants down, pressing a kiss to your mound over your panties. Your head spins.

“I’ve had a hard day.”

Max's fingers tug your panties to the side and he gives your cunt a sloppy kiss. Not bothering with any preliminary work, his lips latch around your clit and begin to suck. His hands are curled around your ass, holding you in place.

"Any reason in particular?"

“Too many reasons, really.”

Your knees buckle, held upright only by bracing your free hand on Max's broad shoulder. You're eyes are cheating to the back of your head, pleasure building so quickly you have to bite your lower lip before asking your next question.

"W-What hap-happened, Van?"

“Just reading some of the stuff my father wrote.”

All the building arousal bleeds immediately out of your body. With a mighty amount of self control you give Max a shove backwards, sending him falling back onto his ass.

He stares up at you in confusion. He felt you getting close, why the fuck would you stop? He watches you tug your pants back up, zipping them and spinning away from Max.

“Oh yeah?” Your voice is pitchy. “Like what?”

“Can you come over?”

You hesitate for a moment, looking at the cooling banana bread and then a clearly upset Max. His muscular arms are over his broad chest, his eyes narrowed.

"I just really miss talking to you," Van says gently as you hedge. "I feel like you're the only one who understands."

How can you deny him? After all he's been through? You nod to yourself, frowning.

"Of course. I'll be there in twenty."

You hang up, going to slip on your shoes. Max slinks over to you, mouth twisted in irritation.

"You're leaving?"

"I have to go, Max. He needs me."

"But we’re on a date."

He doesn't mean to sound so petulant, but it comes out that way. Mumbled and tinged with jealousy that you would consider dividing your time. He’s tried being patient about the whole Van thing, but honestly he doesn’t want you to leave right now.

"He really needs me right now," you explain.

Max knows that you're being empathetic, knows that you're the kind of woman who cares about others, who feels deeply and if he's honest with himself he finds that attractive. But fuck if he isn't furious with Van for interrupting this moment. For calling you. For you looking at your phone instead of being present with Max.

"I’ll be back soon."

You give him a weak smile before heading for the door as Max stands there feeling deflated. This isn't how he saw the night ending. If he insists you stay he’ll look petulant and insecure and he doesn’t want to come across that way. He’s about to offer to walk you but you’ve jogged out the door, closing it quietly behind you.

///

Van opens the door slowly, his dark eyes scanning your face. You feel you heart crack when you see how tired he looks. He swallows you in a hug, his body warm. He smells like laundry and coffee.

"Are you sleeping any better?"

"Yeah, I am," he nods. He gives a weary smirk at your disbelieving face. "Promise."

He welcomes you into that apartment, muttering about grabbing you a drink of water. You settle into the couch, welcoming the purring Murray onto your lap.

His home is in disarray, empty coffee cups, plates with streaks of gravy or crumbs litter the tables. Towels and clothing hang over chairs. This is nothing like the place you had your date in. The book you brought him is on the coffee table, surrounded by paper with scribbled notes and post-its lining the sides of the pages.

He returns to see you hunched over the book, your face pinched. He hands you your water and takes the seat next to you. He scans the book before rubbing his sweaty hands along his thighs. You can tell he's unsettled, filled with a nervous sort of energy.

“Doing some homework?” you ask lightly.

Van flashes the briefest of smiles, not answering that. The two of you sit knee to knee, the clock ticking in the background.

“How’re things at the office?”

“Pretty good,” you nod. “The guy filling in for you is good, but obviously people miss you. Any idea on when you’ll be coming back?”

“Not sure yet.”

You lapse into silence again, both of you watching as Murray stretches, kneading the pillow. You glance back at the book filled with Mister Morris’ scribbles and notes. Van’s eyes follow yours.

"Do you think it's possible?” Van suddenly says, hands on his knees as he looks at you. “I mean, do you think vampires could be real?"

You glance at your water glass, hoping the hitch in your breathing goes unnoticed.

"I never like to say never," you hedge, "but I think it's all a little fantastical."

"I know, I know," Van murmurs, cupping his face in his hands. "I sound fucking insane."

He raises his head and pins you with a look. "But the way he writes, is so... He sounds so positive, so sincere, you know?"

"Yeah."

"And my dad wasn't a stupid guy, he was an intellectual."

"Sometimes the smartest people have strange fixations," you offer. "I mean, Hemingway, Virginia Wolf, Isaac Newton... All gifted intellectuals but all facing their own demons."

Van exhales, nodding, his long arms backed on the couch. He looks distracted, his handsome face contorted and pinched.

"The shit he writes about your roommate," Van says shaking his head. "His evidence? He must have been stalking Max for weeks."

"I did see him harass Max once or twice," you admit.

"And you really trust that Max wouldn't do something to retaliate?" Van asks with subtle distrust in his voice. "I mean, you sat in that very spot months ago talking about how much of a creep he was and how you wanted to kick him out."

"He's changed a lot," you insist. "I think I was judging him too harshly."

"I doubt it. I didn't trust him at games night and I don’t trust him now," Van says flatly.

"Why?"

"I think he's dangerous."

"He's not," you say, stiffening in your seat. "Max is actually a very caring person. There's more to him than meets the eye."

"If you say so."

Seeming to sense the rising tension, Murray ambles his way onto the couch positioning himself on the cushion between you and Van.

"You know I was lying in bed, half asleep a few weeks ago and I noticed this weird shadow on my wall." Van squints, recalling. "I look to my window and I swear I saw Max."

"What?"

"It was only a flash," Van says. "And it was dark but I could've sworn it was him."

"Van you're on the twelfth floor," you say forcing a laugh that he doesn't return.

You feel Vans’ eyes on you, but you keep yours lowered, stroking Murray, smiling down at his happy expression.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

Your head snaps up, wide eyes going to his face as anger bubbles up in your belly.

"Excuse me?"

Van's face goes a bright red and he shakes his head, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

"Sorry. Shitty question. I just..." Van takes a deep breath. "You must know how I feel about you. This isn't just a casual thing to me."

You hate that you care about Van so deeply. It makes all of this so complicated, so confusing. Because it's not just Van who calls to you.

Van is a kind, handsome, compassionate doctor and Max is a cocky, sexy, vampire. One can offer you a real life, sunlight and safety. The other holds darkness and seduction and compassion. Van looks somber and he slides closer to you on the couch, moving the pillow that separates you.

The choice should be obvious. And yet when Van closes the distance to press his lips to yours your palm finds his chest, stopping him from advancing.

"Van, this isn't the right time to be talking about this," you murmur. "You're still in a very vulnerable place."

"I felt like this before I found out about my dad."

"I believe you," you tell him with sincerity. "But this isn't a good idea right now."

"Why?"

"Things are complicated for you."

"They're not so complicated," Van says softly. His hands slide around your back and you allow him to pull you harder against his chest. Your face tilts up to his and you see the warmth in his chocolate eyes.

"I love you."

You don't move, but your hand falls from his chest in surprise. He'd blurted it out in a half asleep state with you before. But now he's looking at you completely cognizant and it's overwhelming.

"You don't know what you're saying," you whisper shakily.

"Yes, I do. I know."

With intensity he cups your face in his hands, bringing your mouth to his, but the second his lips touch yours you feel yourself tense.

Max.

His face sears into your brain, his sorrowful eyes and his plush mouth curved into a grin, the sensation of him holding you as you floated in the air. The trust you felt in his arms. The memory causes you to pull back from Vans mouth, your eyes shuttering.

"Van, we should stop."

His eyes are pleading, his hands sliding to your shoulders to squeeze gently.

"Why?"

You don't answer, unable to find the words. The softness in Vans eyes slowly drains away, leaving only a cold and unrelenting look as he drops his hands from you.

"Why?" Vans repeats, his voice turning flinty. "So you can fuck that creep in your apartment?"

The back of your neck heats in embarrassment. Guilt and anger swirl in your abdomen, propelling you into a stand, tossing your purse over one shoulder. Seeming to understand the gravity of his insult Van blanches and jackknife's off the couch after you shaking his head.

"I'm sorry I don't know why I said that," he stammers, rubbing his forehead. "I'm just tired and frustrated but that's no reason to take it out on you."

"I should go," you say quietly. "I'll check in on you later in the week."

Van can only nod miserably, his face anguished as you bid him a goodnight.

///

You're still reeling from Van's treatment when you return home.

Max comes to greet you but his smile drops as he sniffs the air. He can smell him on you; Van. Did you fuck him? His stomach twists at the thought, but he can’t ask you that. You look devastated, your eyes filling with tears.

“What happened?”

You toe off your shoes, sniffling slightly. “He wanted to talk about his dad.”

Max is quiet, looking at you with a calm look on his face, even if he feels quite the opposite. He knows how hard this is for you, how difficult it is to look at Max when you know what he’s done.

I would take it back. I would take it all back if I could.

"I feel so guilty," you tell him, eyes wet, allowing Max to pull you into his arms. "I'm lying to a man who just told me he loves me."

Your forehead presses to Max’s sternum, not noticing the stormy expression that passes over his features. The pain is acute, centered in the middle of his undead heart.

Van loves you. He told you. He told you to your face while Max had to whisper it to you in your sleep.

And something ugly like possession takes him over. Something that causes his fingers to wrap around your chin, raising your head. Something that makes the pupils in your eyes expand as he crashes his mouth into yours, needy and commanding.

His wide hands fly to your hips, pulling you against him. You surrender completely, not hesitating for a second. Your arms crook around his neck and you kiss him back with the same ferocity and desire he has for you. He pulls you up, urging your legs to wrap around his middle.

"Max," you sigh between kisses, knowing that you should stop but knowing you won't.

He can make you feel better than Van. He can give you bliss like nothing else.

He seats you both onto the couch and his hands move quickly, lifting your shirt and pushing you up and out of the cups of your bra. He takes one hardened nipple into his mouth and sucks, his fingers kneading the other. He thinks of tasting your blood again and his cock swells in his pants.

Your head tilts back, body arching into his mouth as you whisper his name. You continue like this, him making paintings with his tongue on your flesh, his hands sliding over every curve of you he can. He's hard between you, groaning as you grind yourself against the bulge in his jeans.

Van doesn’t make you this needy, Max is sure of it. He doesn’t make your gaze all unfocussed and your lids heavy. He doesn’t make you whimper and keen still half-dressed.

His nose nudges yours, urging you to tilt your head so that he can kiss you sweetly there. Your eyes are shut and Max hears your shaky whimper of excitement. He can give you so much more than Van ever could.

Yes, Van can give you walks in gardens under the sun, but Max can give you magic under the stars. He can make you feel so good you forget about Van altogether.

A taste of bliss and you’re all his.

His fangs extend instinctually, tips coming to graze the flesh of your neck. He knows how good it made you feel last time. But your voice is there in his mind, just as it was the night you said it.

I just want you, Max.

Max has to pull himself away, tongue sweeping along the column of your throat before he pulls back. His eyes squeeze shut, fangs slowly retracting.

No. This isn't how he's doing things. He’s not going to trick you into being with him. He’s not going to keep you in some blissful fog that makes it impossible to truly make your own choice. You shudder, arms crooking tighter around his shoulders. His hands come between your hold, hands cupping your face.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Your eyes search his, your body turned on but also so exhausted. Too much has gone on tonight, too much confusion. You give him a shy smile, nodding before speaking softly.

“Can I have some banana bread first?”

///

Despite him not answering your previous question, you still reach out to Alan the following morning after your last patient leaves. You’re reclining behind your desk, eyes on the closed door before you pull out your phone.

Alan, do you really want to live forever?

His response comes a few moments later.

Of course.

Even as the world changes? Even as you live the rest of your life alone?

I'll have Edgar. I won't be alone.

You lower your phone, thinking about Max. He'll be alone without anyone to care about him.

You sit with these thoughts, eyes blurring in distraction.

What if you fall in love before you’re turned?

I’ve never been in love before. I can’t see it happening now.

Alan and Edgar are strange, sure. But they could fall in love, you’re sure of it.

But what if you do?

I choose immortality over romance any day.

You stare at your phone and attempt to enjoy the quiet hum of the radio in reception, but it does little to block out the thoughts that won’t leave you.

Can I ask you something else?

Sure.

When is Eleanor going to turn you?

When it's our time.

When will that be?

We don't know exactly.

Doesn't that drive you insane? What if she never does it?

She's a woman of her word.

///

Lucy sits next to you in the couch at Mina's place sighing blissfully as she stares at her phone.

A quick look over your shoulder shows a picture of Lucy and Carmella in Central Park kissing. They're backlit by the sunset and look like something straight out of a magazine.

"You two are so gorgeous," you say grinning. "It's almost annoying."

"I agree," Mina echoes as she enters from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and some seltzers. "Too perfect."

"Like you're one to talk," Lucy says to Mina grinning. "Where is the dreamy Johnny tonight?"

"Working," Mina says squishing on the other side of you on the couch, plopping the popcorn bowl on your lap. She glances your way.

"Where's your guy tonight?"

"My guy?" You sputter a laugh, feeling embarrassed as their dual gazes come to rest on you.

"Max," Mina says, nudging you with her pointy elbow.

Max is at a council meeting tonight. With other vampires. But you can't exactly tell your friends that, can you?

"How come you're not showing off cute photos of you guys at a park at sunset?" Lucy adds.

Because he'd be burnt alive.

"I...I don't have any," you say forcing a casual shrug.

"Why not?"

"We're not like you two."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We're not.. you know," you say motioning to their phones. "It's not serious."

The girls exchange a look that says volumes but thankfully don't press the subject.

Mina brings up a photo of Johnny on her phone, one of them having drinks at an upscale bistro and she flashes it your way.

"I guess he is pretty dreamy."

"Booo!" Lucy says with a giggle, tossing a handful of popcorn at Mina's blushing face. You all laugh, popcorn flying before settling in to watch Henry Cavill as Napoleon Solo.

It's movie night at Mina's and you're happy to be here back with your friends. The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is the film of choice for the evening.

"He looks so fucking good," Lucy all but groans.

"He's like a work of art," you sigh as you watch Henry walking around in a suit looking like something out of a painting. You smirk to yourself thinking how Max would love to mock you for how you swoon over Henry Cavill.

No. Stop thinking about Max.

"I need to pee," Mina announces.

"It just started!" Lucy shoots back.

"You know my bladder is the size of a pea!" She defends, pushing up from the couch with a grunt and padding towards the bathroom.

The door closes and you yawn, head falling back. The movie plays on but your head is full of a very specific vampire.

"You know if you talk about him I don't mind."

You glance over at Lucy who gives you a very gentle look. Almost concerned.

"I've known you a long time," Lucy says softly. "And I know that you feel something for Max even if you won't admit it. I just need you to know that I would support it."

Why does that bring a lump to your throat? You try to swallow, eyes wetting. Thankfully Mina exits then, ending the moment between you and Lucy.

"Ew the cannibal is in this?" Mina says as she walks back. You and Lucy cringe when Illya Kuryakin enters the scene.

"Gross."

"Plus I hear Henry doesn't even get shirtless in this one," Lucy says munching on a handful of popcorn. "So what's the point?"

///

"Do you have plans tonight?"

It’s Saturday night and you’re seated at the kitchen table before your laptop. You’ve been working nonstop at looking for another job close to where you live. With Van being gone so long you’re worried you might need to have a backup plan. The interim boss seems cool so far, but you’re not quite positive that he’s going to keep you all on staff.

Mina and Lucy are doing the same, even though it’s devastating to think of not working together anymore.

You glance up to watch as Max walks over to you casually; his eyes roving over you in a way that makes your skin prickle pleasurably. You slowly move to a stand, body bracing against the edge of the table.

“Plans?”

“Mhmm.”

You make a show of thinking off into the distance, tapping your chin thoughtfully as you hum. Max steps closer, his smile almost shy.

"Hmmm... I mean, I did have that date with Robert Pattinson..."

"Think you could cancel on ol' Rob?" Max says with an amused exhale.

"I might be able to," you tease. "Depends on the other offer."

Max steps forward, coming up to wrap his arms around your middle. Your hands slide up his biceps, resting casually. The motion feels natural.

"Well, we've done movies, we've done drinks and dancing," Max says as he pulls you towards him. "I thought we might do another date night activity."

"Oh yeah?"

Max nods, nuzzling your cheek with his own. "What do you think of bowling?"

You pull back to blink up at him. "You're fucking with me."

"Nope." He shakes his head, urging you to follow him towards the front door. "Used to go all the time when I was in college."

“No way.”

He pulls on his coat and shoes, looking at you expectantly. "Get your jacket, babe, let's go."

"Were you on a team?"

He helps you into your jacket, amused when you continue to gape at him.

"Wait, did you have matching shirts?"

He rolls his eyes at you. "I wasn't a virgin."

He takes your hand in his, guiding you out of the apartment and locking the door behind you.

"Did you have your own special bowling shoes?"

Max doesn't answer.

///

Two hours later the two of you are at a swanky restaurant you've never heard of before tonight.

It's busy with people, low lighting and a piano player in the corner who plays slowed down versions of pop songs. The tables are a glossy black with ornate wine glasses and spindly cutlery. It's the kind of place that tries too hard and you can imagine a younger Max bringing clients here to impress them.

"It's frustrating how good you are at bowling," you tell him, amused, your coat on the back of your chair, hands folded under your chin as you smirk at him.

It is beyond funny to you that the smooth, slick Max Phillips was once a top player in the amateur bowling league back in his hometown.

"I mean, I did tell you when I got there that I was good," Max says with a cocky tilt of his head.

"Not bowling a 300 good," you say with a smile that plumps your cheeks. "I feel like I'm in the presence of a master athlete."

"It's okay, babe," Max says with mock grandiosity. "One day maybe I'll let you polish my bowling ball."

Max watches as you tilt your head back, throat bobbing as you laugh out loud at this. It causes him to do the same, warmth spreading in your bodied. The two of you joke back and forth at you peruse the menu. You feel relaxed and you can't remember the last time you had this much fun on a date.

"Order both," Max tells you when you can't decide between two mains. He sits across from you, one hand on the back of the chair, the other holding the menu.

"Max, there's no way I can eat all that," you say with a scoff. "Besides I doubt you want to sit here all night watching me eat. This can't be fun for you considering... You know."

You give him a meaningful eyebrow waggle. It's not like Max can indulge in food here.

"I can eat with you," Max says glancing at the menu and surprising you. You drop your own menu (printed in Gothic font on creamy index sized paper of course).

"What? Really?"

"Sure," Max shrugs.

"Then why haven't you?"

"It's just not... " Max struggles for a succinct way of explaining. "It's the equivalent of you eating ice. It doesn't harm you, but there's no nutritional value in it. It doesn't taste like anything."

"That's so sad," you say with a look of disappointment.

"If I drink right before I can taste sometimes, but just faintly," Max assures you.

"Don't you miss ice cream?"

Max gives you a crooked smile when he sees the devastated look that you give him.

"I guess. I mean, it's been so long I don't really remember what it tastes like."

You give a swooning sigh. "Heaven."

"Nah, I've tasted that," Max says with a brief glance down your midsection to where your legs disappear under the table. "And it's so much better than ice cream."

Max watches as you grow flustered, eyes blinking rapidly, attempting to sputter a response just as a tired looking server approaches the table. He shoots you both a wan smile.

"What can I get you?"

You turn to give him a breathless smile, feeling Max's eyes on you as you struggle to talk.

"I'll have the-the, uh, salmon and your house white," you manage to stammer before collecting yourself. You motion to Max with your menu. "And he'll have the sirloin steak. Raw."

Max raises a brow at this

"We normally suggest medium rare for this specific cut," the server says with an impatient look.

"Thank you for the suggestion," you say with a bit more force. "He'll have it raw."

Max stares at you with a goofy smile on his face.

It's been so long since Max was at a restaurant. So long since someone looked at him like he was just another guy on a date. Something like anguish creeps up on him but he manages to swallow it back and flash the server a winning smile.

The server turns to Max expectantly.

"And how would you like your potatoes done, sir?"

"No potatoes for me. Just the steak."

The server looks surprised but nods. This is the kind of place where if you're a man, the customer is always right.

"And to drink? Would you care for the same as your girlfriend?"

The two of you start, eyes going everywhere but in the others direction.

"I'll stick with water, thanks," Max says, flushing delightedly.

The server nods, commenting that he'll be back with your drinks soon. When he leaves the table the two of you sink into an awkward silence.

You feel your heart stuttering in your chest as the word floats in your mind over and over.

Girlfriend.

Max watches you over the flickering candle in the center of the table, struck by how beautiful you look in that soft glow.

Girlfriend. When was the last time Max had a girlfriend? High school? He'd never been a monogamy guy, never wanted to limit his options. But with you? If tonight is any indication, you being his girlfriend would be a dream come true.

You feel Max's scrutiny and flick your eyes to his, momentarily mesmerized by the way the candle flickers in the reflection of his dark orbs.

"Raw steak," Max mutters. "Clever."

You give a shy half smile and duck of your head. "I figure the bloodier the better."

Max doesn't tell you that animal blood is nothing like human blood. That is like asking you to eat Murray and think it the same as a top sirloin steak. He doesn't tell you and never will because you did it for him trying to be thoughtful.

"Thanks, babe."

He slowly slides a wide hand across the table, slipping it over yours. You watch this movement, feeling his palm rest heavy over the back of your hand. But you don't pull back.

Girlfriend.

That's not a possibility. What would that be like? Aside from the obvious vampire limitations, what would life be like? Max eternally young? You growing older by the second? Max surviving on blood, potentially having to murder more people if you ever leave your current job.

It's a pipe dream, a silly fancy. Right now the two of you are just enjoying each other. After months of stress and hardship you're trying to find joy, even if there is a time limit. It's sex, its company after a long day. It's nothing more than that.

But Max doesn't seem to be looking at you in a way that suggests a short romance. He's looking at you from across the table with limpid eyes and a dreamy smile as he curls his hand around yours.

It’s more than that.

The server suddenly swoops in, placing a large drink at your elbow along with your ordered white wine.

"This was sent to you from a woman at the bar," the server says motioning to the second drink. "She said she thought you were a beautiful couple that deserved to be spoiled."

"Oh wow," you say delightedly flushing at the thought. "Really? Please tell her thank you. Where is she?"

You crane your neck to face back at the bar, seeing no one aside from a few businessmen with loosened ties.

"Oh, looks like she's gone," the server says with a shrug. "Anyway, your food will be out shortly."

You turn to smile back at Max in glee but his reaction gives you pause. He's frowning casting his eyes around the busy restaurant.

You lift the drink to your mouth about to drink when you feel Max's fingers wrap around the stem of the glass, tugging it away from you. It sloshes onto the table, causing your irritation to flare.

"What the fuck?"

"We're leaving," Max all but commands, standing and grabbing your jacket and tossing several hundred dollars onto the table.

"But our food -"

"Now," Max says sharply with another distracted look around the restaurant. When you don't move from your seat. He casts his eyes back to you, pleading in their dark depths.

"Please, baby. We have to go."

With a frustrated grunt you stand and feel him place the jacket over your shoulders before he's got his arm around your waist, dragging you out into the cold night.

"Max what the-"

"I promise I'll explain," Max says against your temple as he flags down a cab.

The two of you pile into it, and you don't miss the way he scans the space behind and in front of the cab all the way home. You arrive at the apartment still hand in hand with Max. It's like he's afraid to let you go until the two of you are back safe with the door locked.

"What was that about?"

Max keeps looking around the apartment, dragging you after him. You attempt to tug your hand back.

"Max!"

He whips around to face you, wild-eyed and tense.

"You've never invited a stranger in here right?" Max says dropping your hand to grip you by the upper arms. "Right?"

"What? No, just you," you grunt, pulling away from his strong hold but he holds tightly to you.

"Not a woman?"

"No!"

His fingers are digging into your flesh, hard enough to leave bruises you're sure. You flinch back.

"Max! Let go!"

He seems to come back to himself and immediately release you from the tight grip, stepping back from you.

"I'm sorry, I -" Max shakes his head, cutting himself off before collapsing onto the couch, his head in his hands.

You take a seat next to him, your heart fluttering. "Max you promised to tell me what's going on, so spill."'

He raises his head slowly; mournful eyes turned your way. He doesn’t want to tell you this. He doesn’t want to scare you. He stands, moving over to the mini fridge and grabbing one of his blood bags.

"I've had suspicions the last little bit that my sire Eleanor is trying to interfere with my life. I think she's attempting to scare you off."

"But why would she do that?"

"She's always enjoyed having her family close at hand." Max grimaces, pulling his opaque glass from the cupboard. "It's why I moved all over, but no matter where I ended up she'd always eventually find me."

"I mean, she gave you blood when-"

"As a way to keep tabs on me. As a form of control. Classic Eleanor."

You stare at Max, confused because all previous conversations he's engaged in about the subject paint Eleanor in a very positive light.

"You've always said nice things about her."

"And until this year I've meant them," Max says, pouring the blood into his glass. It sloshes aggressively, sending droplets onto the counter. "She's always been the type to get what she wants. But this weird tab keeping? It's fucking weird."

He takes a deep pull of his drink, throat bobbing. He drains the glass and you have to look away from his bloodied mouth.

"She was the one at the club, wasn't she?" you ask quietly. “That’s why you were scared.”

“I wasn’t positive, but yeah, I had my suspicions.”

“Why?”

“She’s my sire,” he explains slowly. “Sometimes I can just feel her when she’s nearby. Like a tugging on my ribs.”

You feel your teeth clench at that description. It sounds so intimate. You've heard a lot about Eleanor, but you can't quite picture her.

"What does she look like?"

"Gorgeous, tall, black," Max lists these off without thought. "Legs that went on for days, insane body-"

"Yeah yeah okay," you say grimacing. "I get it. She's perfect."

"Far from it," Max scoffs. “She was controlling and dark and she took pleasure in a lot of fucked up shit.”

You take in the information, jealousy and terror a potent cocktail in your veins. His description is doing something though, pulling back a memory you’ve been glossing over.

"Did she have an accent?"

Max's eyes go wide. "Did she contact you?"

Your body goes cold at the horror in his voice.

"Yes," you whisper, nodding. "Max she came into my work. Said her name was Ellen Barrow."

"Fuck," Max says gripping the side of his skull and wincing. "Fuck."

Something isn't adding up to you though.

"She could have attacked me back then," you say with a furrowed brow. "So why didn't she? There were no witnesses."

"Because she's sending me a message," Max says with a frustrated scrub down his face. "I guarantee it was her all that club the one who killed that girl."

Danielle.

"She saw us dancing," you say, thinking back to that night and shuddering.

She could have killed me.

"Max, she killed that innocent girl. If she's doing all of this to send a message what is she going to do to me?"

Max's arms are around you before you can say another word. He pulls you against him, hearing the terrified stutter of your heart.

"She's not going to touch you," he promises passionately. "I'd never let her."

Your arms link around his middle and you bury your face in his chest. You want to believe him, you want to sink into his warm promises and strong arms, but memories of what you read flood back to you.

Vampire sires and their progeny have a deep bond that goes beyond just turning. It’s a mix of power and responsibility. The connection is always there, like a constant push and pull, where the sire’s influence never really fades, no matter how much the progeny grows.

You're voice is muffled but plaintive.

"Max she's your sire. You won't be able to stop her." You sniffle. "I know what it says about the sire progeny relationship."

“She doesn't control me." Max peers down at you, your cheek against his sternum. "I left her before.”

"Because she let you leave," you tell him with glossy eyes.

And suddenly Max doesn't look so confident. In fact he looks like he's going to be sick. You pull back from him, your body suddenly cold. He looks at you with concern. Your ringtone suddenly blasts in the quiet room, startling you before you answer it.

"Hey," you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. "How's it going?"

“Not good.”

Your heart cracks. You can practically hear the devastation in his voice. He lost his father, he’s confessed he’s in love with you and you’ve been giving him the cold shoulder.

You think of Max waiting for you on the other side of the door. Of the sweet evening he planned. But you need to collect your thoughts; you need a break from his imploring eyes and his beautiful voice.

"I gave my notice to the clinic."

"What? What do you mean? You're quitting?"

"Yeah, I just handed in the paperwork. You'll all be officially informed about it Monday. Don't worry, the practice is just switching hands. No one will be losing their jobs."

"But why?" You pace in front of the large windows, your reflection anxious as Max watches you, rising to rest on the edge of one bar stool. "You've always loved your job, Van. I don't understand."

He sighs heavily on the other side of the phone. You can hear the weeks of sleepless nights and anguished days in that exhale.

"It's hard to explain… I.. Can you come over?"

"Tonight?"

"I need to see you," Van says in a hoarse voice. "Are you around?”

"Of course," you nod even though he can't see you. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah yeah," Van says unconvincingly. "Everything is fine. Just come over when you can."

Despite how awkwardly things ended the last time you saw one another you agree before hanging up.

Max sits on the couch, looking anxious. His head is balanced in his hands, fingers curled in his hair. He looks more than a little stressed. His head jerk up when he hears you exit, brows rising when he sees you.

You’re about to say something when your phone chirrups again. You raise it to your eyes, seeing another text from Van.

And I’m sorry about last time. I was just so overwhelmed.

Max is standing, walking over to you. “Baby-“

"Just a second," you murmur, holding a hand up to stop Max from talking. He pauses, looking curiously at the mobile as you type back your reply.

It’s okay. I understand. I’ll see you soon.

"Van needs me," you say quietly, your eyes sailing to Max’s. “I have to go.”

"No he doesn't,” Max snarls. “He's a grown fucking man. You don't have to go running to him every time he calls you."

He watches the stiffness take over your body, your eyes snapping to his face. In you is storm brewing.

"You're being really shitty right now."

Max swallows, hating that sweet golden moment of before has been saturated in this dark gloom.

"I can't just treat him like he means nothing."

"Why not? Why do you feel like you have to rush to him?"

"He told me he loved me, Max," you say with a fierceness that blindsides him.

But I love you.

"Babe," Max says with a wince.

"Don't babe me, Max.," you say frowning before your brow saddle. "I just don't know how you could have killed his father."

Aren't the two of you past this already? Hasn't he shown you that he's not that guy anymore?

"I regret it."

"Regret doesn't bring his father back."

Where is this coming from? I thought we were having a nice date night.

Max feels his temper rising at the hopelessness of the situation. The anger that has tempered these last few days suddenly blazes like an inferno.

"It's not like I had a fucking choice," Max snaps. "I had a job to do!"

There's a quiet rigidity that overtakes your body when he says that and Max watches you go eerily still next to him.

"What job?"

Max's lips press together so tightly they look bloodless. He blinks away from you, his fingers twitching.

Fuck.

When he glances back, you're staring at him with a wary look. Everything about you suggests tension over a thin veneer of fear. You're afraid of what he meant.

"What job, Max?" You repeat a little harder.

He could lie to you he muses for only a moment. You'd never know. But as you sit there with that open hopeful expression he knows he can't lie to you.

He can't lie to you anymore.

"I was instructed to kill Mister Morris."

All of the air is sucked out of the room, the walls stretching and shrinking as his words hit home.

Your forearm rests against the counter, bracing yourself.

"What? By who?"

"The council. The ones who run the show in town. The ones from my meetings."

"I don't understand."

"Every state has a branch," Max says. He shifts in his seat, long legs curling against the barstool legs. "In New York there are three families-"

"I don't mean that," you interject with a wave of your hand. "I mean why did they order you to kill him?"

"I was told that there had been confirmation of the existence of a vampire hunter and that it was up to me to extinguish him." Max runs his fingers through his hair absently. "An easy gig, and my yearly dues for membership if you will."

He watches you flinch at the casual dismissal in his tone.

"Why did they pick you?"

"Lotto. They drew my name. Keeps it fair. But I needed to be invited into his place, first," Max explains. "And he sure as hell wasn't going to do it for me."

You're quiet for a long time, eyes scanning the space in front of you as if reading the letters on a page.

"Why not just use suggestion?"

"Only works if they want to do it, remember?"

"I doubt Mister Morris wanted to change my smoke alarm the day you suggested him," you say reminding him of the day he forced Mister Morris to do odd jobs around the apartment.

"Sure he did," Max frowns. "He didn't dislike you. He was just staying away from me."

You're contemplative over this, fingers sliding absently against the smooth surface of the counter.

"So you needed to get into the building."

"Not just that, his personal apartment. I was supposed to kill him and bring back a book of his. But I never found it." Max scowls, disappointed in himself. "It was supposed to be a trophy."

The book you gave back to Van. Your face remains neutral though you're brutally twisted up inside.

"So I was just a way for you to get into the apartment so you could have easy access to Mister Morris." You look up at him sorrowfully.

"You're not just anything," Max says.

"I was a means to an end."

"You were a means to an end to them." He sucks in a shuddering breath. "But not to me."

You think of your old roommate Quinn. How she picked up and left your apartment in the middle of the day. How Max appeared on the scene when you were in desperate need. You're eyes well.

"Did you kill my old roommate, Quinn?"

Max looks startled at the accusation.

"No," Max promises you, "I just offered her some cash to leave the next day." Max frowns. "She didn't ask questions, just agreed and took the money. Not the greatest person to have as a roommate by the way."

"I don't think you get the play morality police here," you sneer. "You brought me into this nightmare and made me an accessory."

"No. I didn't. Your hands are clean."

"I helped you get into his apartment," you say with bile rising in your throat. "I'm the reason you got access to Mister Morris in the first place."

You look devastated, body crumpled over the counter. Max wants to touch you so badly it hurts.

"Why me?" You ask as you stare up at him with wet eyes. "There are tons of people in the building. Others that you could have done this to. Why did it have to be me?"

He can't tell you that he saw you in the Demeter, that he heard you speaking to your friends and that something like an invisible string pulled him, entranced him. That you were the only choice for him. He can't afford to be sentimental right now because your eyes are fiery. He can't show his underbelly when you have your claws out.

"You were talking about your job in the pub one night," he answers weakly. "I realized you had unlimited access to blood, a perfect channel."

You're sniffling, your face screwed up. Seeing it hurts Max, hurts him so much he feels a pain. It irritates him, making his jaw clench.

"What does that matter if you were only here to kill Mister Morris? You can kill people for food anytime you want."

"Because I don't like killing people!" Max bursts out. "Don't you understand that by now?"

Don't you understand me? He thought you did but maybe that was delusion.

You can hear the hurt tone in his voice. But you can't focus on that because you're so fucking devastated. This has all just been a way for Max to do his job.

"Morris was convinced I'd turned you," Max tells you darkly. "Did you know that? He told me as much when I was about to kill him. He was coming to kill you next."

"I don't believe you."

Max made you an accessory to the murder of your friend's father. He's a murderer in a totally different way now. And you've laid with this murderer in bed, you've kissed him tenderly and you've missed him when you were gone at work. You've welcomed him into your life and a piece of your heart you thought was dead.

It was hard enough thinking Max did it in retaliation to Morris' threats or that Max was just trying to protect his life. But knowing that it was his plan from the very start? How can you look at him the same way?

"I was looking for an alternative," Max says entreating. "A way to escape from under their thumb."

"They?"

"The council. The ones who make the rules." He rubs the back of his neck anxiously.

"You know when they told me Morris was some crazy vampire hunter I was picturing some Hugh Jackman guy, not some old man with too high up pants."

"But you still did it," you say trying to keep the quivering from your voice. "You killed him and then you lied to me."

"Because I don't want to do this anymore!" Max explodes, starting you into taking a step back. "I don't want to be some hitman for vampires. I don't like killing people. It's fucking shitty."

Disdain creeps into your features. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"No, no you're not," Max says with a shake of his head, coming closer. "I'm just trying to explain why I did what I had to do and why you need to stay away from Van."

"Why? Because he's kind? Because he loves me?"

Stop saying that. Stop saying that. Max feels his teeth clenching.

“He’s unstable and you shouldn’t be alone with him.”

“You hate him because of what his family does to your kind.”

Your kind. It’s like a bullet going through his chest. He can’t say anything, can only stare at you as everything blows up in front of him.

"I think it’s because you’re afraid of him," you say with a look of triumph, like you’ve hit on the truth. Something about that makes Max’s fingers curl angrily.

“I had every opportunity to break his neck weeks ago,” Max says lashing out. “Trust me, fear doesn’t factor into it.

All the brightness in your eyes seeps away, your body tensing as you digest his words. And he can sense it; can see the sudden fear that has made its way into your expression. The sight of it wounds him.

He reaches for you, body lurching in your direction. “Sunshine-“

"Get away from me," you hiss, waving him off as he approaches.

He stops, looking at you with puppy dog eyes.

"I'm leaving and despite your bullshit reasoning, I am going to see Van," you tell him, your stomach and heart converging.

Max nods slowly, knowing he can’t stop you. His head drops, too heavy to hold anymore when you’re looking at him like that. He’ll give you time to cool off, give you a chance to calm down and maybe he can explain everything better.

“It’s too much.” Tears are sliding down your cheeks now, shaking your head.

Max looks up, seeing the anguish on your face and feels his body ache with regret. He needs to make you understand that he’s not that guy anymore, that he’d do anything to keep you happy and safe.

But you’re devastated, your body humming with both fear and devastation. He’s not who you thought he was. He’s not someone you could build a life with. You were an idiot to think you ever could.

"When I get back I want you gone, Max. I want all of your shit out of here.”

Max feels the snap of his hope as it separates inside him. The way you're looking at him? The disgust? The disappointment? Is this heartbreak? No, this can’t be what’s happening. Not after all that you’ve made it through.

“We-we can talk about this,” he offers uneasily.

“No. We can’t. I need to go.”

You head towards the door, pulling on your shoes. Max follows close behind, frantic.

“Let me take you to him.”

“No.”

“You can’t go out there alone. Not with Eleanor-“

“Go back to Eleanor, Max,” you sneer. “You say you want me protected? Then go back to her. Leave me out of all your bullshit. Leave me out of your murders. Leave me out of your life for good.”

You swallow a sob and turn away

“I rescind permission. You are no longer allowed in my home. You are uninvited.”

It doesn’t work like that and you both know it. But the message is clear. He says your name quietly, that same thread of desperation woven into each syllable. You feel his eyes on your back.

“I never want to see you again.”

The shields are up; each arrow of his apology sent your way is shrugged off, ignored at the click of the door closing behind you.

///

The evening air is colder than expected, your fingers chilled as you walk down the darkened streets. You don’t know where you’re going right this second, j ust that you need to be far away from Max and his lies.

How could you be so deluded into thinking he was in love with you or something? He’s undead. Love isn’t really a thing for vampires. How can a heart love if it’s stopped beating? Metaphorically of course.

At the thought of love your hand slides down into your pocket, tugging out your phone to compose a text to Van. You’ve been walking a while and don’t want him to think you’ve forgotten about him.

You’re about to type when the sudden call of your name distracts you. The familiar Phrog Brothers van comes sidling up to the edge of the empty sidewalk. You peer into the driver’s side, eyes squinting.

“Hey,” Alan says breathlessly as he lowers the window. “I have a 9-1-1 emergency. We need blood and a lot of it.”

Edgar gives you a wave from the back, looking bright-eyed, strangely eager. You’re still emotionally strung out, head spinning as you walk towards the van.

“Huh?”

“I know it’s not our usual pick up but we’re desperate. Any chance you can help us out with a few bags?”

You blink curiously. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Didn’t,” Alan says with a half-smile. “Was about to text when I saw you walking. Feels like fate.”

You smile but it doesn’t touch your eyes. These guys work for Eleanor and despite how sweet they’ve been to you, there’s something about this moment that feels off.

“But I thought Eleanor had that big stash?”

"She does," Alan says unconvincingly. He slaps his hand lightly against the steering wheel. "But she needs more. Says she’s having a party and we need to help her out. We can’t disappoint her. You know how it is."

Glancing around you see the street is empty. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. Something is wrong. Something in how they both look at you as if you’re prey. But you can’t let them know that. You need to be smarter. You give Alan a beaming smile, nodding.

“Of course.”

"Thank you so much for this," Alan says relieved as Edgar opens the sliding side door to the van. "I didn't know who else to ask."

"You came through for me with Max in a big way,” you say with a forced smile. “I'm glad I can help you out now. I was just on my way to see a friend. Lemme just call-"

“We really have to go now,” Alan says, smile wavering slightly, like a mask that’s been dropped.

“It’ll just be one second,” you insist, trying to keep your voice casual.

Edgar moves slowly out of the van and you take a step back onto the curb. You can’t let them know you’re onto them. You need to act casual, like nothing is amiss.

“I don’t want my friend to worry.”

You lower your eyes to your phone, scrolling until you find Max’s number, about to press it when a flash of movement is at your left. You quickly turn, feet pounding against the pavement but within seconds hands are on your middle, hoisting you from the ground and pulling you back.

You try to give a yelp but he’s squeezing you so hard you can barely catch your breath. Your hands go to the arm around your middle and scratch furiously, hoping to draw blood. You hear a low grunt and know its Edgar who’s hauling you towards the van.

You attempt once more to call out for help when you feel wet cloth being pressed against your face. You struggle against it feeling as Edgar holds you tightly, walking back to the van as the fumes are slowly being inhaled.

You feel your head go dizzy for a moment and then suddenly it's black

#fic rec #literally always i’m obsessed with this fic in ways that are slightly concerning for my health #max beloved let me hold you and love you #it’s just too good you guys like there is crack in here i swear #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips x reader #max x reader #max phillips #bloodsucking bastards

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